Chapter 11

“Regard your soldiers as your own children and they will follow you into the deepest valleys. Look on them as your own sons and they will stand by you-even unto death.”

- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

The room was cast in shadows. One lamp had been left on by the bed, bathing its sleeping occupant in soft light.

Sam looked so young and vulnerable.

It stole his breath.

The weary hunter stopped at the foot of the bed and tried to reign in his emotions. It was a well-honed skill. One he often took pride in-and one he could sometimes feel ashamed of. Tonight, it would be needed, though. There was no room for a mistake.

John Winchester eased his tall frame onto the mattress and laid his hand against his youngest son’s face. “I’m here, Sammy.”

“Dad?”

The deep voice brought John’s eyes from Sam to meet Dean’s surprised gaze.

His other son was standing in the doorway framed by the light flooding in through the small bathroom he’d just exited. He looked tired and older than his twenty-six years.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean stepped closer to the bed, sitting a bowl down that he’d just filled with cool water.

The oldest Winchester smiled at his son. “It’s good to see you too, Ace.” And it was-so good to see him, both of them. Even under the strange circumstances.

Dean frowned at the man. Relief at seeing his father alive and whole was warring with the anger and frustration that had been steadily building over the last six months. This wasn't the reunion that he'd expected. “Better late than never.”

“I was tied up in a job when I got Wakeen’s message. I was sure you and your brother could handle things until I got here.”

Dean tilted his head, trying to discern if there was any of the usual recrimination in the words. It didn’t matter either way. He had enough self-directed blame for the both of them. “Oh, we handled it all right.”

John sighed, and his eyes went back to his youngest. “How’s Sammy doing?”

“It’s Sam,” Dean corrected, with a boldness that surprised even him.

The oldest Winchester nodded. He’d expected the anger. Was damn sure he deserved it. "I came to help, son."

Dean looked incredulous. "Help? Where the hell was your help six months ago? Or even a few days ago before I blindly drug him into this mess? Couldn‘t you have mentioned the whole spell thing and the virus-or curse?" Of course, that would require an actual conversation.

John raked a hand through his dark hair, feeling the beginnings of a familiar argument. He and Dean had an understanding. Dean would understand anything his father did unless Sam was effected in any way negative- then Dean wouldn‘t stand for anything. "We can talk about the past-or we can try to help Sammy."

“You could have helped him a week ago, ” he replied with really no heat. After all there was really no point arguing about things that were already set in stone. That was more Sam's area than Dean's.

As Dean had expected, his father ignored the comment and brushed the hair back from Sam's sweat-covered brow. He bent low enough to whisper something into his son's ear that Dean couldn‘t make out, before glancing at his oldest son once more. "How's he doing?"

Dean suddenly felt like an intruder, and it pissed him off again. If John thought he could swoop in and relieve him of duty- he was sorely mistaken. After all he was the one who took care of Sam all these years- not John. "How do you think he's doing? He's dying, damn it."

John looked up at Dean, letting his hand slide from Sam‘s head. He sighed heavily. "You don't look so great yourself, kiddo."

How could the man be so calm? Hadn't he heard what Dean had said? Sam was dying for crying out loud. "The only problem I have is that I screwed up." He had to swallow back the lump that had suddenly sprung to his throat, as his eyes began to sting.

He'd be damned if he'd show that kind of weakness in front of his old man. "I didn't protect him, so you can yell at me all you want, but what I really need is for you to help me find the witch that’s causing all this and stop it. I don't know what to do anymore."

John shook his head, a deep frown marring his handsome face. "I wasn't going to yell at you, Dean. You've done all you could."

"Which isn't enough."

It was like talking to a brick wall. "I know you and you’re brother have tried. What have you done so far? Did you find out who the Soul Collector was?" John picked up the wash cloth from the basin that Dean had sat on the nightstand and after wringing it out, brushed it over Sam’s forehead.

“Yeah. You could have just given us that little tidbit of information, you know.” This wasn’t some freakin’ training exercise-or was it. Dean finally took the chair near the bed-watching his father tend to Sam in a way he hadn‘t witnessed in years. He rubbed at his stiff neck. “We also found out what your prophecy said. Thanks for writing it in Apache by the way.”

John looked at him and a ghost of a smile flittered across his rugged features. “I wanted a connection to Wakeen.”

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes at his old man‘s love of puzzles. A name and address would have done that. “We figured out the part about the elements and that Monroe and Geronimo are locked here because of Monroe’s hate.”

“Hate’s a powerful thing.” John looked back down at his youngest son and sighed. “Especially when it’s born from love.”

He moved his eyes back to Dean. “That’s what gave the spell such strength, you know. The two most powerful forces on Earth. Love and Hate. Yin and Yang.”

Dean frowned, recognizing his dad’s Yoda speak and knowing there was a purpose behind it. Somewhere. “We figured that this Marguaritte Dellacrois cast a spell tying them here to this plane of existence.”

John nodded. “I never knew who the witch was or what she was after. I couldn‘t find anything linking Monroe to anyone but the old apothecary-who disappeared when he died. Honestly- I didn‘t try that hard. After I found no presence of spirits of any kind, I moved on.”

Dean didn‘t feel it necessary to point out that four people had died-and Sam was the next in line, thanks to his father's so-called moving on. “Sam and I found a book at Monroe’s old homestead. It was a book of spells. It had her name in it. We’re not sure of anything, but we think she probably was the old apothecary.”

John dipped the cloth back in the cold water, and continued to try and cool Sam‘s temperature. “That would make sense. Apothecaries often dabbled in magic.”

“But this is more than dabbling, Dad. This is some dark stuff. A spell like I‘ve never seen.”

“Did you two figure out what the spell was for? Other than binding Monroe and Geronimo?”

“To hide her from death.”

John froze. He looked at Dean. “That’s not possible, son.” Not once had John encountered an immortal-despite what the legends said. He’d known people to get lucky-even be guarded in their life-like Geronimo. But in the end everyone faced their own demise.

“Apparently it is. She used the souls-five victims each time, each one representing the elements- to build her one hell of a powerful pentagram.”

“My God,” John shook his head. “She’d have to be desperate-and determined.”

“She’d have to fucking crazy.”

John frowned at his son, and Dean was surprised when a reprimand about his language didn’t flow from the man’s pursed lips. “Well, no matter what she is, every spell has a counter spell, Dean. No matter how potent it is. Remember-yin and yang.”

Dean shook his head. “I know that.” He didn’t need his father treating him like a damn amateur. “The whole last line of the prophecy,” he held the other man’s gaze, “the sacrifice thing.”

John didn‘t flinch at the word-although maybe Dean had wanted him to. “Monroe sacrificed himself for hate.”

“The counter would require a sacrifice of love.”

Dean was waiting for his father to object-to offer an alternative, but instead he stopped what he was doing and turned more to face him. “The witch took his life in a specific way, with a specific tool. Everything would have been purposeful, planned.”

“Sam said that Monroe was stabbed.”

“Athame,” they both said at the same time, but John continued on alone.

“It would have been one she made herself-that way she would have had a binding to Monroe. A control. The counter would have to use the same tool, in the same place.”

Dean looked down at the floor, quiet for a moment. So many thoughts were swirling through his head. It was surreal walking back into the room to find his father with Sam-their father that they’d searched the country over for during the last six months.

And now his brother was dying-and he had to put together some stupid counter spell that required a sacrifice of blood. My blood. The thought brought his eyes back up to his father’s-seeking something that he couldn‘t give a name to.

“What do I need to do, Dad?” Please.

John recognized the determined gaze that had alighted in the green eyes. Of course, he had expected it-the total commitment to his brother. I counted on it. But it still hurt, and perhaps that‘s why he missed the hint of something else reflected in the moss colored pools. “You need to find Dellacrois.”

“You think she’s still here?”

“I think she’d have to be in close proximity when the last soul was collected.”

Dean nodded. “I thought so, too.”

“Monroe is bound to this town. He can’t leave here.” John was sure of that. “Geronimo is vulnerable on the anniversary of Monroe’s death. Once the pentagram is in place and the witch is safe-then Monroe gets another chance to exact his revenge.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants to take Geronimo with him.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “To Hell?”

John shrugged. “To wherever Monroe has been existing all these years. We create our own personal hells, son. He wants revenge. That‘s all that matters.”

“Sam thinks its important that we release Geronimo first.”

The older hunter glanced at his youngest. “Sam would.”

Dean felt his anger flare up again at the condescending tone in the oldest Winchester‘s voice. “His instincts have saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“Then you should listen to him.”

Dean started to open his mouth to defend his brother again, but his father’s words sunk in and he just stared at the older man. “I should?”

John smiled. “Between the two of you-you’ve usually got it all covered.”

Dean’s brow furrowed-unsure if his father was laying a trap for him to stumble into. “You told Wakeen that Dellacrois used contagious magic to trap Geronimo?”

“Objects that have been in touch with other objects or with people can wield great power to harm someone.”

“We think it’s a necklace that Geronimo owned.”

John nodded to the pendant that hung from Dean’s neck. “We’ve witnessed that first hand. If it is-then you need to find it and either return it to Geronimo, or destroy it.”

Return it to Geronimo. Dean took a deep breath and tried to ignore the slight look of amusement in his father’s eyes as he was sure he was remembering his plight in New Orleans. “I have some people working on finding Monroe’s body. We think he may have been buried with it.”

His father frowned. “You shouldn’t involve outsiders, Dean.”

“I can’t do everything by myself.” No matter what you expect. “I couldn’t leave Sammy alone.” If you’d been here-I wouldn’t have had to ask for help.

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a world of difference, son. Trust me.”

“I won’t leave him like…,” Dean started, but the sad, knowing look in his father’s eyes stopped him cold and he changed his words, “…I don’t want to leave him.”

Dean felt his eyes fill, and was more than surprised when his father’s hand came up and rested on his cheek.

John used his thumb to rake away the one lone tear that slid down his oldest son’s face. “I know you don’t, Dean.” Believe me, I know. Dean didn’t know how to disappoint Sam-but he’d have to learn.

Dean straightened up and took a shaky breath. Now was not the time to lose it. “How do I find, Dellacrois?”

John pulled back from his son. The fiery determined gaze had once again overshadowed any weakness. “What do you know about her?”

Dean shrugged. “Not much. Like I told you-Sammy and I found her book. We think she was the apothecary.”

“Have you ran a records check on the old apothecary shop? I didn‘t check the title to see who owned it now.”

“There is no apothecary shop, Dad. Sam and I have been all over this town. There’s not a lot to this bustling metropolis.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But you’re staying in it, son. The Rest Inn was the old apothecary shop.”

“What?”

Dean’s mind filled with images- beginning with the night that Geronimo had tried to block their way into the place.

The old inn was full of antiques and paintings and in the main room there was a mantle filled with objects. Objects that he should have recognized. He had been so blind.

David had told them on their first night there as he’d checked them in that Maggie had owned the inn forever-Dean had just never thought that he meant literally owned it forever. “Damn it!” he swore and stood quickly to pace the floor.

Sam actually stirred on the bed and mumbled something in his sleep and John rested a hand on his chest. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think I know who the witch is.” Nobody has that many damn cats in one life time.

John raised a brow. “Who?”

“The old lady who runs the inn-Maggie-as in Marguerrite.” God-was it that simple?

John tried to put the pieces together himself. “I never met the owner. She was out of town when I was here in New Hope.”

“How convenient,” Dean bit out. Shit. The woman had doted on Sam. Sending him food up to their room, fixing him his favorite breakfast. She knew all along that he was Monroe’s last victim. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out!”

John stood up from the bed and placed a restraining hand on his son’s shoulder and forcing him to stop his frantic pacing. “Take it easy. You had no reason to suspect her. I wouldn’t have.” Hell, I didn’t even think about it.

Dean glanced over his father’s shoulder to the window. A pink glow cascaded through the glass-warning of dawn’s approach.He frowned. How can it be morning already? The younger hunter shook his head. “We’re running out of time. We have to find her. Make her reverse the spell.”

“She’d be at the Inn-where it all started.”

“Then let’s go.” Dean reach for his jacket that was tossed on the chair. He glanced at Sam. “We only have a few hours.”

When John didn’t move, Dean looked at him. “What are you waiting for? I‘ll have Wakeen stay with Sammy.”

“Dean-you need to be careful. Monroe won’t let this happen easily, nor will Dellacrois. It’s not a situation where you can just rush in and kill something, son.”

“We’ll salt and burn Monroe.”

John shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll work. He’s linked to Dellacrois.”

“So-we’ll kill the bitch. She’s human.”

“And she’s protected, Ace. If Death can’t reach her-then neither can we.”

“Then what the hell am I suppose to do-let my brother die. ‘Cause that’s not an option and you know it.”

“You have to reverse the spell, Dean.”

“But…,” Dean held the man’s gaze, knowing that they both had known the damn truth all along. They both had a choice to make-and the ironic part was that neither of them were willing to let Sam die. They’d always agreed on that much. No matter what the costs.

“You need to hurry. You’re brother’s growing weaker.” Dean frowned and looked at Sam who was still sleeping. He hadn’t noticed any change, but his father seemed more desperate than he had moments before.

His heart sped up and his eyes went back to John’s “You’re not coming.”

John reached up and squeezed his shoulder. “You need to have a little faith in your old man.” Don‘t give up on me yet. “ And you need to do one more thing, Ace.”

Dean swallowed hard, and his voice betrayed him with it‘s slight tremble. “What’s that?”

“You need to wake up.”

Dean jerked awake, nearly taking a header off the side of the bed, where he'd apparently fallen asleep beside his sick brother. He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath, jumping again when a hand rested on his back.

The hunter rolled over and met the anxious, concerned gaze of his kid brother.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

"Sammy," Dean breathed, trying to calm his racing heart. He couldn’t stop himself as he reached out and ran his hand over the younger man’s hair. “You're finally awake." Thank God.

Sam coughed and then frowned. "You were calling for Dad."

Dean shook his head, not about to go into the whole dream or whatever the hell it was with Sam. He pushed himself to a sitting position. "Nightmare. That’s all. I'm good." Okay, so maybe Sam really wasn't the only freak show in the family. Dean suddenly felt like Dorothy after her return trip to Kansas.

Sam sighed tiredly, wincing as if the act of breathing hurt. "Good, 'cause I feel like crap."

"Crappier than before?" Dean took a good look at the younger man. Even in the soft light of early morning, he could see the dark circles under Sam’s eyes. His skin was pale and it still held an unhealthy sheen of sweat. The big brother in him instantly registered the drawn lines of pain creasing his brother's young features.

To Sam’s credit, he forced a half smile. "Much crappier than before, Doctor."

Dean frowned, remembering the conversation with his father. "Too crappy to help me kick the Wicked Witch of the West's ass?"

“You know who she is?” Sam struggled to raise himself up, and with a little help from Dean, managed the monumental task.

“You ever heard the expression-hiding in plain sight?”

Sam nodded and Dean shrugged. “Apparently it works.”

Onto Chapter 11

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