Noesis (1 of 2)
Noesis
A Story in Six Sections of Unequal Length
i.
..a divine revelation..
Sam glares mutinously at his father, arms crossed and breath steaming in the morning air. “Pouting’s not going to change my mind, Sam, just earn you extra miles this morning,” Dad says, and, if anything, Sam’s glare gets worse. Dean’s coming back around the curve, Sam can hear his brother’s feet smack on the asphalt, and he knows what Dean will say when his brother catches him facing off against Dad like this. “Just tell me why not,” Sam says, again, and this time adds, “It’s not because I’m too young or not ready. You took me last time, when they were in Kentucky,” and Dad’s looking way past annoyed at this point, so Sam’s expecting another brush-off answer and three more miles, and is shocked when his dad sighs and says, “Jim was trained in Rome and served in ‘Nam. Think about it on your run and if you haven’t come up with an answer, I’ll tell you tonight. Now get going, down to the church and back,” and Sam opens his mouth to argue, that’s the longest run he’s allowed to go on by himself, but Dad points and says, “Now, Sam.”
Sam’s already warmed up, so he sets into the pace of a slow jog, muttering under his breath, and when Dean passes him, walking to cool down, Sam sees his brother roll his eyes, look at their father as if to try and gauge what mood Sam left him in. Sam couldn’t care less what mood his dad’s in; he’s just as angry, if not more, because they’re leaving him, again, just dropping him like unwanted baggage while they go off on a hunt. It isn’t fair, he knows how to track mud men, knows how to get rid of them just as well as Dean does, and so what if he can’t manage to knock Dean flat on his ass all the time, it’s not like Sam’s ever going to need to be any good at sparring if they always leave him behind.
The anger and frustration carries Sam for the first two miles, giving weight to the rhythm he’s pounding out, focusing his eyes on a point in the distance he’ll never reach because he’s just not good enough. Disappointment kicks in on the third mile, fear on the fourth, that he’ll never be good enough and that nothing he does will ever impress anyone, because Sam’s just not as good as Dean with the physical stuff, not when he’s still trying to get used to the size of his own body, find his own centre of gravity, feel out where he fits in to the family. He doesn’t, he’s not out for revenge like Dad and he’s not perfect like Dean, so maybe he should just leave, get out before he can fail again, but even that’s just not a viable option, not yet. He’s fifteen, and yeah, Dean’s taught him how to hustle, but Sam’s smart enough to realise he’s got nowhere to go but down if he tries to escape before he gets any older.
On the fifth mile, he vows again to leave the first second he can, and on the sixth mile, when he’s run out most of his anger onto the road, he slows down, paces himself, and tries to figure out what his father meant. Of course Pastor Jim was in Vietnam, that’s where his dad met him, deployed in the same unit, and they’d kept in touch after the war, until Jim went to Rome and trained with the Order, started talking about demons and spiritual warfare. Dean’s said before that he remembers Christmas cards from Pastor Jim, when their mom was still alive and their dad looked the cards over before throwing them away, but Sam’s grown up seeing Jim every few months and it seems strange to think that Jim’s been hunting, in his own way, longer than his dad.
Sam runs the seventh mile, down and around the church, and the Rosiclare-area priest waves when he sees Sam, calls out a greeting that Sam’s too busy regulating his breathing to return, but he waves back, circles the church and heads back in the direction of their crummy old house, still thinking, when it hits him: Rome, and Pastor Jim’s training, and the number of exorcisms they’ve had to do lately. Sam’s better at the Latin than Dean, one of the few things, but he’s been hard-pressed to perform the full rites and maybe, just maybe, Dad wasn’t lying when he said Jim was going to train Sam, not babysit, though of course there's some babysitting to it as well or Dad would drop both of them off in Blue Earth.
Well, fine then, Sam thinks, feet tracing out the eighth, ninth, and tenth miles. I’ll show them both I can do this, and on the eleventh mile, he wonders how useful knowing Latin will be when he tries to leave all of this behind him. Some of his teachers are talking about college even though he’s only been at this school for five weeks, even though he’s just getting near the end of his freshman year, and it feels good, like a possible way out, and on his twelfth mile, Sam decides that he’ll keep his mouth shut about it, not even tell Dean, because Dean would tell Dad and Sam doesn’t want to think what that argument would sound like.
The last two miles go by fast, though Sam’s slowed down, not because he’s tired-running like this, just him and the road for miles, is nice, peaceful, a welcome change from school and Dean and Dad-but because it’s a Saturday and that means target practice after the morning jog. Sam’s better than any other fifteen-year-old he’s ever met, but he’s not as good as Dean, not when he’s still getting re-used to holding the guns, creating new muscle memory with bigger hands, longer arms. He’d rather work on his science project which, after hearing about Pastor Jim’s, probably won’t even get turned in, and that makes the anger start simmering under his skin again.
Dean’s waiting behind the house when Sam walks around, wiping off his face with the bottom of his t-shirt; not really waiting, per se, doing one-handed push-ups while Dad cleans and oils the guns, but they won’t go farther out into the woods to shoot without him, and Sam would much rather run the fourteen miles again, but as soon as Sam’s done stretching, Dean and Dad take off with the guns and Sam’s ordered to follow.
--
They’re eating dinner that night when Dad asks Sam if he’s thought about their argument from the morning and Sam sees Dean tense but doesn’t care. “Yeah,” he says, “I get it,” and when Sam doesn’t say anything else, Dean relaxes, eyes shifting between Sam and their dad as if he doesn’t know what’s going on, because it’s not like Sam to back down like that without a damn good reason and all three of them know it. Dad gives Sam a look that might be relief or challenge, so Sam feels almost obligated to say, “Does this mean I’m not going to be able to turn my science project in?” and Dean starts laughing when Sam glares and says, “It’s worth half my grade and I don’t want to fail the class, all right?” Dean’s snickering around his mouthful of spaghetti and after he swallows, says, “Geekboy strikes again, hey, Sammy?” and Sam mutters, “Don’t call me that.” Dad looks at Sam, and for a moment Sam thinks that maybe dad’s going to start lecturing about school, that the hunt’s more important, and God, Sam does not want to hear that speech again. “I’ll make arrangements,” Dad says instead, and Sam’s half-tempted to murmur a ‘Christo’ but settles for complaining when it’s his turn to do the dishes.
--
Sunday morning’s like any other Sunday morning when they haven’t been hunting the night before. Dad wakes them up when it’s still dark outside, sends Sam and Dean out together through a trail in the west part of the woods, together for safety in the thick dankness of a dirt path before light. It’s not the same, running with Dean; there’s no sense of solitude and being able to go at the speed that he wants, because Dean always wants to make it a competition, make Sam run faster for longer on legs that ache when he’s just sitting down, much less sprinting. Still, the extra height, the extra inches he’s gained in the past year, are making it less work to keep up with Dean, making it easier to jump over the remnants of fallen trees, making it easier to land hard enough in the mud puddles to splash Dean.
Dean gets him back by stepping up the pace, and by the time the sun’s peering over the edge of the trees and they’re back at the house, Dean’s shirt is tucked in to his shorts while Sam’s just sticks to his skin like glue. Sam gets to take the first shower, the only good thing about the growing pains that started years ago and still wake him up from dreams of fire every so often, and Dean eats two bowls of soggy oatmeal before they switch, Sam going through three pieces of toast and an apple before they get ready for church.
Sam’s asked before if their family always went to church but Dean shrugs and Dad gets that look, like if Sam doesn’t shut up about it, he’s going to regret it, and that hardly ever has an impact except in this, because the look on Dad’s face is tinged with something like fear, and his dad’s not afraid of anything. Sam’s not going to argue, though, not even about having to wear such itchy, uncomfortable clothes that have become consistently too short, because he likes going to Mass. It’s calm, quiet, like he finds when he runs, and in a world where nothing except Dean and Dad are always there, it’s something stable. They can go anywhere and the Mass is always the same, and that’s normal, Sam thinks, or part of it. Besides, its sanctuary, the one place they can all relax, because nothing evil will ever be able to get them when they’re inside, when they’re praying and together and not hunting and being a family.
After church they eat, and after lunch has settled, Dad takes them out to the east woods, hands them both weapons and tells them the course is ready, he expects perfect scores in twenty minutes or less. Sam grumbles, he hates running the course, always has, but Dean’s excited like he usually is, shifting from foot to foot, holding the knife correctly but too tightly, and that’s the one thing Sam doesn’t mind, the feel of a knife in his hand, weighted and balanced, honed and ready. Dad tells them to go and Dean takes off, fast but not reckless, and melts into the trees, and Sam breathes in the quiet before he does the same.
When Sam emerges from the trees, Dean’s already done, finished first and it’s no surprise, but he’s only holding nineteen rags and looking ashamed and slightly hopeful, and Sam drops twenty-one rags at Dad’s feet before grabbing a water bottle. Dean’s pale but still standing when Dad finishes counting, and Dad shakes his head at both of them. “Dean missed one,” he says, “but you took too long, Sam,” and Sam’s about ready to scream though Dean just looks relieved when Dad says, “Two miles. When you both get back, we’ll spar.”
“Sammy,” Dean says when they’re out of the house’s range, but Sam speeds up and glares at the grass under his feet, says, “It’s Sam, Dean, and I don’t want to hear it.” Dean lets him go and it’s almost perfect, except that he can hear Dean behind him, the thump-stomp of Dean’s sneakers hitting dirt, and the illusion of solitude is completely broken when Sam falters on a rock and Dean’s right there, asking if he’s okay. “I’m not a baby, Dean!” Sam shouts, and he feels slightly guilty when Dean backs off, hands raised, saying, “Just making sure, Sam. Sparring with Dad’ll be a bitch if you’re hurt.” Sam says, “I’m fine,” and starts running, and Dean is right next to him, keeping pace.
Sam puts on a little speed when they get back to the house, but Dean follows and they both finish at the same time, turn the corner at the same moment. Dad’s there, waiting, and he tells Sam and Dean to take positions in the kata they’ve most recently learnt, something Caleb taught them a few months ago when they were all passing through Denver, the Winchesters tracking a black dog, Caleb hunting down some new crossbows. It’s just as good of a workout as anything they know, a good way to cool down after a run, and its non-contact, which means Sam’s not going to end up on his ass for at least half an hour.
After the new form comes a run-through of their old ones, and they’re both dripping with sweat in a late May afternoon under the sun by the time Dad tells them it’s time to spar. Sam’s legs are aching, they feel like jello or as if they’re about to fall off, one or the other, but Dean looks fine and it drives Sam crazy, especially when he lands on the ground for the fifth time. “You’re not trying, Sam,” Dad says, and Sam’s grouchy and hot and irritable, so he smacks the hand Dean’s offering and pushes himself up, says, “Yes, sir, I am,” and Dad looks at him before saying, “Bring your Latin out here. Finish the chapter. Dean, come on,” and Sam’s promptly ignored or forgotten as Dean starts circling their Dad, focused on every move Dad makes. Sam scowls and goes inside, finds the Bruno text he was given for his birthday, and then sits on the back porch and tries to figure out how to translate some long-dead man’s ramblings on memory and why he should even care.
ii.
..the liberal sciences..
They leave early Monday morning, the darkest part of the day, and Dad drives through Rosiclare, past the turn-off for the high school, and Sam’s not too tired to glower and ask, “Did you call the school and let them know?” and Dean cuts him off with a muffled, “Dork,” through Def Leppard so loud Sam can hear the words clearly in the back seat. “Dad?” Sam asks again, and his dad doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, until they’re on County Road 12 and Sam’s despairing about his GPA and colleges and his way out of this. “I’ll call, Sam,” Dad promises, and Sam mutters, “Yeah, right,” seeing big red ‘F’s on his report card already. “I said I will, and I will,” Dad says, eyes on Sam via the rear-view mirror, and Dean turns around, says with a grin, “Hey, I graduated. Dad knows what he’s doing,” and Sam’s hearing the underlying Back off, so he crosses his arms, says, “Yeah, whatever,” once more for good measure, and looks out of the window, watching the hills slope into fields before he falls asleep.
--
Sam wakes up somewhere near Galesburg and Dean’s driving, eyes focused on the road, Dad sleeping in the front passenger seat. He stretches and checks the clock, sees he’s been out for five hours, save the times he shifted, half-awake and bones popping, flat lands covered by acres of corn flying past the car. He’d be in lunch right now, eating an apple and listening to his friends make fun of their English teacher, joining in with the jokes every so often but content to just be there, part of a group, worried about the math test he’s supposed to be taking in half an hour. They’ll all think he’s sick or skipping the exam today, but when he’s not there tomorrow, what will they think happened? Will he still have a place with them when he does get back, if that ever happens?
“Stop,” Dean says, and Sam says, “What?” because Dean’s not even looking at him; “I’m not doing anything.” Dean snorts, then looks over at Dad before he says, “You’re thinking. I can hear it all the way up here. Just chill out, ‘kay?” and Sam says, “You’d be pissed, too, if he was leaving you with the babysitter,” and Dean laughs, says, “Yeah, I would. But you’re fifteen and Dad’s going after a clan of swamp-bred mud men and he barely even thinks I’m ready for this, so suck it up and enjoy the cushy life of luxury while you can.” Sam can’t really argue with that-staying with Pastor Jim will be a step or five up from what he’s used to and Dad might not be taking him along but he’s not going to be roughing it in the Florida swamps, now, either, Sam thinks. When Dean looks back, Sam nods reluctantly, and he can’t help smiling when Dean does, because Dean’s grin has contagious powers and Sam put that smile on his brother’s face. “Now, how fast do you think I can push this car before it wakes Dad up?” Dean asks, innocent smile on his face, the one that can still charm the socks off of grandma-types at truck-stop diners, and Sam can’t help but laugh.
--
They get to Blue Earth and the rectory after a steady thirteen-hour day in the car, no breaks except to gas up, Dean eating peanut M&Ms and Dad snacking on beef jerky and pretzels the whole way, Sam throwing an apple core out of the window every forty miles or so. Dad pulls the spare key out of a silver bucket filled with salt and sage and Holy Water, lets them in and the three walk through the pitch-black halls in silence, quiet as the shadows and manoeuvring around the sound-traps with practiced efficiency. Jim’s sitting in the kitchen, waiting for them, smile on his face and three steaming mugs on the table. Dean says, “How’d you know?” and takes one of the cups of coffee while Sam grabs the hot cocoa and leans against the counter. “Your car needs a tune-up,” Pastor Jim says, and the outraged look on Dean’s face makes Sam snort hot chocolate into his nose while his dad just takes the last mug and throws back the contents.
Jim says, “I’ve made up the camp beds in the living room for you and Dean,” and Dad nods, leaves without a word, Dean following, though Dean turns back at the doorway and says, “Be good, Sammy. We’ll hurry back,” before leaving. Sam nods, fear choking him, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see his family again, doesn’t know if he’ll be alone after this like in so many of his nightmares, and no matter how many times they’ve left like this and come back, there’s always the possibility that next time, that this time, they won’t.
“It’s easy to leave,” Jim says, and Sam’s eyes slide from the doorway to the man sitting at the kitchen table. “Much, much harder to stay behind. The better part of valour, sometimes,” and Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. Jim must see this, because he smiles and gets up, puts his mug in the sink and runs some water in it before stopping in front of Sam and saying, “We’ve work of our own to do while they’re off chasing after overgrown clods of mud. Let’s try and get some sleep so we’re fresh,” and leads Sam to the guest room, leaves him there to sleep. Sam lays in the king size bed, an island in the middle of the large blankets and pile of sheets and quilts, alone in the bed that he and Dean have shared a thousand times before. He ends up staring at the ceiling until he hears the car start up and drive off, and then he closes his eyes and dreams of fire.
--
He’s not sure what wakes him up, but it’s instant and he’s reaching under the pillow for a weapon, instincts flaring and training taking over as his fist closes around a knife and he rolls out of the bed, crouching on the pads of his feet, out of sight. There’s no noise, no sounds out of the ordinary, but Sam doesn’t move, stays still and ready, waiting, and then he hears a shrill and sudden burst of laughter, like gunfire, coming from outside the window. Sam moves without thinking, flattening himself against the wall but still out of sight of the door, attention focused until he hears footsteps out in the hallway. The door opens and he relaxes, ready to fight and loosening his muscles to do so, when Pastor Jim says, “It’s all right, Sam,” and Sam doesn’t move, not until Jim sighs and says, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” and Sam says, “Amen,” as he stands up, wary but trusting.
Jim has a look in his eyes as if he’s figured something out. Sam doesn’t know what, and he slides the knife back under the pillow, standing up taller, his brother’s Metallica shirt too big but not too long on his lanky frame as he asks, “What’s outside?” posture at attention like Dad’s always trying to drum into him, but it comes naturally facing a priest and Sam doesn’t question Jim’s tone when he answers, “Mrs. McCarthy,” with a smile. “She cleans the church on Tuesdays,” and Sam nods. Jim says, “It’ll be lunch time soon,” and Sam’s almost gaping because he can’t remember the last time he slept so long when he hadn’t been out hunting with Dean and Dad the night before. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and come down to the kitchen, and we’ll work out a schedule for your time here,” Jim goes on, and leaves after Sam nods.
He showers quickly in Jim’s rickety old tub, ancient and the pipes squeak, but the water’s hot and it gets him clean, helps chase away the last cobwebs of sleep. When he’s dressed and goes downstairs to the kitchen, Jim’s standing over a pot on the stove and there’s salad and bread already on the table. Jim points to a chair at the table with his wooden spoon and Sam sits down gingerly, waiting as the priest pours out two large bowls of stew, beef vegetable by the smell, and carries them over, sitting down as well. Sam bows his head as Jim prays over the food, crossing himself when Jim’s done, and starts eating without returning the gaze he can feel, heavy on his head.
They eat in silence, sounds from the local playground drifting in through the window on the wind, and when they’re done, Jim wipes his mouth off and says, “Well, Sam,” with no little amount of fond kindness, and for the first time since this was brought up, Sam’s glad that Dad left him with Jim and not Caleb or Mattie. “John wants us to work on your Latin and keep you in shape, but what would you like to do while you’re here?” and Sam stares because he’s taken completely off-guard. ‘Keep Dad happy,’ he wants to say, but also, ‘Go back to school and pretend I never left,’ so he just shrugs and looks down at his empty bowl, carries it to the sink. “Well, if you think of something, you let me know,” Jim eventually says, and Sam shrugs again, says, “Yeah, okay,” and after the dishes are done and lunch is cleaned up, they go through the church and into Jim’s office, one wall filled floor to ceiling with old books kept in good condition, loved and used. Hardly any of them are in English.
“John said you’ve been having a lot of demons lately,” and Sam nods, tells him about the last few, how they resisted the more common and straightforward exorcisms, how he couldn’t finish the entire ritual half the time, and it’s like confession, telling Jim how he needs to get better, how dad’s counting on him to learn so next time it’ll be easier, and when he falls silent, Jim says, “We’ll start working with the more esoteric rituals, then. Get you used to the rhythm so you can improvise when you have to.” The priest stands up, looks over his books and nods once or twice before pulling out a hardbound book, the cover embedded with salt and embossed by crosses, and Sam takes it reverently, runs fingers down the binding. “Most of history believes that the Ars Notoria is fiction, or lost, or from the seventeenth century,” Jim says, and Sam’s head darts up, pupils wide as he measures how serious Jim is and then holds the book even more carefully, opens it and studies the title page.
“We know better. The Order has several copies left, scattered in parishes around the world for safekeeping. You can start with that one, and we’ll go from there,” and Sam’s trying to decide how to ask, so he just does, says, “Isn’t starting with the Ars Notoria a bit overkill?” and Jim laughs. “Not when you see the other books,” he says, and Sam eyes the bookshelves speculatively before nodding. “I have to work on my homily for the mid-week Mass. Can you read comfortably in here?” Sam shifts in the chair but says, “Yeah. Better than the woods,” and begins to turn pages while Jim’s scratching out a sermon across the room, fifteen-year-old lips mouthing words written three thousand years ago.
--
Quod antequam aliquis incipiat, legere, siue proferre aliquas orationes istius artis pro efficacia, istam orationem semper primò proferat in initio reuerenter et deuotè.
iii.
..magical operations..
He finishes the first two chapters, mind spinning and a list of notes and questions next to him. Jim’s engrossed in his work, so Sam places a bookmark in the Ars Notoria to hold the chapter and slips out of the office, wandering back to the sanctuary, cleansing himself with Holy Water and ignoring the brief flare of pain that brings, genuflecting before he slides, silent, into a row and kneels to pray. The safety of Dean and Dad is his first request, a familiar one after all these years, followed by a prayer for his mother, a plea for all that she represents to come back to their lives, things like safety and normality and forgetting all of those things that no one else sees or wants to admit to seeing, and then he prays for a way out, and forgiveness, and hope, and sits in the silence when he is done, eyes closed and head bowed.
Movement behind him but he isn’t afraid, because this is sanctuary, and then Pastor Jim’s hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy weight, almost comforting, as Jim sits down. Sam realises, in that moment, hearing Jim’s knees and ankles crack, that Jim’s getting old, old or tired, but worn-out nonetheless, and it hits him, not for the first time, that he’s never met a hunter older than Jim. Bobby’s younger, his dad’s younger, Caleb’s younger still, and if this is the only life he has to look forward to, he’ll be dead by the time he graduates high school, because he’s not even close to the level these guys work at, not fast enough, not strong enough, not good enough, and he’s scared and bitter and thankful all at once, because it means he has to get out if he wants to live.
“Sorry,” Sam says, not meaning it, and Jim must hear that because he laughs, sound echoing throughout the cruciform building; “I didn’t want to bother you,” and Jim says, “It’s all right, Sam. Your dad, he said you like spending time in church.” Sam hears the question underneath the statement so he nods slowly, wondering if this is some sort of test and then kicking himself for caring when Jim smiles. “Working for the Order is good in itself, but parish work is its own reward,” Jim says, and Sam listens, thinks maybe he gets it, but doesn’t know what the priest’s thinking when Jim asks, “What are the seven sacraments, Sam?” so he just answers, falling into the catechism he’s been taught by a handful of different priests in different cities. “The sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation, the Eucharist, Ordination, Confession, Anointing of the Sick, and Matrimony,” and Jim nods, leaning forward and eyes focused on the crucifix above the altar, Sam following that gaze, seeing the way the candleholders seem to shimmer in light stained red from the sun streaming through glass high above.
“The sacrament of Baptism, Sam. Tell me about that,” and Sam’s missing something here, missing something big, but he just narrows his eyes and answers. “Baptism is the sacrament per aquam in verbo and comes from the Jewish tradition of mikvah outlined in the Tanakh, renewed by Christ when John baptised Him in the Jordan. The catechism teaches us that Holy Baptism is the basis of the whole Christian life, vitae spiritualis ianua, and the door which gives access to the other sacraments. Through Baptism we are freed from sin and reborn as sons of God; we become members of Christ, are incorporated into the Church and made sharers in her mission.”
Sam goes on, tracing out the paths of the catechism, another part of his mind thankful that he’s always been better at this, memorization and recitation, than Dean, and when he finishes, the echo of his words fades like the spirit of an acceptable offering in the silence. Jim nods but doesn’t say anything, not for long minutes while Sam’s mind is racing, trying to fit things together but coming up empty-handed, too many pieces of the puzzle still missing, no idea what he’s even supposed to be figuring out, just that the questions, they’re too out-of-place, too insistent to ignore, and even if Dad’s had to fight to get him to learn anything, Sam’s at least able to sense when someone’s trying to be evasive or sneaky or pretend. “Why don’t you go for a run?” Jim says, and Sam nods, leaves the church, changes, and goes outside, feet taking him down a path that they remember though his eyes register the changes.
There’s a new subdivision going up, a few houses in various stages of construction, one with three walls, one with a poured concrete basement, one almost done but waiting yet for windows, the show home near the front, finished but vaguely ominous, thanks to its emptiness, its sterility, the too-perfect flowers. Sam keeps his eyes on the house as he jogs past the new road, breathes deep when he hits cornfields. The dirt’s still visible, the plants only a few inches tall, which is probably why he sees a strange pile of rocks in the middle of one field, and that sense of something wrong is back, like how he felt when he woke up, the hairs on his arms standing straight up as he slows down, looks around. No one’s nearby, so Sam moves down the ridge between two rows of corn, silently walking up to the mound of rocks, studying them from a safe distance. Now that he’s closer, he sees it’s not as haphazard as he thought it was, noticing it from the road; these rocks were stacked by design, interlocked in narrowing circles the higher it reaches, and a circle ten feet around the mound is empty, looks like it’s been combed clear of rocks and anything green. Sam crouches down and smells the dirt, then freezes, because someone’s there and laughing. Cursing himself for being so stupid, preparing himself to run, trying desperately not to think of what Dad would have to say about this situation, Sam stands up slowly and looks around. He’s alone.
Sam casts one more look at the mound, then takes off, sprinting the whole way back to the church. He doesn’t bother cooling down, just runs into the sanctuary before he stops, bends over, panting. Jim’s there almost instantly, Sam’s not sure if Jim was in the church or his office, but his heart’s racing from more than the run. “Sam?” Jim asks, and Sam shakes his head and says, “Running, old route. There’s a mound in the middle of a field,” and Jim’s face just shuts down. “You saw the dolmen,” he says, and Sam frowns, says, “What? Like fairies?” because he’s pretty well-versed in supernatural lore but the fae are European, not something he’d have to worry about here, and Jim nods, just once, like Dad gets when he’s hunting, and it makes Sam want to laugh. “You’re kidding,” he says, ignoring the plea underneath his words. “Fae? Here?” and Jim says, “Why do you think the Order assigned me to Blue Earth?” and there’s not really a response to that.
Jim takes Sam over to the rectory, sits Sam down in the kitchen and puts a glass of water on the table. “Tell me what happened,” Jim says, and Sam recognises it for the command it is, explains about how he woke up, what he felt, tells Jim about the laughter and how there was someone there that he didn’t see or that left by the time he screwed up the courage to stand. Jim moves from where he’s been leaning against the refrigerator, looks out the window when Sam’s finished and doesn’t say anything, so Sam says, haltingly, “I don’t know how to hunt the fae. Dad never said we’d need to, but iron works in the legends, doesn’t it? Iron and a consecration of the gates to the Otherworld. Is that, would that work?” and Jim exhales. Sam sees the priest’s fingers turn white, clenching the edges of the counter, and almost misses it when Jim murmurs, “Not this clan,” and Sam learns more about the fae than he ever wanted to know in the next two hours, everything from clans and courts to hierarchies and gifts to dolmens and glamours, and somewhere in all of that, another piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
--
Sam starts the next day with a run, on the other side of town, away from the dolmen, but he gets random shivers every so often as if one of the fae is watching him. When he’s miles away from the church, surrounded by nothing but fields and the wide expense of sky above, he hears the same high, ringing tinkles of laughter from the day before, hears it and immediately turns around and heads for the church, one hand clutching a rosary, skin pale as there’s a quick-light image in his peripheral vision. Prayers and litanies start running through his head, all in Latin, and the rosary swings from his hand, glass beads refracting a ring of safety around him as he hightails is back to town.
When there are houses around him, people coming and going, he slows down, the feeling of being watched stopping at the edge of town. Instead of going to the church, Sam walks to the rectory, entering the kitchen through the back door and laying out a triple line of salt at the threshold. Jim’s not there, so Sam gets a glass of water, sips it while he makes toast, looks out of the window as if he’ll be able to see the dolmen through houses and bushes, trees and miles of space. The toast burns but Sam doesn’t notice, swallowing the bread mechanically, and when he’s done, he’s still standing there, not moving, empty cup in one hand, empty plate on the counter, a smattering of blackened crumbs laying around the plate. He’s waiting for Dean to be done in the shower for a few minutes before he remembers that Dean’s off hunting mud men with Dad halfway across the country and feels loneliness and envy both, so he goes upstairs and cleans off, as if he can wash away the stain of his family, of his history, but when he’s done he’s still Sam, still a Winchester, and all he’s done is leave his skin a raw, aching red that matches how he feels inside, worried and angry and hateful and afraid, so much and so many things it almost hurts to breathe.
--
He tells Jim later, when they’re both in Jim’s office, Jim writing a letter to his Order, Sam ostensibly reading the next sections of the Ars Notoria, about the laughter today, about the fae he thinks he saw, when the words are blurring on the page and Latin’s running together in his mind, just comes out and says, “I think I saw one of them today.” Jim stops writing, looks up, says, “I thought I told you not to run out by the mound,” and Sam’s heard that same underlying thread of anger in his dad’s voice too much to not get instantly defensive, to say, “I didn’t. I went out on the other side of town. I felt them watching, though, and then the laugh. When I turned to come back, I think I saw one out of the corner of my eyes,” and Jim sets the pen down like it takes effort, and Sam sees that Jim’s holding that pen so tight that his fingers are blue. “You had the rosary,” Jim says, and at Sam’s nod, Jim moves up from behind his desk and stands in front of Sam, says, “You were holding it?” Sam says, “Yeah,” wondering what’s going on, even more confused and cautious when Jim says, “Let me see your hand.” Sam looks down at the fingers holding open the Ars Notoria, the curve of his palm around the hard cover, then holds it out and Jim studies his hand, traces over Sam’s skin with a feather-light touch, making goose-bumps chase one another down Sam’s spine. “What’s going on?” Sam asks, words little more than a whisper, and he tells himself it’s because Jim’s standing right there, that he doesn’t need to be any louder. Jim looks at Sam, eyes meeting eyes, and Jim says, carefully, “I can’t be sure.” Sam’s eyes narrow as he asks, “But you think you know,” and when Jim nods, Sam’s fitting another piece into the puzzle.
If there’s been a more consistent non-relative in his life than Jim, Sam can’t think of one. They come up to Blue Earth, him and Dean and Dad, at least twice a year, and Sam’s spent birthdays and Hallowe’ens here, in this church, this house, since he can remember, before he was allowed to go hunting with his dad and brother or stay alone in a motel room while they locked him in and promised to be home by sunrise. Sam’s thinking about the last time they were here when his mind stops, backtracks to the thought of birthdays and Hallowe’ens, always his but never Dean’s, never Dad’s, and Hallowe’en is only two days before his half-birthday, so what the hell’s going on here?
Sam’s opening his mouth to ask, but Jim shakes his head, takes two steps back and cocks his head, and though Sam knows that Jim’s a lethal hunter, he’s never seen that intensity, that focus, directed his way. It’s unnerving, to say the least, especially when Jim tells Sam to recite the exorcisms he knows, a repetition of the Lord’s Prayer between each one. “I’m not possessed,” Sam whispers, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t have been able to walk through the church,” and Jim says, “Do it,” tone making Sam flinch and start saying the prayers, one after the other, the standard rites he grew up hearing and the variations learned after. The rhythm, the cadence, is calming, soothes Sam, and he forgets about Jim, forgets why he’s repeating words older than the country, falls into their history instead, dives into the mountains of faith and the valleys of fear and doubt, the depths and heights of the heart that these words hold like jewels, crossing himself and bowing where he’s been taught to, head thrown back in the direction of heaven when he can, as if he might see the face of God.
When he’s done, he smiles, savours the moment, and then opens his eyes and sees tear-tracks on Jim’s cheeks, the priest’s gaze still on Sam. Jim nods, a shaky movement, and Sam’s smile feels deeper than his skin, and it’s only when he shifts that sharp pain drives through his peace like a knife into his head. The smile falters and Sam looks down, sees the rosary in his hand and the faint purple-licked edges of a bruise forming under the cross, stares at the cracked beads and the slivers of glass in his fingers, and murmurs, “I’m not possessed. I can say the name of God and walk in His house,” very quietly, as his stomach heaves. He gags but nothing comes up, and then he’s looking up at Jim, eyes wide and pleading, and Jim doesn’t say anything, just moves to sit down and does so heavily, as if his legs are giving out, before he buries his face in his hands and sobs. Sam watches for a few minutes, then gets up and goes to the house, passing through the church and wards and salt without hesitation, to the bathroom, to remove the glass splinters from his hand.
Part Two