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Tuesday, May 19th, 2009 08:33 pm
wip amnesty: that which you call, spn, and the storyteller, sga
Title: That Which You Call
Author: Seperis
Codes: Dean, Sam, Ruby, Castiel, Uriel
Rating: R
The presumed sequel to As the Driven Snow It--didn't work. Possibly due to discarding world-destruction early on, which left me with Dean + Ruby + Revenge Roadtrip == God, This Is Not Healthy.
She's not sure why she expected it; the Impala's parked haphazardly outside the small motel she'd chosen, far enough away from Sam that even Dean wouldn't know she was still following them. The clean outside lights illuminate the parking space, but the Impala seems to absorb it, lurking like a shadow against the rapidly darkening sky.
Hesitating, she reaches for her cellphone, knowing a call to Sam will have him here in less than an hour if he has to jack a car to get to them; it's the sane thing to do, find somewhere with people that even Dean might hesitate to approach, make the call, order a drink, breathe until she could be sure Dean and that knife were under the care of someone who (mostly) didn't want her dead.
It's been three weeks, though, and Ruby can't help hesitating, because if Dean wanted her dead, she doesn’t think he'd give her warning before he did it. Letting the phone fall back into her pocket, she takes a slow step toward the indistinct shape stretched over the hood of the Impala.
In a fair fight, he didn't stand a chance. But he's a hunter from head to toe; fair is what gets them dead. She should know; she'd killed enough who hadn't learned that lesson.
Stepping into the circle of light, Ruby watches for any sudden movements, any tricks, chalk on the ground or amulets at key positions…something. There's no hum of magic, though, and Dean's just this dark shape sprawled on the hood of the car like he fell asleep waiting.
"Hey, Ruby."
Clutching her jacket closer, she crosses the ten feet that separate them, circling to the front of the car, fighting down the rising feeling of disorientation that reminds her of getting high with frat boys ten years ago. She'd worn the body of a blonde freshman who cut her wrists before taking a window with a jump; Ruby had her before she hit the ground. Ruby can still taste the alcohol and rohypnol in the back of her throat and feel the hands that crawled gracelessly up her thighs, thick fingers curling around her wrists to pin her to filthy rec room carpet while one shoved his tongue in her mouth and muttered they wouldn't hurt her if she'd just stay still.
She'd snapped their necks, but not before she told them where she'd see them next.
Dean's staring up at the sky with a fixed expression, like he's looking for something that he can't help but hope to find. Ruby cranes her neck, stealing a quick glance, but light pollution hazes the stars from sight; there's nothing but smoky black above them.
"Sam's worried," she says slowly, in the understatement of the millennium, leaning a hip against the edge of the car. "Give me a good reason not to call."
"Same reason you didn't when you saw me," Dean answers lazily. He almost sounds *drunk*, but there's too much tension in a body that's working so hard to look relaxed. Lifting his head, he smiles at her. "Think you can crawl off my brother's cock long enough to do something useful for a change?"
She opens her mouth, sharpened words already at the tip of her tongue, but she catches them between her teeth. Dean's an ass by nature, but right now, he's looking for a fight, and she wants to know why. "What do you want?"
"Need to find someone." And like that, the pretense is gone; he sits up and slides to the ground, feet planted on either side of hers, close enough that she can smell a hint of whiskey and dried sweat, the remains of aftershave, and beneath it, the heady tang of blood. The green eyes that look into hers are startlingly blank, and that's the most disturbing part of all, because Dean Winchester isn't famous for holding anything in, whether he wants to or not.
She wants to step back, get a little distance from the too-warm body inches from her, the sharp male smell of him that reminds her of Sam, but with something else beneath it that's almost painfully familiar. She doesn't move when he shifts closer, reaching behind him, doesn't flinch when he pulls something out and holds between them, because she knows it's not a knife.
It's a newspaper, neatly folded to reveal a picture of a woman a little younger than the body she wears. Black and white doesn't tell her much, but she's pretty with dark hair, and she's been missing for a while.
"I need to find her."
Ruby raises an eyebrow and controls the urge to tell him to check the cemetery. "Something special about her?"
Dean stands up, forcing her back a step, free hand closing over her hip before she stumbles, hot even through her coat and jeans. She almost jerks away, wondering for wild second if he'd been possessed, but she would have *known*, would have felt that, something--and he leans over, mouth close to her ear.
"Remember Julia?"
Ruby closes her eyes; Dean's hand on her hip is the only thing that keeps her from falling. "When?"
"Three weeks and change. She came on orders but stuck around after." Dean huffs a soft, bitter laugh. "Her mistake."
Ruby draws back slightly, trying to get a look at his face. "What did she do?"
"Demon wearing a meatsuit, do I need a better reason?" Abruptly, he pushes her away, mouth twisting in contempt. "Still that scared of her?"
"Yeah." She is. She always will be. You'd be stupid not to be scared of her. And Dean's never been stupid enough not to be scared of demons, even when he hunted them. Ruby searches his face, looking for something she recognizes. "But you're not."
Dean smiles slowly. "You in, or not?"
Ruby stares at him, all coiled tension and careful control, like the slightest wrong move will blow up in his face, like when he hunts but a hundred times more powerful. Hatred without the tempering of fear, and the kind of reckless rage that almost got him killed when he and Sam went after Azazel. Ruby's eyes widen.
"You know her." *Know* know, not dressed in meat and skin. Ruby sucked in a breath. She should have guessed; Hell had been waiting a long time for Dean.
"Up close and personal. Twice now." In Hell, then, and here. Ruby counts back three weeks, trying to remember what Sam had told her about their jobs, but there hadn't been anything about Julia or even a demon, and that, Sam would have called her in for.
In her pocket, her phone rings insistently; without looking down, she takes it out, flickering a glance at the number she knows by sight.
"Answer it," Dean says softly, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Swallowing, Ruby flips it on, holding it to her ear.
"Sam?"
"Ruby." He sounds like shit; three weeks and no communication have wrecked what little stability Sam's been clinging to. Cradling the phone against her cheek, she wants to turn away so Dean can't see her face; right now, she can't tell how much she's showing, and she doesn't want to give him another weapon against her. "He's--no one's seen him. Not Bobby, not the other hunters, no one. It's like he just--just disappeared."
Ruby licks her lips, knowing what he's asking. "He's not back in Hell. I'd know."
Dean smiles his agreement, casually pacing a loose circle around her. Ruby turns to follow, keeping an eye on every too-comfortable movement, green eyes holding hers. It's hard to concentrate on what Sam's saying, but luckily, she can recite this part by rote; Sam's venting is creative, but not very original.
"…just take off. Can't get him on the cell, he's not using any of the cards…."
Ruby finds herself nodding along, trying to keep Dean in view; the calm feels wrong wrapped around his body, like at any second the pressure beneath will blow it off. Every circle draws him nearer, until somehow, he's warm against her back, the Impala is pressing into the front of her calves, and he's close enough to hear Sam's every word.
"….heard anything?"
Ruby draws a deep breath and almost think she's going to tell him the truth.
Dean's lips brush against her other ear, breath warm, one hand cradling her hip beneath her coat. "Tell him no."
"No," she breathes.
On the other side of the phone, something breaks that sounds valuable. Ruby clenches her eyes shut.
"Tell him you are going to check out a lead on the seals," Dean says, one hand curving around the back of her neck, pushing her hair to one side. "Some survival types up in the Rockies. You're going to do a quick check in and see if it's true. You might be out of range of the phone."
"There's--I got a lead," Ruby says, fighting between the urge to jerk away and the urge to lean closer. Dean's never so much as checked out her ass, and now he's practically feeling her up in a way that's almost embarrassingly chaste. "Some survivalists." She pauses, pulling in a breath. "I'll be out of range for a couple of days. I'll call as soon as I get back."
He doesn't offer to go with her, which isn't a surprise; the sudden silence is, though.
"Sam?" she says, phone slippery in her hand. Dean slides short, blunt fingernails up her neck, pressing gently against the bone, and her body leans into it instinctively, lowering her head without thinking.
"You sound--" Sam hesitates. "Are you all right?"
No, she's not; Dean's arm circles her waist, easing her back, and she can feel him hard against her ass. Your brother's here and feeling me up, she wants to yell into the phone. And I don't know why I'm letting him.
"Fine," she manages, wondering distantly how she can sound so normal. "I just--"
"Gotta go," Dean offers, hand covering hers on the phone. "Say goodbye, Ruby."
"Goodbye," she says helplessly, phone pulled from her unresisting fingers; the next second, she hears it hit the ground and the crack as Deans' boot heel grinds it into the dirt. She doesn't move until he turns her, realizing when he presses a thumb against her chin that she'd never lifted her head.
"What happened?" she says shakily. Dean shakes his head and kisses her, closed-mouthed and chaste.
"Tell you later. Get your stuff. We're going to need everything you have."
When he steps away, every place he touched on her body feels cold. Wrapping her arms around herself, she nods dumbly, then blinks. "For an exorcism?"
"There isn't going to be an exorcism." Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic baggie that looks like it's filled with cardboard. Opening it carefully, he pulls it out, fingernail slicing through the tape. Glued to it is a piece of paper yellow with age, edges crumbling even as she watches. She takes it from him, puzzling through the writing before she works out what it does. "Can you make that work?"
"I--maybe." She reads it again, more carefully this time, parsing out the pieces that she recognizes, the parts that she's never heard of before. "Where'd you find it?"
"Chick in Louisiana." She can feel him staring at her. "Can you do it?"
Carefully, she closes it back up in the cardboard, sliding it safely back into the baggie before she looks at him. "Yes. I can. Do you have the--oh." From his pocket, he pulls out another baggie. "All right. Let's get started."
*****
Julia's not subtle, not when you know what you're looking for, and Dean recognizes the signs as much as she does. Maybe better, she thinks with a twist in her stomach she can't identify as either smug gloating or pain. She may hate him, but even hate pales before Hell, and even if he wasn't Sam's brother, the other half of him, she would have stopped him from going if she could, would have helped Sam raise him if there had been any way to do it.
But they hadn't, and Dean had come back so much the same she'd could almost forget he'd been there at all.
Until now, with a man she's not sure she's ever met, who climbs in the car beside her, nodding as she gives him the bloodstained napkin with the directions she'd taken from the broken mind of the last man to enjoy Julia's undivided attention.
He glances at it, spreading it over the steering wheel. There's an edge of tightly leashed mania in every careful movement; from the blown pupils, she suspects he scammed uppers at the last truck stop. They have a fifty hour drive ahead of them; when he crashes, they're stopping for the night. There's no way in hell she's meeting Julia again at less than her absolute best.
Lacing her fingers together, she watches the darkened road ahead. "You didn't tell me why."
"You care?"
She does; it surprises her. He's Sam's brother, but more than that, he came out of Hell like few do, even demons, and he may hate her, but he knows her, too, the way Sam can't and hopefully never will. There's no suffering one-upmanship; five minutes or five hundred years aren't that much different when it's Hell.
"How long until they asked?"
There's a twitch in the muscle of his jaw, smoothing again into nothingness. Ruby turns her eyes to the road.
"Every day."
Ruby swallows hard. She hadn't held out long at all; she wonders how long he did, then wonders if it matters. "You know--" she starts, then stops short, because of course, *of course* he knows. He came to her.
Excitement is a sick knot in her belly. The thing that Hell created is a part of her that she fights every day; every second she spends in human skin, watching the human world around her with eyes that see so much more than when she was one of them, she loosens its hold just that bit more. She fights it, for these innocent people living small, insignificant lives that she'd give everything she had to share, because there's nothing she hasn't done, no degradation she hasn't inflicted and enjoyed, no second of it she doesn't remember. No one should become this. No one should live with this in them. No one should forget how it feels to smile and breathe and love and live.
That doesn't change the crawling excitement, the joy that feels like nausea, sweet and slick on the back of her tongue like rotting meat, and she can sense it from Dean like the heat of the sun, burning through her and reminding her of everything she doesn't want to be, not here, not with Sam, not with these humans who try to fight a war they can't possibly win.
"I want to do more than watch," she says slowly, hearing malice dripping from her voice like acid. "I want--"
"Don't worry," Dean says softly. Ruby can hear herself echoed in his voice, the gloating dark anticipation. "Think of it this way; I'll show you mine and you show me yours. That work for you?"
Ruby can't stop the flash of heat that almost makes her gasp, like when Sam touches her, sliding inside her wet and hot and making her scream; it's not the same, no. It might be better. "Yeah," she answers, wondering if she'll remember how to regret that after this, Sam will never forgive her. "That works."
*****
They stop just as dawn breaks the horizon; Ruby gets the key from the front desk and comes back to an empty room and a closed bathroom door. Stripping out of clothes she's worn for almost two days straight, she pulls a t-shirt and shorts from her bag. If Sam were here, she wouldn't bother with anything at all, but there's only one bed and her skin feels too tight to hold her inside. She doesn't know what she'll do, and Dean--
She shivers, running her hands down her bare arms, teeth locked together as she remembers the way his hand felt on the back of her neck, the feel of his breath against her ear. She could get herself off just remembering that and thinking of what's coming tomorrow.
If Sam were here, she'd have him against the door when he came out; of course, if Sam were here, this wouldn't be happening at all. Dragging clothes that feel scratchy against her sensitized skin, she slides into bed.
She hadn't known how tired she was until she surfaces like coming from somewhere deep, feeling hands slide over her hips and ass, a warm chest against her back, and the heated thoughts of what they'll do when they find Julia filling her mind in vivid color.
She rolls over, finding warm, cotton-covered shoulders beneath her palms, a hard mouth covering hers, tongue pushing past her lips while a hand cups her, finger trailing over her clit. It takes too long to remember who's in bed with her; it takes even longer to remember why she should care.
"Dean," she manages, pulling her mouth away. With a soft growl, he nips her lip, her jaw, and she almost forgets why they shouldn't do this with each shock of pain. Sucking a breath, she jerks away, almost tumbling off the bed before catching herself on the edge.
She waits for Dean to reach for her again, bracing herself to push him away without killing him, to lick open his mouth and see if she can make him moan, to--
"Fuck," Dean says. Despite the dimness from the closed curtains, she can see him run both hands through his hair, the swollen lips, smell the musky scent of his arousal, herself on his fingers. "Shitty idea." He sounds hoarse. "Son of a fucking *bitch*."
"Yeah." Shakily, she looks at the clock. It's several hours until dusk, and they have to sleep before they see Julia or they're both dead. "Dean--"
"Yeah, got it." Grabbing a pillow and the top blanket, he gets up. Ruby stands up, watching him make quick work of a pallet on the floor. For a second, she feels like there's something she should say, but nothing obvious comes to mind.
Despite her exhaustion, she's staring at the ceiling for a long time, thwarted arousal twisting through her. Even thinking of Sam, of Sam's reaction if he knew about this, doesn't bank it. It may even make it even hotter.
Rolling over, Ruby buries her face in a pillow and pretends she's already asleep.
*****
Hours later, curled up in her seat as far from him as possible, wanting to touch him so badly she can barely think, she says, "How are we going to trap her?"
Dean has both hands locked on the steering wheel like his life depends on it; she can still feel the burn of his touch on her leg when he forgot, fingers rubbing circles into the soft skin of her thigh, when he asked, "You want to go first, or me?", so certain it would be that easy to take out one of the Fallen who followed Lucifer from Hell that she almost crawled into his lap, wanting to taste that certainty herself.
"Won't be hard," Dean says tightly; that careful calm is fracturing in cracks all over, and she can glimpse what's fighting its way out, recognizes it as the thing pushing against her skin. "Thinking seeing me'll be enough."
Ruby nods, licking lips that feel dry and swollen, sensitive even to the feel of her own tongue.
Dean grins in a way that reminds her of Sam when he forgot what she was, when he forgot he was supposed to hate her and everything she was, when he forgot to hate himself. "I want to watch you make her scream," he says, voice tight, like he's forgotten how to breathe. "I want--" He stops, jaw working, something raw filling the green eyes. "I want you to show me. I don't remember how…"
Ruby nods, feeling her mouth curve in a slow, pleased smile, filled with the same sense of satisfaction she'd once felt with every soul she'd corrupted, their faces vivid in her memory. "It's like riding a bicycle," she says softly. "I'll show you."
*****
Capture of Julia
*****
Sam wakes up to the feeling of someone else in the room; reaching slowly for the gun beneath his pillow, he listens to the quality of silence, the stillness that he recognizes as *something*.
It's not Dean, though his chest tightens for a second in hope; Dean wouldn't bother being silent.
"Your gun will have no effect on me, Samuel."
For a second, Sam thinks of pulling it out and shooting anyway; Uriel's better than demons, but not by much. Pulling his fingers reluctantly from the butt, he sits up as the lamp beside the bed comes on beside him.
Sam covers his eyes with a groan at the sudden brightness, rubbing the sleep away and kicking back the covers. "A little late for a visit."
Uriel doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't feel particularly obligated to be polite. After a few seconds to orient himself, he slides out of bed, grabbing for his jeans, hoping Uriel can't see his flush as he pulls them on. He just can't talk to an angel without pants; there's no part of him that can deal with that on any level.
When he turns around, Uriel is sitting stiffly on (Dean's) the other bed, still neatly made, as it has been the last four weeks of Dean's absence.
Taking the seat opposite him, Sam tries and fails to care he looks like shit, because Uriel has all the advantages here and one more won't change anything. "You found Dean?" There's no way Uriel's going to visit him with missions from God.
Uriel stares back, unmoving, unforgiving, and utterly silent. If this is some kind of game, Sam will happily let him win, if it gets him to *talk* already. "What's going on?"
"I have not been able to locate him," Uriel says flatly. For a long second, the words don't make any sense; an *angel* can't find one human? Especially Dean, their super special saved-from-hell-to-save-the-world rescuee? That doesn't even make *sense*.
"You can't find him." He had to have heard that wrong.
"No." If Sam were the type to believe in that sort of thing, he'd say Uriel sounds embarrassed. "He's somehow hidden himself from my sight."
Sam hadn't expected that; then again, he never would have imagined calling in an angel for help before. Then again, if he'd known Uriel was going to be the one to answer, he might not have called him at all.
Taking a breath, Sam stares out the window past Uriel's shoulder. "I didn't know that was possible." Closing his eyes, Sam takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Someone really wants to keep him hidden."
"No."
Sam's head jerks up; he knows Uriel sees the fear on his face and can't bring himself to care. "Is he--was he taken back--" To Hell, he doesn't say. He can't. That would make it too real.
"No. If he had returned, he would have been retrieved." And doesn't Uriel sound thrilled about that. "He is still among the living. What I meant was, he is not being held."
"There's no way he could work that kind of spell." Sam gets to his feet. "You are not telling me my brother is doing this of his own free will. He wouldn't know how, even if he wanted to."
"Interesting. Where are your books?"
Sam stares at Uriel helplessly. "What?"
"Books. Did he seem particularly interested in any of them?"
Sam opens his mouth to say that Dean's interest in reading is in direct proportion to how close they are to death, then stops. Faintly, he remembers Dean asking him about something while they were checking on a few possible cases. Sam hadn't been paying attention, searching messageboards and news archives, watching for the signs of something unusual. He'd asked about--
"Yeah." Standing up, Sam tries to remember the name. Dean had gone out, leaving his bed a mess. The book had been half-buried in the covers, along with three different fast food wrappers and a bag of rosemary that Sam had thrown at him the night before because he'd refused to turn the lamp off--because he'd been reading.
Sam crosses to their bag, opening it and pulling out everything. It had been small, red cover, a handwritten copy of a handwritten copy, because the world sucked before Gutenberg and thank you God for standardized printing.
At the bottom of the bag, Sam finds it in its protective bag, cradling it carefully as he gets up, pulling the fragile book free. As he sits on the edge of the bed, he hears Uriel hiss, but he's staring at the book when it falls open on his lap, at page that's been torn away.
Flipping it, Sam tries to read the cover, then goes to the beginning, where there's nothing useful like a table of contents, and the print is so small he has to squint to read it. "It's--just simple spells," Sam says finally, looking puzzled. "Some witch's grimoire." Paging through, he goes back to the lost page, making his way through the pages on either side. "Herb lore, something about warding--"
"It belonged to witch who had long promised her soul in exchange for power," Uriel says flatly. "A great deal of power."
And now in Hell, of course. Sam takes a breath. "Okay. So not just a protective book."
"No. She received many signs of favor. One of those was the way to hide from all sight. It made her very dangerous."
"Even yours?"
Uriel's mouth tightens. "Especially ours." Uriel reaches for it; Sam lets him take it, still trying to work out what's happening. "It is not done involuntarily," Uriel says, touching it like it's something filthy. "This spell, it is done with will. Your brother--"
"My brother would not know how to cast a spell like that if his life depended on it."
Uriel cocks a brow, then looks back down, turning the pages with the tips of his fingers. "Have you spoken to the abomination?"
There's absolutely no doubt what he means. "You think Ruby cast it."
"I know she did." Closing the book, Uriel puts it aside like something he wishes he could burn. "The residuals of the spell were found in her last known location."
There's a lot Sam could say here; Dean would not, *would not* run off with Ruby under a magic spell that conceals him from angels. It's as likely Dean would suddenly start to fly.
And he doesn't, because Ruby hasn't answered her phone in a week.
"Why?"
"That, I do not know."
Sam swallows hard. "What about--about Castiel? He's supposed to be watching Dean, right? So--he'd--I mean, they have a--" Something. Castiel, comparatively speaking, is the snugglist angel ever; if anyone could find Dean, figure out what happened.
"That, I plan to find out." Standing up, Uriel stares down at Sam like he's imagining him dead. Sam doesn't really care. "I suggest you start to search for ways to break the spell."
"What, you can't?" Sam stands up too, and sure, stupid to challenge an angel. "What the hell--
Title: The Storyteller
Author: Seperis
Codes: John Sheppard, etc.
Rating: PG-13
I have no idea where I was going with this. Dammit. Because this is neat. At least to me.
"Do you not speak of the honored dead?" Kaile asks from across the fire. Straightening, John blinks back into the conversation, noting Teyla is giving him a smile that promises horrible things during his next workout if he doesn't figure out where this is going.
Licking his lips, he glances at Ronon, then Rodney, both of whom are paying even less attention than he was. No help there. Settling back on elbows, John smiles at Kaile. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Of their lives," Kaile says with a puzzled frown. John rewinds over their day, culminating in a nice boar-like dinner roasted over an open fire; in all honesty, it's probably one of their better missions. "Their--" He glances at Teyla briefly, searching for the words. "Their portraits of words. Their--"
"Stories." John pushes himself up. "Sure. I mean, we have books and movies and plays--" John catches Teyla smile from the corner of his eye. Sitting straight, John smiles at Kaile. "Epic poetry," he hazards, and enjoys the brief flash of surprise. "Beowulf, The Illiad, The Odyssey." And comparatively speaking, recent; Pegasus' storytelling tradition went back fifty thousand years. Their recent stuff was at the five thousand year mark or so. Hooking his arms over his knees, John gazes at the fire thoughtfully. "We have a lot of mediums for storytelling."
"It is an honored art among your people?" Kaile asks eagerly.
John thinks of Hollywood and almost sighs. "Lucrative, sometimes." John sees Rodney grimace and wishes he were close enough to kick. "Why?"
Kaile's eyes flicker among them. "I had--noticed you brought no scribe with you," he answers. John thinks about it, translating into Pegasus terms--three warriors, one scientist, not a social scientist to be found.
"Some of our teams have a--historian with them." Explaining archaelogy, anthropology, and linguistics departments are beyond him, and God help them all if Rodney opens his mouth on the subject. "We keep records of all our missions."
"And turn them into stories to tell others?"
John bites his tongue as he thinks of the Marines. Worse gossips than the scientists. More reliable, too. "Definitely."
Teyla smiles at him. "Kaile is a Storyteller," she explains. "It is an honored position among their people; among many of us. They carry the history of Pegasus in their words. Kaile's very young to have achieved his mastery; his skill in the weaving of words is unparalleled in our histories."
"Really?" Kaile nods eagerly, back straight and torn between proud and embarrassed. "I was apprenticed very young when my memory was found to be flawless. There are many with far greater skill and mastery--I am just beginning my work."
Kaile looks young; if he's twenty-five, John will eat lemon jello for the rest of the week and leave Rodney with the red. "How many years of training does it take?"
Kaile shrugs, light flickering off the crystals braided into his hair. "Twenty years to learn the traditional history; the rest is the work of a lifetime that never ends." He pauses, eyeing John with something that skirts toward wariness. "Among us, it is tradition make an exchange of stories so that they may spread further. I would be honored if you would share yours with us."
Huh. Teyla nods almost imperceptibly; they've been hit before agreeing to something that sounded cool and ended in running quickly toward the gate. "I can get you a sample of our media," he says, thinking of Corrigan and the anthropologists; they'll go nuts for the opportunity. "We have specialists--"
Kaile gives Teyla a quick, bewildered look, cutting off the beginning of John's speech. Teyla swallows her mouthful of stew quickly. "It is--" she frowns, a familiar look that means she's trying to put a Pegasus concept into Earth context. "A tradition. Between groups who share meals."
"So you want me to tell a story," John says flatly. It's like sixth grade all over again. His eyes flicker over the group of cheerful looking natives, Rodney looking sardonically amused, Ronon with raised eyebrows and smug satisfaction, and Teyla, trying not to laugh. "Um." And for the life of him, the only story he can think of is Bluebeard, and he's not even sure how that one ended. "I'm not--that much of a public speaker."
"It need not be public," Kaile says eagerly; at some point, and John has no idea how that happened, he managed to work his way over beside him. From the looks on the rest of the people's faces, sharing a blanket with a storyteller is great honor. John would happily give the honor to Teyla. "It is a honor to us, that you leave us with something of yourself."
John hesitates. "So how do I--"
"You will tell me," Kaile says quickly. "And I will build the story."
That sounds less horrifying; John thinks of the nice dinner, the nice trade agreement, the fact that Kaile's a nice kid and the fact that Teyla seems okay with it. "Okay."
"Excellent," he says, getting to his feet. John blinks. "If you are done with your meal--"
John looks a little desperately at his empty bowl, then nods reluctantly, watching as the elders bring out an excellent wine and the fine, fluffy stuffed pastry they'd sampled at dinner; Rodney's already reaching for one. Probably will take John's too. Dammit. "Right." Getting to his feet, he picks his way out from among the bodies, following Kaile out of the light of the fire and toward the temporary tent village that they build during their hunting trips.
Kaile slows to let him catch up, smiling at him with anticipation. "We have never met your people," he says, almost bouncing. "It has been long since we had the opportunity."
John nods back, letting Kaile lead him into a large tent on the far edge of the camp, settling on the warm, homespun wool rugs he recognizes as Athosian designed, watching as Kaile goes around the tent, lighting candles to illuminate large, comfortable looking cushions and a set of wood trunks. Kaile sits down across from him on the rug, following John's gaze. "It's our written history," he says. The candles emanate a sweet fragrance that reminds John of vanilla and magnolias, and he abruptly remembers a visit to Tennessee when he was a kid. "Please give me your hands."
John blinks away the sudden vivid memory of iced tea and a lazy summer with his great aunt, sun-drenched fields and huge trees hanging heavy with smooth-skinned, creamy flowers, running down dirt roads bare-footed with what felt like a thousand cousins around him. Extending his hands, he feels Kaile's fingers slide across his palm, as cool as river water, flowing up his wrists and resting lightly against the points of his pulse.
"Oh," Kaile says softly, but John's too aware of the dirt clouding around his knees, the hot sun against the back of his neck, and he finally, finally wasn't cold. "That's--that's your world?"
John's eyes drift shut, tasting tea as he sat on the wide wrap-around porch, eating chicken salad with his cousins, their babble wrapped around him, listening to them talk about horses and races and fishing; a world as alien as Pegasus to a kid brought up on military bases in countries where he could barely speak the language. Dirty feet dangling over the side of a swing, John grins up as his aunt brings him a plate fo cookies and tells him that his parents are coming in a week.
"It's beautiful," Kaile breathes, fingers tracing the veins in John's wrist; John opens his eyes sleepily; he hadn't even known he closed them. "I had thought--"
John pulls away, feeling his lips curve in a lazy smile that tastes like lemonade as he pulls his gun. "What did you do to me?"
Kaile's eyes widen, sitting back on his heels. "I'm sorry, I--what? Is there something wrong?"
John pulls the safety, focusing on Kaile's chest. "You have five seconds."
Kaile flushes, then nods. "My pardon; I had forgotten you were of the Ancient line. It would not affect you as it does others."
Every muscle in John's body is liquid, but not heavy; he feels like he could float. "What. Is. This?"
"Our stories," Kaile says, raising his hand and reaching slowly for the gun. John tries to tighten his grip, but it slips from his hand like warm butter. "We carry the history of Pegasus in our minds. It is not passed with words; at least, not between storytellers."
John nods. "So you steal memories."
"No! No, never steal--ask, with permission, take only what is freely given." Kaile looks away. "I am sorry. "Please, listen before you--" he looks pointedly at the gun, setting it aside. "I promise you, there is no malice."
John nods, appropriating a cushion to lean against; he knows he should be a lot more upset, and his radio is in his ear, ready to use. It could be the candles and whatever the hell they're doing, or it could be drugs in their food; Jesus, it could be anything at all.
"I’m a storyteller," Kaile says finally, flattening his hands on his crossed knees. "It takes twenty years to train us to our mastery."
John nods lazily.
"There were--there used to be other ways. You speak of many mediums to hold your stories; that we do not have. We have this." Kaile taps his head. "Our libraries are gone to the Wraith. We have neither the skill nor the time and resources to recreate them, nor do we have the leisure." Kaile stares at the rug. "We have our minds, and those who devote their lives to carrying the history of our world with us, sharing as we can now so that others may begin to know their past. It takes us twenty years to share what would take a man ten millennia to learn."
John raises an eyebrow. "And you can't just ask?"
"If I told you I wished to read from your memories, would you have agreed?"
That'd be a big, fat no. "You do this to others?"
Kaile hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Only what they wish to share. Only what they would share in words if they could. Only those stories they *want* to tell."
John slow blinks his disbelief; Kaile reddens more. "Do you think if we stole so much, that others would come to us, that people would offer freely? We ask them to tell us their stories, the ones they wish most to share, and they do. We just--let them tell it easier. We cannot take what is not freely offered; it is not our way."
"And they don't remember?"
Kaile sighs. "They remember sitting with us and telling us their stories. We do not lie; what would take a man a week to tell we can have in seconds. What they show us, we can show others. What they give us, we give in our turn. Nothing is taken that could not be taken in words--"
"Will I remember?"
Kaile hesitates. "Your line is rare. I do not know."
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
Kaile sighs softly. "I don't know." The dark eyes rest on the floor. "If you remember and tell them what I have done, your people can spread faster than even a storyteller. If you choose to do so, none will give us their stories again nor wish for us to share them. And instead of honored guests, we will be hunted for the fear of what we are."
John reads Kaile's body, looking for the lie. "You did this to Teyla."
"Teyla shared her stories, yes." Kaile licks his lips, glancing up briefly. "She shared the story of how you met."
Oh damn. John forces himself not to look away. "Then you know--"
Kaile grins suddenly. "You were not the first to wake the Wraith untimely in ten thousand years," Kaile says. "Nor the first to try to expatiate your action. You are merely the first to believe you were the only one to do so. This is our history, Colonel Sheppard. And now it is yours as well." Kaile tilts his head. "I understand your wariness; I should have been prepared by Teyla's stories of you. I was not, and for that, I ask forgiveness."
"No one knows how you do this?"
"If they did, there would be no storytellers left," Kaile says flatly. "There would be slaves, sold to the highest bidder for what we can do, what we carry in our minds. Even now, we live in danger when we travel to new places."
For the history yes; for the information they carry, for the stories that that might give an advantage to another race. Frowning, John holsters his gun, leaning back against the pillow.
"So much is lost," Kaile says, brown eyes growing distant. "We go where we can, try to--to share what we can, take them with us. The people, the history, their books and their poetry, their plays and their world; so when the Wraith come, something of them remains." Kaile smiles slightly. "Sometimes, we're too late, and we only have their names, and the stories other tell of them."
John thinks of the empty planets, the ruins of cities thousands of years old, the villages he's visited that he returned to see razed to the ground. "You carry it all."
"We all do; what one of us learns, we share with the others, all we can. When we--when it is our time to die, we pass it all, so that no story is lost, including our own."
John blinks as Kaile settles on the blanket, and the brown eyes seem less young than he remembers; something very old and very sad looks back at him. John thinks through their conversation, pulling the pieces together. "You pass on *yourselves*."
Kaile nods. "We give everything we are, and pass that to the next. We carry *history*, Colonel Sheppard; all that we learn, and all of that of those that came before us. We offer this freely to the ones that come after, so what we have is never lost. So that someone always remembers."
John blows out a breath as Kaile reaches for his hands, weaving their fingers together, the gentle touch sliding through his thoughts. "I promise," Kaile whispers, "I will take nothing that is not given freely."
John almost believes him.
Author: Seperis
Codes: Dean, Sam, Ruby, Castiel, Uriel
Rating: R
The presumed sequel to As the Driven Snow It--didn't work. Possibly due to discarding world-destruction early on, which left me with Dean + Ruby + Revenge Roadtrip == God, This Is Not Healthy.
She's not sure why she expected it; the Impala's parked haphazardly outside the small motel she'd chosen, far enough away from Sam that even Dean wouldn't know she was still following them. The clean outside lights illuminate the parking space, but the Impala seems to absorb it, lurking like a shadow against the rapidly darkening sky.
Hesitating, she reaches for her cellphone, knowing a call to Sam will have him here in less than an hour if he has to jack a car to get to them; it's the sane thing to do, find somewhere with people that even Dean might hesitate to approach, make the call, order a drink, breathe until she could be sure Dean and that knife were under the care of someone who (mostly) didn't want her dead.
It's been three weeks, though, and Ruby can't help hesitating, because if Dean wanted her dead, she doesn’t think he'd give her warning before he did it. Letting the phone fall back into her pocket, she takes a slow step toward the indistinct shape stretched over the hood of the Impala.
In a fair fight, he didn't stand a chance. But he's a hunter from head to toe; fair is what gets them dead. She should know; she'd killed enough who hadn't learned that lesson.
Stepping into the circle of light, Ruby watches for any sudden movements, any tricks, chalk on the ground or amulets at key positions…something. There's no hum of magic, though, and Dean's just this dark shape sprawled on the hood of the car like he fell asleep waiting.
"Hey, Ruby."
Clutching her jacket closer, she crosses the ten feet that separate them, circling to the front of the car, fighting down the rising feeling of disorientation that reminds her of getting high with frat boys ten years ago. She'd worn the body of a blonde freshman who cut her wrists before taking a window with a jump; Ruby had her before she hit the ground. Ruby can still taste the alcohol and rohypnol in the back of her throat and feel the hands that crawled gracelessly up her thighs, thick fingers curling around her wrists to pin her to filthy rec room carpet while one shoved his tongue in her mouth and muttered they wouldn't hurt her if she'd just stay still.
She'd snapped their necks, but not before she told them where she'd see them next.
Dean's staring up at the sky with a fixed expression, like he's looking for something that he can't help but hope to find. Ruby cranes her neck, stealing a quick glance, but light pollution hazes the stars from sight; there's nothing but smoky black above them.
"Sam's worried," she says slowly, in the understatement of the millennium, leaning a hip against the edge of the car. "Give me a good reason not to call."
"Same reason you didn't when you saw me," Dean answers lazily. He almost sounds *drunk*, but there's too much tension in a body that's working so hard to look relaxed. Lifting his head, he smiles at her. "Think you can crawl off my brother's cock long enough to do something useful for a change?"
She opens her mouth, sharpened words already at the tip of her tongue, but she catches them between her teeth. Dean's an ass by nature, but right now, he's looking for a fight, and she wants to know why. "What do you want?"
"Need to find someone." And like that, the pretense is gone; he sits up and slides to the ground, feet planted on either side of hers, close enough that she can smell a hint of whiskey and dried sweat, the remains of aftershave, and beneath it, the heady tang of blood. The green eyes that look into hers are startlingly blank, and that's the most disturbing part of all, because Dean Winchester isn't famous for holding anything in, whether he wants to or not.
She wants to step back, get a little distance from the too-warm body inches from her, the sharp male smell of him that reminds her of Sam, but with something else beneath it that's almost painfully familiar. She doesn't move when he shifts closer, reaching behind him, doesn't flinch when he pulls something out and holds between them, because she knows it's not a knife.
It's a newspaper, neatly folded to reveal a picture of a woman a little younger than the body she wears. Black and white doesn't tell her much, but she's pretty with dark hair, and she's been missing for a while.
"I need to find her."
Ruby raises an eyebrow and controls the urge to tell him to check the cemetery. "Something special about her?"
Dean stands up, forcing her back a step, free hand closing over her hip before she stumbles, hot even through her coat and jeans. She almost jerks away, wondering for wild second if he'd been possessed, but she would have *known*, would have felt that, something--and he leans over, mouth close to her ear.
"Remember Julia?"
Ruby closes her eyes; Dean's hand on her hip is the only thing that keeps her from falling. "When?"
"Three weeks and change. She came on orders but stuck around after." Dean huffs a soft, bitter laugh. "Her mistake."
Ruby draws back slightly, trying to get a look at his face. "What did she do?"
"Demon wearing a meatsuit, do I need a better reason?" Abruptly, he pushes her away, mouth twisting in contempt. "Still that scared of her?"
"Yeah." She is. She always will be. You'd be stupid not to be scared of her. And Dean's never been stupid enough not to be scared of demons, even when he hunted them. Ruby searches his face, looking for something she recognizes. "But you're not."
Dean smiles slowly. "You in, or not?"
Ruby stares at him, all coiled tension and careful control, like the slightest wrong move will blow up in his face, like when he hunts but a hundred times more powerful. Hatred without the tempering of fear, and the kind of reckless rage that almost got him killed when he and Sam went after Azazel. Ruby's eyes widen.
"You know her." *Know* know, not dressed in meat and skin. Ruby sucked in a breath. She should have guessed; Hell had been waiting a long time for Dean.
"Up close and personal. Twice now." In Hell, then, and here. Ruby counts back three weeks, trying to remember what Sam had told her about their jobs, but there hadn't been anything about Julia or even a demon, and that, Sam would have called her in for.
In her pocket, her phone rings insistently; without looking down, she takes it out, flickering a glance at the number she knows by sight.
"Answer it," Dean says softly, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Swallowing, Ruby flips it on, holding it to her ear.
"Sam?"
"Ruby." He sounds like shit; three weeks and no communication have wrecked what little stability Sam's been clinging to. Cradling the phone against her cheek, she wants to turn away so Dean can't see her face; right now, she can't tell how much she's showing, and she doesn't want to give him another weapon against her. "He's--no one's seen him. Not Bobby, not the other hunters, no one. It's like he just--just disappeared."
Ruby licks her lips, knowing what he's asking. "He's not back in Hell. I'd know."
Dean smiles his agreement, casually pacing a loose circle around her. Ruby turns to follow, keeping an eye on every too-comfortable movement, green eyes holding hers. It's hard to concentrate on what Sam's saying, but luckily, she can recite this part by rote; Sam's venting is creative, but not very original.
"…just take off. Can't get him on the cell, he's not using any of the cards…."
Ruby finds herself nodding along, trying to keep Dean in view; the calm feels wrong wrapped around his body, like at any second the pressure beneath will blow it off. Every circle draws him nearer, until somehow, he's warm against her back, the Impala is pressing into the front of her calves, and he's close enough to hear Sam's every word.
"….heard anything?"
Ruby draws a deep breath and almost think she's going to tell him the truth.
Dean's lips brush against her other ear, breath warm, one hand cradling her hip beneath her coat. "Tell him no."
"No," she breathes.
On the other side of the phone, something breaks that sounds valuable. Ruby clenches her eyes shut.
"Tell him you are going to check out a lead on the seals," Dean says, one hand curving around the back of her neck, pushing her hair to one side. "Some survival types up in the Rockies. You're going to do a quick check in and see if it's true. You might be out of range of the phone."
"There's--I got a lead," Ruby says, fighting between the urge to jerk away and the urge to lean closer. Dean's never so much as checked out her ass, and now he's practically feeling her up in a way that's almost embarrassingly chaste. "Some survivalists." She pauses, pulling in a breath. "I'll be out of range for a couple of days. I'll call as soon as I get back."
He doesn't offer to go with her, which isn't a surprise; the sudden silence is, though.
"Sam?" she says, phone slippery in her hand. Dean slides short, blunt fingernails up her neck, pressing gently against the bone, and her body leans into it instinctively, lowering her head without thinking.
"You sound--" Sam hesitates. "Are you all right?"
No, she's not; Dean's arm circles her waist, easing her back, and she can feel him hard against her ass. Your brother's here and feeling me up, she wants to yell into the phone. And I don't know why I'm letting him.
"Fine," she manages, wondering distantly how she can sound so normal. "I just--"
"Gotta go," Dean offers, hand covering hers on the phone. "Say goodbye, Ruby."
"Goodbye," she says helplessly, phone pulled from her unresisting fingers; the next second, she hears it hit the ground and the crack as Deans' boot heel grinds it into the dirt. She doesn't move until he turns her, realizing when he presses a thumb against her chin that she'd never lifted her head.
"What happened?" she says shakily. Dean shakes his head and kisses her, closed-mouthed and chaste.
"Tell you later. Get your stuff. We're going to need everything you have."
When he steps away, every place he touched on her body feels cold. Wrapping her arms around herself, she nods dumbly, then blinks. "For an exorcism?"
"There isn't going to be an exorcism." Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic baggie that looks like it's filled with cardboard. Opening it carefully, he pulls it out, fingernail slicing through the tape. Glued to it is a piece of paper yellow with age, edges crumbling even as she watches. She takes it from him, puzzling through the writing before she works out what it does. "Can you make that work?"
"I--maybe." She reads it again, more carefully this time, parsing out the pieces that she recognizes, the parts that she's never heard of before. "Where'd you find it?"
"Chick in Louisiana." She can feel him staring at her. "Can you do it?"
Carefully, she closes it back up in the cardboard, sliding it safely back into the baggie before she looks at him. "Yes. I can. Do you have the--oh." From his pocket, he pulls out another baggie. "All right. Let's get started."
*****
Julia's not subtle, not when you know what you're looking for, and Dean recognizes the signs as much as she does. Maybe better, she thinks with a twist in her stomach she can't identify as either smug gloating or pain. She may hate him, but even hate pales before Hell, and even if he wasn't Sam's brother, the other half of him, she would have stopped him from going if she could, would have helped Sam raise him if there had been any way to do it.
But they hadn't, and Dean had come back so much the same she'd could almost forget he'd been there at all.
Until now, with a man she's not sure she's ever met, who climbs in the car beside her, nodding as she gives him the bloodstained napkin with the directions she'd taken from the broken mind of the last man to enjoy Julia's undivided attention.
He glances at it, spreading it over the steering wheel. There's an edge of tightly leashed mania in every careful movement; from the blown pupils, she suspects he scammed uppers at the last truck stop. They have a fifty hour drive ahead of them; when he crashes, they're stopping for the night. There's no way in hell she's meeting Julia again at less than her absolute best.
Lacing her fingers together, she watches the darkened road ahead. "You didn't tell me why."
"You care?"
She does; it surprises her. He's Sam's brother, but more than that, he came out of Hell like few do, even demons, and he may hate her, but he knows her, too, the way Sam can't and hopefully never will. There's no suffering one-upmanship; five minutes or five hundred years aren't that much different when it's Hell.
"How long until they asked?"
There's a twitch in the muscle of his jaw, smoothing again into nothingness. Ruby turns her eyes to the road.
"Every day."
Ruby swallows hard. She hadn't held out long at all; she wonders how long he did, then wonders if it matters. "You know--" she starts, then stops short, because of course, *of course* he knows. He came to her.
Excitement is a sick knot in her belly. The thing that Hell created is a part of her that she fights every day; every second she spends in human skin, watching the human world around her with eyes that see so much more than when she was one of them, she loosens its hold just that bit more. She fights it, for these innocent people living small, insignificant lives that she'd give everything she had to share, because there's nothing she hasn't done, no degradation she hasn't inflicted and enjoyed, no second of it she doesn't remember. No one should become this. No one should live with this in them. No one should forget how it feels to smile and breathe and love and live.
That doesn't change the crawling excitement, the joy that feels like nausea, sweet and slick on the back of her tongue like rotting meat, and she can sense it from Dean like the heat of the sun, burning through her and reminding her of everything she doesn't want to be, not here, not with Sam, not with these humans who try to fight a war they can't possibly win.
"I want to do more than watch," she says slowly, hearing malice dripping from her voice like acid. "I want--"
"Don't worry," Dean says softly. Ruby can hear herself echoed in his voice, the gloating dark anticipation. "Think of it this way; I'll show you mine and you show me yours. That work for you?"
Ruby can't stop the flash of heat that almost makes her gasp, like when Sam touches her, sliding inside her wet and hot and making her scream; it's not the same, no. It might be better. "Yeah," she answers, wondering if she'll remember how to regret that after this, Sam will never forgive her. "That works."
*****
They stop just as dawn breaks the horizon; Ruby gets the key from the front desk and comes back to an empty room and a closed bathroom door. Stripping out of clothes she's worn for almost two days straight, she pulls a t-shirt and shorts from her bag. If Sam were here, she wouldn't bother with anything at all, but there's only one bed and her skin feels too tight to hold her inside. She doesn't know what she'll do, and Dean--
She shivers, running her hands down her bare arms, teeth locked together as she remembers the way his hand felt on the back of her neck, the feel of his breath against her ear. She could get herself off just remembering that and thinking of what's coming tomorrow.
If Sam were here, she'd have him against the door when he came out; of course, if Sam were here, this wouldn't be happening at all. Dragging clothes that feel scratchy against her sensitized skin, she slides into bed.
She hadn't known how tired she was until she surfaces like coming from somewhere deep, feeling hands slide over her hips and ass, a warm chest against her back, and the heated thoughts of what they'll do when they find Julia filling her mind in vivid color.
She rolls over, finding warm, cotton-covered shoulders beneath her palms, a hard mouth covering hers, tongue pushing past her lips while a hand cups her, finger trailing over her clit. It takes too long to remember who's in bed with her; it takes even longer to remember why she should care.
"Dean," she manages, pulling her mouth away. With a soft growl, he nips her lip, her jaw, and she almost forgets why they shouldn't do this with each shock of pain. Sucking a breath, she jerks away, almost tumbling off the bed before catching herself on the edge.
She waits for Dean to reach for her again, bracing herself to push him away without killing him, to lick open his mouth and see if she can make him moan, to--
"Fuck," Dean says. Despite the dimness from the closed curtains, she can see him run both hands through his hair, the swollen lips, smell the musky scent of his arousal, herself on his fingers. "Shitty idea." He sounds hoarse. "Son of a fucking *bitch*."
"Yeah." Shakily, she looks at the clock. It's several hours until dusk, and they have to sleep before they see Julia or they're both dead. "Dean--"
"Yeah, got it." Grabbing a pillow and the top blanket, he gets up. Ruby stands up, watching him make quick work of a pallet on the floor. For a second, she feels like there's something she should say, but nothing obvious comes to mind.
Despite her exhaustion, she's staring at the ceiling for a long time, thwarted arousal twisting through her. Even thinking of Sam, of Sam's reaction if he knew about this, doesn't bank it. It may even make it even hotter.
Rolling over, Ruby buries her face in a pillow and pretends she's already asleep.
*****
Hours later, curled up in her seat as far from him as possible, wanting to touch him so badly she can barely think, she says, "How are we going to trap her?"
Dean has both hands locked on the steering wheel like his life depends on it; she can still feel the burn of his touch on her leg when he forgot, fingers rubbing circles into the soft skin of her thigh, when he asked, "You want to go first, or me?", so certain it would be that easy to take out one of the Fallen who followed Lucifer from Hell that she almost crawled into his lap, wanting to taste that certainty herself.
"Won't be hard," Dean says tightly; that careful calm is fracturing in cracks all over, and she can glimpse what's fighting its way out, recognizes it as the thing pushing against her skin. "Thinking seeing me'll be enough."
Ruby nods, licking lips that feel dry and swollen, sensitive even to the feel of her own tongue.
Dean grins in a way that reminds her of Sam when he forgot what she was, when he forgot he was supposed to hate her and everything she was, when he forgot to hate himself. "I want to watch you make her scream," he says, voice tight, like he's forgotten how to breathe. "I want--" He stops, jaw working, something raw filling the green eyes. "I want you to show me. I don't remember how…"
Ruby nods, feeling her mouth curve in a slow, pleased smile, filled with the same sense of satisfaction she'd once felt with every soul she'd corrupted, their faces vivid in her memory. "It's like riding a bicycle," she says softly. "I'll show you."
*****
Capture of Julia
*****
Sam wakes up to the feeling of someone else in the room; reaching slowly for the gun beneath his pillow, he listens to the quality of silence, the stillness that he recognizes as *something*.
It's not Dean, though his chest tightens for a second in hope; Dean wouldn't bother being silent.
"Your gun will have no effect on me, Samuel."
For a second, Sam thinks of pulling it out and shooting anyway; Uriel's better than demons, but not by much. Pulling his fingers reluctantly from the butt, he sits up as the lamp beside the bed comes on beside him.
Sam covers his eyes with a groan at the sudden brightness, rubbing the sleep away and kicking back the covers. "A little late for a visit."
Uriel doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't feel particularly obligated to be polite. After a few seconds to orient himself, he slides out of bed, grabbing for his jeans, hoping Uriel can't see his flush as he pulls them on. He just can't talk to an angel without pants; there's no part of him that can deal with that on any level.
When he turns around, Uriel is sitting stiffly on (Dean's) the other bed, still neatly made, as it has been the last four weeks of Dean's absence.
Taking the seat opposite him, Sam tries and fails to care he looks like shit, because Uriel has all the advantages here and one more won't change anything. "You found Dean?" There's no way Uriel's going to visit him with missions from God.
Uriel stares back, unmoving, unforgiving, and utterly silent. If this is some kind of game, Sam will happily let him win, if it gets him to *talk* already. "What's going on?"
"I have not been able to locate him," Uriel says flatly. For a long second, the words don't make any sense; an *angel* can't find one human? Especially Dean, their super special saved-from-hell-to-save-the-world rescuee? That doesn't even make *sense*.
"You can't find him." He had to have heard that wrong.
"No." If Sam were the type to believe in that sort of thing, he'd say Uriel sounds embarrassed. "He's somehow hidden himself from my sight."
Sam hadn't expected that; then again, he never would have imagined calling in an angel for help before. Then again, if he'd known Uriel was going to be the one to answer, he might not have called him at all.
Taking a breath, Sam stares out the window past Uriel's shoulder. "I didn't know that was possible." Closing his eyes, Sam takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Someone really wants to keep him hidden."
"No."
Sam's head jerks up; he knows Uriel sees the fear on his face and can't bring himself to care. "Is he--was he taken back--" To Hell, he doesn't say. He can't. That would make it too real.
"No. If he had returned, he would have been retrieved." And doesn't Uriel sound thrilled about that. "He is still among the living. What I meant was, he is not being held."
"There's no way he could work that kind of spell." Sam gets to his feet. "You are not telling me my brother is doing this of his own free will. He wouldn't know how, even if he wanted to."
"Interesting. Where are your books?"
Sam stares at Uriel helplessly. "What?"
"Books. Did he seem particularly interested in any of them?"
Sam opens his mouth to say that Dean's interest in reading is in direct proportion to how close they are to death, then stops. Faintly, he remembers Dean asking him about something while they were checking on a few possible cases. Sam hadn't been paying attention, searching messageboards and news archives, watching for the signs of something unusual. He'd asked about--
"Yeah." Standing up, Sam tries to remember the name. Dean had gone out, leaving his bed a mess. The book had been half-buried in the covers, along with three different fast food wrappers and a bag of rosemary that Sam had thrown at him the night before because he'd refused to turn the lamp off--because he'd been reading.
Sam crosses to their bag, opening it and pulling out everything. It had been small, red cover, a handwritten copy of a handwritten copy, because the world sucked before Gutenberg and thank you God for standardized printing.
At the bottom of the bag, Sam finds it in its protective bag, cradling it carefully as he gets up, pulling the fragile book free. As he sits on the edge of the bed, he hears Uriel hiss, but he's staring at the book when it falls open on his lap, at page that's been torn away.
Flipping it, Sam tries to read the cover, then goes to the beginning, where there's nothing useful like a table of contents, and the print is so small he has to squint to read it. "It's--just simple spells," Sam says finally, looking puzzled. "Some witch's grimoire." Paging through, he goes back to the lost page, making his way through the pages on either side. "Herb lore, something about warding--"
"It belonged to witch who had long promised her soul in exchange for power," Uriel says flatly. "A great deal of power."
And now in Hell, of course. Sam takes a breath. "Okay. So not just a protective book."
"No. She received many signs of favor. One of those was the way to hide from all sight. It made her very dangerous."
"Even yours?"
Uriel's mouth tightens. "Especially ours." Uriel reaches for it; Sam lets him take it, still trying to work out what's happening. "It is not done involuntarily," Uriel says, touching it like it's something filthy. "This spell, it is done with will. Your brother--"
"My brother would not know how to cast a spell like that if his life depended on it."
Uriel cocks a brow, then looks back down, turning the pages with the tips of his fingers. "Have you spoken to the abomination?"
There's absolutely no doubt what he means. "You think Ruby cast it."
"I know she did." Closing the book, Uriel puts it aside like something he wishes he could burn. "The residuals of the spell were found in her last known location."
There's a lot Sam could say here; Dean would not, *would not* run off with Ruby under a magic spell that conceals him from angels. It's as likely Dean would suddenly start to fly.
And he doesn't, because Ruby hasn't answered her phone in a week.
"Why?"
"That, I do not know."
Sam swallows hard. "What about--about Castiel? He's supposed to be watching Dean, right? So--he'd--I mean, they have a--" Something. Castiel, comparatively speaking, is the snugglist angel ever; if anyone could find Dean, figure out what happened.
"That, I plan to find out." Standing up, Uriel stares down at Sam like he's imagining him dead. Sam doesn't really care. "I suggest you start to search for ways to break the spell."
"What, you can't?" Sam stands up too, and sure, stupid to challenge an angel. "What the hell--
Title: The Storyteller
Author: Seperis
Codes: John Sheppard, etc.
Rating: PG-13
I have no idea where I was going with this. Dammit. Because this is neat. At least to me.
"Do you not speak of the honored dead?" Kaile asks from across the fire. Straightening, John blinks back into the conversation, noting Teyla is giving him a smile that promises horrible things during his next workout if he doesn't figure out where this is going.
Licking his lips, he glances at Ronon, then Rodney, both of whom are paying even less attention than he was. No help there. Settling back on elbows, John smiles at Kaile. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Of their lives," Kaile says with a puzzled frown. John rewinds over their day, culminating in a nice boar-like dinner roasted over an open fire; in all honesty, it's probably one of their better missions. "Their--" He glances at Teyla briefly, searching for the words. "Their portraits of words. Their--"
"Stories." John pushes himself up. "Sure. I mean, we have books and movies and plays--" John catches Teyla smile from the corner of his eye. Sitting straight, John smiles at Kaile. "Epic poetry," he hazards, and enjoys the brief flash of surprise. "Beowulf, The Illiad, The Odyssey." And comparatively speaking, recent; Pegasus' storytelling tradition went back fifty thousand years. Their recent stuff was at the five thousand year mark or so. Hooking his arms over his knees, John gazes at the fire thoughtfully. "We have a lot of mediums for storytelling."
"It is an honored art among your people?" Kaile asks eagerly.
John thinks of Hollywood and almost sighs. "Lucrative, sometimes." John sees Rodney grimace and wishes he were close enough to kick. "Why?"
Kaile's eyes flicker among them. "I had--noticed you brought no scribe with you," he answers. John thinks about it, translating into Pegasus terms--three warriors, one scientist, not a social scientist to be found.
"Some of our teams have a--historian with them." Explaining archaelogy, anthropology, and linguistics departments are beyond him, and God help them all if Rodney opens his mouth on the subject. "We keep records of all our missions."
"And turn them into stories to tell others?"
John bites his tongue as he thinks of the Marines. Worse gossips than the scientists. More reliable, too. "Definitely."
Teyla smiles at him. "Kaile is a Storyteller," she explains. "It is an honored position among their people; among many of us. They carry the history of Pegasus in their words. Kaile's very young to have achieved his mastery; his skill in the weaving of words is unparalleled in our histories."
"Really?" Kaile nods eagerly, back straight and torn between proud and embarrassed. "I was apprenticed very young when my memory was found to be flawless. There are many with far greater skill and mastery--I am just beginning my work."
Kaile looks young; if he's twenty-five, John will eat lemon jello for the rest of the week and leave Rodney with the red. "How many years of training does it take?"
Kaile shrugs, light flickering off the crystals braided into his hair. "Twenty years to learn the traditional history; the rest is the work of a lifetime that never ends." He pauses, eyeing John with something that skirts toward wariness. "Among us, it is tradition make an exchange of stories so that they may spread further. I would be honored if you would share yours with us."
Huh. Teyla nods almost imperceptibly; they've been hit before agreeing to something that sounded cool and ended in running quickly toward the gate. "I can get you a sample of our media," he says, thinking of Corrigan and the anthropologists; they'll go nuts for the opportunity. "We have specialists--"
Kaile gives Teyla a quick, bewildered look, cutting off the beginning of John's speech. Teyla swallows her mouthful of stew quickly. "It is--" she frowns, a familiar look that means she's trying to put a Pegasus concept into Earth context. "A tradition. Between groups who share meals."
"So you want me to tell a story," John says flatly. It's like sixth grade all over again. His eyes flicker over the group of cheerful looking natives, Rodney looking sardonically amused, Ronon with raised eyebrows and smug satisfaction, and Teyla, trying not to laugh. "Um." And for the life of him, the only story he can think of is Bluebeard, and he's not even sure how that one ended. "I'm not--that much of a public speaker."
"It need not be public," Kaile says eagerly; at some point, and John has no idea how that happened, he managed to work his way over beside him. From the looks on the rest of the people's faces, sharing a blanket with a storyteller is great honor. John would happily give the honor to Teyla. "It is a honor to us, that you leave us with something of yourself."
John hesitates. "So how do I--"
"You will tell me," Kaile says quickly. "And I will build the story."
That sounds less horrifying; John thinks of the nice dinner, the nice trade agreement, the fact that Kaile's a nice kid and the fact that Teyla seems okay with it. "Okay."
"Excellent," he says, getting to his feet. John blinks. "If you are done with your meal--"
John looks a little desperately at his empty bowl, then nods reluctantly, watching as the elders bring out an excellent wine and the fine, fluffy stuffed pastry they'd sampled at dinner; Rodney's already reaching for one. Probably will take John's too. Dammit. "Right." Getting to his feet, he picks his way out from among the bodies, following Kaile out of the light of the fire and toward the temporary tent village that they build during their hunting trips.
Kaile slows to let him catch up, smiling at him with anticipation. "We have never met your people," he says, almost bouncing. "It has been long since we had the opportunity."
John nods back, letting Kaile lead him into a large tent on the far edge of the camp, settling on the warm, homespun wool rugs he recognizes as Athosian designed, watching as Kaile goes around the tent, lighting candles to illuminate large, comfortable looking cushions and a set of wood trunks. Kaile sits down across from him on the rug, following John's gaze. "It's our written history," he says. The candles emanate a sweet fragrance that reminds John of vanilla and magnolias, and he abruptly remembers a visit to Tennessee when he was a kid. "Please give me your hands."
John blinks away the sudden vivid memory of iced tea and a lazy summer with his great aunt, sun-drenched fields and huge trees hanging heavy with smooth-skinned, creamy flowers, running down dirt roads bare-footed with what felt like a thousand cousins around him. Extending his hands, he feels Kaile's fingers slide across his palm, as cool as river water, flowing up his wrists and resting lightly against the points of his pulse.
"Oh," Kaile says softly, but John's too aware of the dirt clouding around his knees, the hot sun against the back of his neck, and he finally, finally wasn't cold. "That's--that's your world?"
John's eyes drift shut, tasting tea as he sat on the wide wrap-around porch, eating chicken salad with his cousins, their babble wrapped around him, listening to them talk about horses and races and fishing; a world as alien as Pegasus to a kid brought up on military bases in countries where he could barely speak the language. Dirty feet dangling over the side of a swing, John grins up as his aunt brings him a plate fo cookies and tells him that his parents are coming in a week.
"It's beautiful," Kaile breathes, fingers tracing the veins in John's wrist; John opens his eyes sleepily; he hadn't even known he closed them. "I had thought--"
John pulls away, feeling his lips curve in a lazy smile that tastes like lemonade as he pulls his gun. "What did you do to me?"
Kaile's eyes widen, sitting back on his heels. "I'm sorry, I--what? Is there something wrong?"
John pulls the safety, focusing on Kaile's chest. "You have five seconds."
Kaile flushes, then nods. "My pardon; I had forgotten you were of the Ancient line. It would not affect you as it does others."
Every muscle in John's body is liquid, but not heavy; he feels like he could float. "What. Is. This?"
"Our stories," Kaile says, raising his hand and reaching slowly for the gun. John tries to tighten his grip, but it slips from his hand like warm butter. "We carry the history of Pegasus in our minds. It is not passed with words; at least, not between storytellers."
John nods. "So you steal memories."
"No! No, never steal--ask, with permission, take only what is freely given." Kaile looks away. "I am sorry. "Please, listen before you--" he looks pointedly at the gun, setting it aside. "I promise you, there is no malice."
John nods, appropriating a cushion to lean against; he knows he should be a lot more upset, and his radio is in his ear, ready to use. It could be the candles and whatever the hell they're doing, or it could be drugs in their food; Jesus, it could be anything at all.
"I’m a storyteller," Kaile says finally, flattening his hands on his crossed knees. "It takes twenty years to train us to our mastery."
John nods lazily.
"There were--there used to be other ways. You speak of many mediums to hold your stories; that we do not have. We have this." Kaile taps his head. "Our libraries are gone to the Wraith. We have neither the skill nor the time and resources to recreate them, nor do we have the leisure." Kaile stares at the rug. "We have our minds, and those who devote their lives to carrying the history of our world with us, sharing as we can now so that others may begin to know their past. It takes us twenty years to share what would take a man ten millennia to learn."
John raises an eyebrow. "And you can't just ask?"
"If I told you I wished to read from your memories, would you have agreed?"
That'd be a big, fat no. "You do this to others?"
Kaile hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Only what they wish to share. Only what they would share in words if they could. Only those stories they *want* to tell."
John slow blinks his disbelief; Kaile reddens more. "Do you think if we stole so much, that others would come to us, that people would offer freely? We ask them to tell us their stories, the ones they wish most to share, and they do. We just--let them tell it easier. We cannot take what is not freely offered; it is not our way."
"And they don't remember?"
Kaile sighs. "They remember sitting with us and telling us their stories. We do not lie; what would take a man a week to tell we can have in seconds. What they show us, we can show others. What they give us, we give in our turn. Nothing is taken that could not be taken in words--"
"Will I remember?"
Kaile hesitates. "Your line is rare. I do not know."
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
Kaile sighs softly. "I don't know." The dark eyes rest on the floor. "If you remember and tell them what I have done, your people can spread faster than even a storyteller. If you choose to do so, none will give us their stories again nor wish for us to share them. And instead of honored guests, we will be hunted for the fear of what we are."
John reads Kaile's body, looking for the lie. "You did this to Teyla."
"Teyla shared her stories, yes." Kaile licks his lips, glancing up briefly. "She shared the story of how you met."
Oh damn. John forces himself not to look away. "Then you know--"
Kaile grins suddenly. "You were not the first to wake the Wraith untimely in ten thousand years," Kaile says. "Nor the first to try to expatiate your action. You are merely the first to believe you were the only one to do so. This is our history, Colonel Sheppard. And now it is yours as well." Kaile tilts his head. "I understand your wariness; I should have been prepared by Teyla's stories of you. I was not, and for that, I ask forgiveness."
"No one knows how you do this?"
"If they did, there would be no storytellers left," Kaile says flatly. "There would be slaves, sold to the highest bidder for what we can do, what we carry in our minds. Even now, we live in danger when we travel to new places."
For the history yes; for the information they carry, for the stories that that might give an advantage to another race. Frowning, John holsters his gun, leaning back against the pillow.
"So much is lost," Kaile says, brown eyes growing distant. "We go where we can, try to--to share what we can, take them with us. The people, the history, their books and their poetry, their plays and their world; so when the Wraith come, something of them remains." Kaile smiles slightly. "Sometimes, we're too late, and we only have their names, and the stories other tell of them."
John thinks of the empty planets, the ruins of cities thousands of years old, the villages he's visited that he returned to see razed to the ground. "You carry it all."
"We all do; what one of us learns, we share with the others, all we can. When we--when it is our time to die, we pass it all, so that no story is lost, including our own."
John blinks as Kaile settles on the blanket, and the brown eyes seem less young than he remembers; something very old and very sad looks back at him. John thinks through their conversation, pulling the pieces together. "You pass on *yourselves*."
Kaile nods. "We give everything we are, and pass that to the next. We carry *history*, Colonel Sheppard; all that we learn, and all of that of those that came before us. We offer this freely to the ones that come after, so what we have is never lost. So that someone always remembers."
John blows out a breath as Kaile reaches for his hands, weaving their fingers together, the gentle touch sliding through his thoughts. "I promise," Kaile whispers, "I will take nothing that is not given freely."
John almost believes him.
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The Storyteller
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The Storyteller
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The Storyteller FB
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From:Although, if it's a skill that can be taught, I'm sure Rodney would be eager to learn, and I guess John would tell him stories he's never told anyone else...
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John the storyteller
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From:Loved the SPN sequel. Dean and Ruby on revenge road trip is an awesome concept :D
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The Storyteller.
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