FIC: Swear By All Flowers (SPN, Sam/Dean) (3/6)
PART THREE: body is a cage
"Shit," said Sam. "Shit, shit, shit!"
"Isn't that my line?" Dean snapped, but Sam ignored him.
"This isn't a ghost, Dean -"
"No shit, Sam!"
The house tilted toward them on thin, spindly legs. Sam didn't want to see what it would do next.
"Run!" yelled Sam, and pulled Dean along, afraid that if given half a chance, Dean would stay, start shooting things, and get himself trampled to pieces.
"Okay, okay," Dean said, and kept up with Sam easily. They tore through underbrush and thick piles of dirt and pine needles, and when Sam nearly slipped on a patch of leaves, Dean hauled him back up and they kept running.
They stopped for a moment to catch their breath.
"I don't think it's following us," Sam panted.
"Sam," said Dean. "It's a fucking building."
"It had legs, Dean."
"I know that. And now that we've both stated the fucking obvious, what are we going to do about a fucking building with legs?"
Sam just shook his head and stared back into the forest, straining his hearing for any sign that the house had found them. There was nothing.
"Goody," said Dean after a moment. "More research."
*
"Hey," Sam said to the librarian. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at Sam, looking rather amused by Sam's breathless greeting. "Um, Heather. Thanks for your help yesterday, but I decided to go in a different direction with my folklore paper. Do you have a section about, um, Russian fairy tales?"
Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, and Sam just shrugged at him. Heather-the-librarian gave them a confused look, but nodded.
"Russian? Yes, of course. It's over in the corner, near the children's books. Was there anything in particular you were looking for?"
"Nah," Dean interjected. "We'll just browse and, uh, find him something for his -" Dean trailed off and jabbed his thumb at Sam's chest. "For his folklore paper. About Russian whatsits."
"The story of Koschei the Deathless is a good one," Heather remarked, then turned back to her computer.
Sam elbowed Dean, and they trekked over to the section Heather had indicated. Sam immediately spotted a couple of heavy, cloth-bound tomes that he eagerly pulled out and plopped on a nearby table. Dean watched Sam flip through the pages, his nose mere inches from the page, then Dean wandered over to the children's section.
"Dean!" Sam hissed urgently a few minutes later. "I've found her."
"So have I." He waved the thin book at Sam. An illustrated collection of Russian fairytales for kids, with a cover that showed a wizened, comical looking figure and a tiny house with chicken legs. Not exactly the same as what they had seen, but too close for coincidence. "See? It's even got pictures."
"Great, that's perfect for your reading level," Sam said, but his mouth was tight.
Dean turned around the chair next to Sam's and straddled it. "So what are we dealing with, exactly? Is this chick the real deal? The actual Baba Yaga?"
"I dunno, man. But all the signs point to her." Sam pointed at the open book on the table, circling a passage with his finger. "Baba Yaga is a pretty familiar figure in Slavic mythology, and she's sometimes known as 'the dark lady,' but nobody really agrees on if she's a witch or some kind of forest spirit. She's hideously ugly, lives in a house with chicken legs," Sam paused and met Dean's eyes. "And she likes to eat kids."
"Right." Dean nodded. "So, we think that's what happened to the Miller kid? And the other one, the one they haven't found?"
"Has to be," said Sam. "It might also explain the drowned boy. That's why there's no apparent M.O. She's unpredictable."
"But why the hell would these kids approach her? Did she hunt them down?"
"Nah," Sam shook his head. "Two kids from New York City, all the way out here in the woods? That was a five hour drive, Dean, easy. No, they had to have known she was out here. A lot of the old legends talk about how even though Baba Yaga was dangerous, she could answer any question you asked her, grant wishes, you name it. She could even tell the future."
"But...?" There were always buts.
"But, before she'd tell you anything, you had to pass tests of purity and politeness, bring her gifts, stuff like that. And every time she answered a question, she aged a year."
"Well, hell." Dean thought of how old and crotchety that old lady had been, how ancient and wrong-feeling. "No wonder she's so pissed."
Sam snorted. "Yeah. But according to some tales, if you bring her blue roses, she can make a tea out of it that'll restore her youth."
"Well, dandy for her. So. How do we kill her - or should I say, it?" Baba Yaga may have the shape of an old woman, but Dean figured ordinary old ladies didn't kill and eat kids on a regular basis. This chick was a genuine monster.
"We don't," said Sam. "She's immortal."
"Shit." Dean paused. "Are we sure? We can't just keep asking her questions until she shrivels up?"
Sam snorted. "You really want to try talking her to death? That house could stomp us flat, man. Not to mention the mortar and pestle."
"Mortar and pestle?" Dean looked at the page where Sam was pointing. "Oh, no freaking way. She's supposed to fly in that thing? That's just crazy."
"Yeah, well, before last night we both would have said no freaking way to someone having a house with legs."
"Point." Dean stared at the page a moment longer, then shoved the book back toward Sam. "So, what else does it say? How can we get rid of her? We can't just let kids keep wandering out there and getting their heads chewed off."
"Any reason I'm suddenly your research slave?" Sam huffed. "You've got the book right in front of you."
Dean stiffened.
"Oh," said Sam. He seemed to suddenly have realized that Dean was still wearing his sunglasses. "Shit. Sorry. I forgot - your eyes."
"Yeah, whatever." Dean pushed away from the table. "I'll go look in one of the other books on the shelf."
"You don't have to."
"Oh, just shut the fuck up, Sam. It's not a big deal."
Sam sighed, but fell silent.
*
After a few hours of Sam cursing himself for being an asshole and Dean trying to pretend that his eyes weren't suffering from reading the fine print in the older books, they had found all the answers they could. Which meant they had found nothing.
"There's no way to get rid of her, Dean. I mean, we don't even know why she's here in the first place. Why does a witch from a freaking fairytale even end up living by a lake in New York?"
"Russian immigrants, dude," said Dean. "Carrying their beliefs to a new country. Like in Burkitsville. Wait -- wait. We're not finding anything in these books, right?"
"I think that's what I just said."
"But think about it. The answer's not in these books, but who'd be the one person liable to know?"
Sam looked at him with dawning comprehension. No. No way was Dean thinking what Sam thought he was thinking, but the excited gleam in Dean's eye said different.
"Oh, no," Sam said. "No fucking way. She'd never -"
"She'd have to!" Dean was grinning now, almost manic. "If we follow all the rules, like the stuff with the," he waved a hand -
"Blue roses? For her tea?"
"Yeah, that. If we do everything perfectly by the book, she'll have to answer the question. So we ask her how we can make her get the hell out of Dodge."
"Dean, you're talking about going up against Baba Yaga. She's been around, in one form or another, for hundreds and hundreds of years. You really think it'll be that easy?"
Dean sobered. "Sam, we have to. Or else more kids are gonna get made into Lean Cuisines."
Sam nodded thoughtfully, but his attention was elsewhere. Dean gave him a curious look, but didn't ask. Sam figured Dean probably just thought he was brooding. Instead, Dean pulled a nickel from his pocket.
"Call it," said Dean.
"Heads," said Sam.
Sam grabbed the coin from the air before Dean could, and slapped it down on one wrist. He peeked. The nickel was Monticello-side-up. "It's heads."
"Cheater," said Dean.
"Hey, it doesn't really matter who asks, does it?" Sam handed the nickel back, and Dean looked at it suspiciously. "We're both gonna be there, so you can back me up. I'll just be the one asking the question."
"Sam," and Dean gave up eying the nickel and gave Sam a suspicious look instead. "You're not going to do something stupid, and, say, ask this witch lady anything else, are you?"
"You mean, like how to cure you?" Sam shook his head. "I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind."
"Yeah," said Dean. "Don't. It'd be the waste of a question. There's no cure. And we need to figure out how to take this bitch out of commission, before anyone else gets hurt. You know that."
"Yeah, I know," said Sam. "I know."
Dean looked at him for a moment. "You swear?"
Sam met his eyes. "I swear. I may not like it, but - you're right. And the hunt comes first, anyway."
"Right." Dean kept looking at Sam a moment longer, almost like he didn't believe him, then Dean dropped his head, closed the book in front of him, and got up to put it back on the shelf.
Sam watched the side of Dean's face, the thin scars across Dean's cheek, and said nothing.
*
The nearest florist that carried blue roses was only a couple of towns away. Sam wondered exactly how many people knew that Baba Yaga lived in the forest; he'd half-expected that they'd have to drive back to New York to find the odd variety of rose, but the guy at the florist shop hadn't even seemed surprised when Sam had asked.
"What kind of blue are they supposed to be?" Dean asked. "Light blue? Navy blue? Periwinkle?"
"Periwinkle?" Sam laughed. "And you wonder why people always think we're gay, Dean?"
Dean bristled. "What? Periwinkle's a color."
"Yeah, and so's just blue, Dean. As long as the roses are some shade of blue, I think we're fine."
When they had the roses in hand - roses which were rather shriveled, and Sam suspected they were dyed, but it was probably as close as they were gonna get - they drove back out to Hemlock Lake. Dean shoved a gun in the back of his jeans and Sam followed suit, flipping his shirt over his waistline and ignoring the cold press of the barrel against his ass.
They had been walking for about a quarter mile when Sam realized that they had no idea where to find Baba Yaga. It was going to be really embarrassing if he and Dean had to wander the woods all day long trying to find a character from a Russian fairy tale.
No sooner had the thought occurred to Sam than there was a sudden creak from the branches overhead. Out of nowhere, a slight breeze gusted across their faces but stirred no leaves.
Dean looked up and gave Sam a hard elbow in the side. Baba Yaga was perched in the tree above, staring unblinkingly down at them. She seemed to scent the air, her beaked nose poking up, then she scuttled down the trunk with the ease of a construction worker on a stepladder. She came to a stop on the ground in front of them.
"Uh," said Sam. "Most respected Yaga, we have come to ask for a favor."
She shook her head.
"We brought blue roses," Sam continued. He held them out and hoped that the whole dyed-blue thing wasn't going to come back to bite them on the ass.
Baba Yaga shook her head again.
"Not 'we'," she said. "Either you - one-of-you asks, or none. Follow, then ask." And she shuffled off, slowly, like she was waiting for them to choose who would follow her.
Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder. "That's my cue, dude."
"What?" Dean stared at him. "No fucking way. No way are you going off with her, alone."
"I have to! If I don't go by myself, she's not going to answer the question. But there are rules - she'll have to follow them."
"Or so we think," Dean said, "But there's three dead kids and their families that say maybe she'll just kill you and eat your brains."
"Dean," said Sam.
Dean's nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw. "I really, really don't like this, Sam." Dean had his gun out already, too, which made Sam wince. All the books had said being polite was key; unfortunately, Dean's version of polite was usually pretty violent.
"It'll be fine. We're not going far, and I've got my gun." Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder again, and Dean made a huffing noise and shook Sam off.
"Fine," said Dean. "If you're not back in ten minutes, I'm coming after you."
"Got it." Sam took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on the bouquet of roses, and followed Baba Yaga into the woods.
*
Dean shifted on his feet, impatient for Sam to return. The crack of twigs under his boots almost disguised the sound of someone coming up behind him in the clearing; almost, but not quite.
He whirled around, gun cocked and ready to fire. The woman behind him reared back like a startled horse, then settled onto her heels, giving Dean a very familiar stare.
Dean blinked. If Baba Yaga was here, then who was Sam in the bushes with? Then, with a closer look, he could see that this Baba Yaga's clothing was slightly different; in fact, she looked more like the crone from the subway than the one who Dean had just seen in the trees.
He'd assumed that she'd just changed her clothes, but no - there were two of them.
They were in such deep shit.
"The scar-faced boy," Baba Yaga said. "With his body so marked. You, you, scarred one, you may call me Mistress."
"What the hell am I, Harry Potter?" Dean kept his gun trained on the middle of her forehead, not sure if it would do any good at all to shoot. "If you're Baba Yaga, then who the hell is my brother off chatting up?"
Baba Yaga cocked her head to the side. The shawl slipped from her head and revealed a few scattered clumps of grey hair on her otherwise bald head. Her scalp was cracked and oozing.
Dean wrinkled his nose. "Oh, now that's just not pleasant."
"Watch your tongue," said Baba Yaga. "You are a fine specimen, but tasty, too. My sisters have needs."
"Sisters." Dean lowered the gun, slowly, since Baba Yaga hadn't made any move to come toward him.
The stories Sam had found in the older books... some of them had said there could be more than one Baba Yaga, but he and Sam hadn't even thought of it as a real possibility. They'd only seen one, or so they thought, so there must only be one. Stupid. So stupid. Dean had lost his edge; he should have known better, and now Sammy was in trouble.
"There's what, three of you?"
"Yes," hissed Baba Yaga. "You have done your reading. That is wise."
"Yeah, well, that's me. I'm a wise one. I'm practically Yoda."
Baba Yaga took a few tottering steps forward, until she was only a few feet from Dean.
"Wise child, scar-faced child, you may have an answer."
Dean blinked. "What?"
Baba Yaga cocked her head again, to the other side this time. "An answer. You have a question, yes?"
"Uh," said Dean. "No offense, but what's with the freebie? Don't you expect some wine and flowers before you put out?"
"Heh." Baba Yaga flipped her shawl back into place. "Let us say simply that it is in my best interest to answer your question, boy."
Dean hadn't even thought about the possibility of asking his own question. The hunt came first, and he and Sam had assumed they'd only get the one chance. But if Dean could ask anything, absolutely anything...
"Okay," said Dean. "You're sure it's free?"
"I am always sure, sure," said Baba Yaga. "Ask. Go on. Let out your word tongues." Her voice was losing definition, turning into a hiss of air that Dean could barely make out.
Dean took a breath.
"How can I make sure Sam stays safe?" he said. "After I'm gone."
*
Baba Yaga took the roses, gave them a triumphant sniff. Apparently they met with her approval, and Sam's heart finally settled down in his chest. This might just work.
"Ask," said Baba Yaga.
There was no question in Sam's mind what question he would ask. No matter what he'd said to Dean, there was no way he was going to waste his question on an inquiry about Baba Yaga pest control, not when other things were so much more important.
"My brother," Sam said. "He's sick. A demon cursed him. What's the cure?"
*
Dean watched, faintly annoyed and startled, as Baba Yaga tilted her head back and laughed.
*
Sam watched, heart in his throat, as Baba Yaga tilted her head back and laughed.
"Oh, child," she said, still cackling.
She leaned forward, her breath rank against the side of Sam's neck.
*
Baba Yaga moved fast. Before Dean knew it, she was only inches away. She touched Dean's cheek with her fingers, her jagged nails scraping on his stubble. She was still chuckling, her breath a rank burble against Dean's skin.
"What the hell did I say?" Dean demanded, trying not to flinch back from her touch. He didn't want to show any sign of weakness in front of this bitch.
"Shh," Baba Yaga hissed. "Your question is not so simple. So many parts, parts, making up a path. Safe. What is safe? But the answer is so easy, easy. I will tell you, yes, tell you."
"Wait. There's a 'path'?" said Dean. "There's a way to keep him safe?"
"My child, I am Baba Yaga," she said. "Of course there is a way. One must merely have the strength to find the ingredients."
"I'll do it," said Dean. "What do I need? Is there some ritual?"
"No, no," she said, and bit the tip of his ear. Dean couldn't help but flinch this time, her sharp teeth nicking the skin. He angled his body away from hers, brought his gun up between them almost unconsciously, but Baba Yaga didn't seem to care.
"Your confusion, so delectable. You think he needs things to keep him safe, like the makings of a soup? He is a boy, mortal, with mortal failings. Failings, the cracks where the wind gets in. Surely you know what I mean, yes? You are not that dumb, dumb. The dark wind."
Dark wind. Demons. Even with the yellow-eyed demon gone, Dean had suspected that Sam might still be a target. He wasn't sure if Baba Yaga knew anything or if she was just picking up on what was in Dean's mind, but his gut still seized at the thought of Sam in danger.
Dean didn't nod, but she seemed satisfied anyway, and drew back. "So you wish to keep him safe, out of the wind? Want to strengthen his borders, make sure he keeps, make sure he stays brother, brother? That he stays alive, his heart in his chest? Yes?"
"Yes," said Dean.
"Then all you do," said Baba Yaga, "Is say yes."
"What?"
She tapped him on the nose. "When he asks. Whatever he asks. You say yes."
"Even if he wants to listen to that emo shit on the radio?" said Dean, but his voice turned shaky in the middle. "I don't get it. What's he going to ask?"
"You want to save him from the wind and the dark things? Keep him, brother, safe forever, till death, till breakfast, till tomorrow?"
"You know I do," said Dean.
"Keep him yours?"
Dean's gaze snapped to hers. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You like the taste of him in your dreams," said Baba Yaga, and she didn't react when Dean pressed the barrel of his gun against her forehead. "You think it is from that he needs saving? Idiot child."
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," said Dean. "And I'm dead, anyway, so it doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters," said Baba Yaga, and she blinked at Dean like she was actually surprised. "Everything counts. You die, you think that takes you out of this game? Your scars, they say different. I can read them, you know. Not just cuts, burns, ordinary harm. No. It is his signature. How many others can read your face? And your brother, your brother is not unmarked. Your brother is a novel."
"I think you should leave now," said Dean, his voice tight.
"You listen? Say yes," said Baba Yaga, and then she turned and left Dean there, her tattered shawl and round form quickly absorbed by the shadows of the forest.
Dean stood silently for a long moment, his nose tingling where she touched him, his gun starting to warm under his palms. He told himself he could start moving any second now, go find Sam, find out if there was any way to take the bitches out. Any second now.
*
Baba Yaga stopped laughing, letting her chuckle dry off into a rattling hiss. Sam patiently waited for her answer. His mouth was dry and his skin was tingling. He half expected her to say that there was nothing he could do and verify the thoughts that Sam had been having, the conclusion that Dean had reached... but the other half of him was straining, yearning for some grain of hope.
"You are willing," she said at last. "To save your brother, you are willing. But willing to what?"
"Whatever it takes," said Sam. "I can't - it's my fault he's dying. I can't just sit back and watch it happen."
"You are quick to make decisions," said Baba Yaga. "That is one willing thing. But willing to let someone else decide? Willing to listen, to wait? This is not so sure."
"I'm willing to do anything," said Sam, then kicked himself for it. First lesson of dealing with supernatural beings is to never say "anything." But it was true, and Baba Yaga dealt in truth, so Sam gritted his teeth and didn't take back his words.
"Anything?" And Baba Yaga smiled, her teeth gleaming sick-gray. "Yes, you would. Does he know, I wonder?"
There was nothing in her words, but the tone of her voice set Sam on edge. He knew what she was implying, and it wasn't - it was -
"That has nothing to do with this," said Sam. "It never will. It's nothing."
"Strong words set against such strong feelings," she said. "Anything, he says, and yes, he would do anything to his brother, really would do anything. Would you touch him, child? Would you put your hands in his secret places? Serve him up for Baba Yaga, child?"
"Shut up," said Sam. He felt sick. She didn't know what she was talking about.
"So disrespectful," said the woman - no, the creature. "Mind your mouth around Baba Yaga, child. You asked her a question, she gives answers. Are you willing, willing?"
"You have no right." Sam breathed, slow, through his nose. "You're making this dirty, it's - I wouldn't."
"You would," said Baba Yaga, "If you were willing. Go ahead and grab him. He'll let you. Give him to us. Open him up and let us see. His heart would be so - mm! - tasty."
"How is letting you eat him your idea of saving him?" Sam had to bite the words out, furious. "I gave you the roses. I paid."
"Safe in Baba Yaga's belly," she cackled. "Calm, child, calm. No sense of humor. This is only one way. There are others."
"What are they?"
"He would do anything for you, child. Anything, anything. Words like sugar. He is like bread to you, child? He nourishes?"
"Stop with the food analogies," said Sam. "He's my brother. Answer my question."
"Baba Yaga always speaks the truth. And the truth is that bread is no good unless someone eats it."
"I'm not going to fuck my brother, if that's what you mean."
Sam inhaled sharply at his own words, startled at the stark, clean lines of them. He had never put his feelings for Dean in those terms; never even considered his feelings beyond a nebulous want.
He wondered, for a second, if Dean realized just how serious Sam had been that night in New York. But no, Dean knew, of course, Dean had to have known for ages.
A piece of the puzzle snapped into place in Sam's mind, making his stomach lurch.
Dean knew, because why else would he have left?
"Why not?" Baba Yaga grinned at him victoriously, obviously pleased at Sam's crude phrasing. Sick bitch. "Child, child, everyone needs to live from the grains they have planted. If he will not be safe in the Yaga's belly, let him be safe in yours."
She paused, her voice suddenly kind instead of taunting. "Shore up your foundations, shaky child. He can help you. He can love your broken spots."
Sam closed his eyes. "I can't -"
"But you are willing," she said. "To save your brother. You said so. You gave your sugarwords."
"But I can't," said Sam, and he knew now why those boys never came back, why they stayed here to be devoured. His gut was twisted, his eyes watering. There was no real way to save Dean, no solution, there was just this, his secret, blasted open and laid bare for Baba Yaga to see. Dean was not saved. Dean was going to die.
"No," said Baba Yaga, and Sam stiffened, wondered suddenly if she had the ability to read his mind. "You do not understand. You do not understand, but do you trust us, child?"
"Trust you?" said Sam. He laughed. It hurt his throat. "No. No, I don't trust you."
Baba Yaga hummed at him, waggled the ragged bouquet of roses under his nose. "No matter. No need for trust. You will see."
And then she was gone.
*
When Dean found Sam, Sam was sitting on an old rotting log, staring straight into nothing.
"Hey," said Dean. His voice was scratchy. "You find her?"
Sam nodded, and finally turned to meet Dean's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."
"So how do we get rid of them?"
Sam looked at him blankly for a second before his confusion cleared, and in that moment Dean got his answer. "You didn't ask."
Sam closed his eyes, shook his head. "Yeah, I - sorry. I just - I didn't want to use it up on that, you know?"
"Well," said Dean. "What the hell do we do, then?" He was suddenly angry at Sam, and angry at himself for being angry. It wasn't Sam's fault, not really. Dean should have been the one with the roses. He shouldn't have trusted Sam to ask the right question. Hell, for that matter, Dean shouldn't have wasted his question on something else, either.
Sam scrubbed at his face and didn't meet Dean's eyes. "I don't know," he said. "More research? I - I kinda want to get out of this place for a while."
Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
A twig snapped behind him, and Dean stiffened. Sam glanced up, then leapt to his feet, hand going straight to the gun Dean knew was tucked in the back of his jeans.
"Dean?" he said, his voice low and urgent. "Don't move."
Dean ignored him, of course, and turned around.
A mere yard from where Dean was standing, there was a huge chicken leg, withered and knobby, as big around as a tree trunk, with its sharp claws tucked deep into the dirt. Great. Dean followed the leg up with his eyes and saw the tiny house perched on top, cocked forward as if to look at them with its bare, windowless walls.
"Not again," Dean grumbled.
He and Sam didn't run this time, they stayed and sized the house up. The house was crooked and small, painted a deep rust-color that cracked and peeled from the wood. The planks that made up the sides were warping and bending away from the frame. The roof, rough and patched, scraped the high branches above them. The skin of the house's legs was scaly, pale-yellow and covered in moss.
It swayed, dipped closer, almost like it was inspecting the two trespassers in front of it. In fact, Dean thought suddenly, it probably was. Dean backed up until he could feel Sam steady at his side.
"Baba Yaga's chicken-house," said Dean. "That's taking 'keeping up with the Joneses' a little far. Who's supposed to compete with that?"
The door swung open, and Baba Yaga peered out at them. Dean realized that this one must be the third sister; she was younger, her hair still mostly black. Her eyes were an icy green and the line of her mouth was wrinkled and pinched.
Sam inhaled sharply. "Dean? That's not the one I talked to."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know, I -"
Sam was ignoring him though, his face tense, meeting Baba Yaga's gaze squarely. Baba Yaga didn't move an inch either, perched solidly in the doorway of her chicken-house. Her feet were bare, turned dark with dirt. The hem of her skirt was streaked brown - with mud, rust, or something else.
"Uh," said Dean. "I'm guessing you're the hot younger sister?"
Baba Yaga Jr. stopped staring at Sam and looked at Dean instead. After a long beat, she started laughing.
"I hate it when they laugh," said Dean.
Sam grabbed his elbow. "What do you mean, they? You saw one?"
"I was just telling you, there's three of them," said Dean. "They're sisters. I talked to one of the others in the -"
"Dean," said Sam, his face white. "No."
"Too late," said Baba Yaga. Her voice was reedy and thin. Dean had to strain to hear her.
"Did she answer any questions?" asked Sam. "Dean, tell me, did she give you an answer without asking for anything in return?"
Baba Yaga smiled, slowly, at the exact moment that Dean realized just how fucked he was.
"We are hungry," said Baba Yaga, "And this one owes us payment. Services rendered. It has been such a very long time."
"You can't have him," Sam said. His grip on Dean's arm tightened.
Baba Yaga leered. Dean's heart beat faster, a dull thud of dread, and he put his hand over Sam's. "Sorry. Sorry, Sammy. I screwed up."
"No," said Sam. He kept shaking his head. "No way."
"It's okay," said Dean. "And I know what you asked. You asked her how to cure me, right? Well, there's no way. I'm dead. So - it's the same, either way."
Sam just looked at him, and damn, hadn't Dean ever told Sam he couldn't stand that look?
"Sorry," said Dean again. He'd fucked up. Now, he'd never be sure if Sammy would stay safe. It hurt, paralyzed him, the thought that some evil motherfucker might come after Sam again, when Dean might have been able to prevent it just by managing to follow the crazy lady's weird directions before he kicked the bucket.
Sam let out a sharp laugh, and really, there was too much hysterical laughter coming out of that kid lately. "You're sorry?"
"Yeah," said Dean. "Yeah, I." And then he ran out of air, or ideas, or something, and just stared at Sam, trying to burn Sam's face into his mind. Sam's eyes were dark, and his face was accusing, and fearful, with an underlying fierceness that startled Dean, because he suddenly recognized it as fierceness for him.
Last words. He had to leave Sammy with some last words, had to lie to him, let him know that everything was going to be okay. Maybe even spill his last secrets, all those dirty little things in Dean's brain that Sam always kept poking at. Now Sam would finally know, and he'd finally be satisfied, and Dean would be done.
But, really, in the end... what could Dean say?
He considered, for one crazy second, leaning in and kissing Sam - grabbing one last, selfish moment where Sam was his, his brother, his, his everything - but he couldn't use Sam like that, not now and not ever, and the next instant Dean felt himself swept up into a blur of black and earth-yellow, a huge, swirling bunch of darkness.
And that was it.