Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean makes his way to Gravette. Not because he has decided to hunt and kill the ghost (though, and this actually startles him a little, he really needs a kill by now), but because he hasn’t got a better place to start anyway.

The case in the old mansion cum art gallery looks pretty straight-forward. Seven floods (in one form or another) in twelve days cannot be put down to accidents and bad luck, or karma, no matter what the local news station thinks. There is something going on there, something supernatural, and everything points towards a ghost. A ghost he could easily take care of in the four days he and Sam agreed on – even if the first is actually almost over.

Four days, that was the limit Sam set for when he would be done. Not for when he would have found something, but for when he would be through all of the possible files; for when there would be nowhere left to look. But unless Sam remembers wrong (and that doesn’t happen often, thankfully), there is something there to be found. Only, they cannot know if it will help Cas.

Dean grinds his teeth and tightens his grip on the wheel. The world slips into sharper focus. Castiel is dying. The stolen grace which is currently propping him up is burning out, and unless they find something to take its place – new grace or whatever ‘brilliant light’ Sam remembers being mentioned somewhere in those files – Dean will have one less person to care about very soon.

The steering wheel creaks. Dean pulls over on the shoulder and takes a deep breath, eyes closed.

In the bunker with Sam and Cas – actually already from he joined back up with Sam again – it has been easier for him to control his anger. And it is not that his control is actually slipping now, but the no-win situation makes him every bit as frustrated as the long string of no-win situations his life has been made up of usually do. Coupled with how long it has been since he got some action and the nagging thoughts of what was taken from him (not going there!), he is in a less than pleasant mood.

He will admit that Cas and his ridiculous stubbornness is a not-insignificant part of the problem, as well. The easiest and most expedient solution would be for Dean and Sam to retrieve some new grace from another angel, but no, “I will not sacrifice another of my brothers so that I might live, Dean”. Well, Cas, how about we sacrifice one of the dicks to get the Winchesters another few months of peace? Neither he nor Sam are prepared to sit by twiddling their thumbs as they lose another friend. They can’t.

But Castiel is a stubborn son of a bitch, and as it is now, Dean probably couldn’t force the new grace down his throat, even if he managed to get his hands on an angel. Sam wouldn’t help him either, because the big nerd still believes they have a chance to find whatever it is the Men of Letters got their hands on that warranted the description of ‘light of divine power’.

So that’s his dilemma. He is on a deadline, he has no idea where to find and angel, and even if he did, and did manage to retrieve some grace to take back with him, it wouldn’t help, because his idiotic angel wouldn’t accept it. At the same time he would let a ghost (which, granted, hasn’t hurt anyone – yet) run loose. Last but not least, he has a growing desire to kill.

(And he knows himself well enough to realise that that last one might actually be the biggest impediment. Could he take the grace from an angel, if he came across one? After all, if he was to (accidentally) (…) go for the kill he’d be back to square one.)

If he could get his hands on some grace, he supposes he could take it back with him, keep it till Cas is weak enough that he can’t put up a fight when Dean shoves it down his throat. By then Sam would probably be perfectly ready to help him, too. But there is the slight chance that Sam succeeds and finds something else that’ll work, which would then leave Dean with a bottle of grace and another betrayal of the angel.

The way their relationship is right now, Dean’s not sure he can afford that.

So he pulls back out into the road and continues towards Gravette. There’s a couple of hours left to go still. Perhaps he’ll think of something in the meanwhile. Or an angel will drop from the sky in front of him, so he can honestly say that he had no choice. He might not be able to pray, but one can always hope.

It’s a little past 7 pm when he hits the town limits. He passes a couple of motels, but he figures there’s no reason to bother. If he really needs to crash, the bench seats of the Impala will serve, and it is only a few days anyway. A few days, which he still hasn’t made his mind up on how he wants to use.

He finds the new gallery easily enough. Horne House sits in the middle of a preposterous lawn, which makes Dean snort and think about old men overcompensating. Behind the mansion he can make out the colours of a flower garden in the sun, and an orchard off to the side. Aside from the fact that everything is kind of overdone, it actually looks quite nice. Pompous, but nice.

He dials up Sam.

“Dean?”

“I’m here now. You should see this place. It’s kinda... picturesque?” a crooked smile slips onto Dean’s face.

“Have you found anything?” Sam’s voice sounds tinny.

“Nah, I haven’t gone in yet. Will probably wait a bit. It’s still all bright and sunny out,” Dean grins into the phone is he puts the Impala into reverse, settling her in more snugly for his wait.

“Did you need anything?”

“Nah—” A sigh cuts him off.

“Then why did you call? It’s not like I don’t have anything better to do.” Dean can practically hear the bitch face.

“Wow, what’s got your panties in a twist, princess?”

“I’m trying to work here, Dean—”

“Sam. Sammy,” Dean interrupts, “Maybe you should take a break. Go get something to eat, get some energy into your system?”

There’s a shuffling on the other end of the phone. “I guess you’re right. It’s just, the refrigerated stuff is just sort of... gross? No, not even. But bland. And unsatisfying. Soon as I’m done here, I want to go out for fresh supplies.” It takes Dean a moment to catch up, and when he does, he grimaces. He’s quite sure Sam isn’t talking about limp salad.

“Dammit, Sammy, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m saying it now. And the longer you keep disturbing me, the longer it will be before I’m done, and the longer before I can fix it.”

The longer before he can get his fix. Right. “Get something in your system, Sam. You’re being a whiny bitch.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean looks at the disconnected phone. He doesn’t exactly feel better about the prospects of Sam’s finding a grace-replacement now.

“Fuck,” he hisses out.

What is he doing here, hunting a ghost, when he should be looking for a way to help Cas? Why is he wasting his time? Somebody else could take care of this ghost. Some hunter is going to notice it once it starts dropping bodies. Maybe not with the first, or the second, or even the third casualty, but someone will notice eventually. This isn’t Dean’s problem. What are a couple of dead humans to the risk of losing Castiel (again)? Dean couldn’t care less about these people. No, he should—

A sharp tapping pulls him out of his thoughts. A guy is rapping dark fingers against the Impala’s front window. The stranger isn’t even bending down to look in at Dean (and he would have to, he is tall). There is a loud noise each time the metal of his ring connects with the glass, and between the steady ringing, Dean can almost hear the rush of the stranger’s blood, see how life travels through his body, swift and arrogant, accentuated by that noise.

Clink, clink, clink.

Dean practically shoves the door open, the movement sending the stranger staggering several steps back. In a way, this is a good thing. It lets Dean turn to the Impala’s window before he faces the stranger, and determine that there are thankfully no scratches in the glass. Okay. He takes a calming breath. Okay, this guy should consider himself lucky. Dean looks up.

The stranger is dark, lean and as least as tall as Dean. In another life, this wouldn’t be a fight Dean could pick carelessly (but, Dean reckons, as a hunter he would still have been able to take this guy. The problem would be if he had been some random Mr. Smith, had had some desk job-life or something).

“What the fuck, dude?” Dean tries for a menacing scowl and it comes almost too easily. The other guy’s eyes widen.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you or anything!” He has a nice melodic voice, very different from Dean’s usual preferences, but still... Dean stops himself. What the fuck? The confusion effectively kills his scowl, and the stranger smiles, “I was just wondering if you were looking to visit the Horn?” he throws his head towards the mansion at Dean’s confused stare, and right, of course. Horne House. “It’s going to be closed for at least another two days this time. Maybe three.”

“Why’d’you assume...” Dean trails off.

“Well, you were parked here, and you were looking kinda intensely at it, so I figured...” The stranger offers a toothy grin, and Dean is momentarily dazzled by the stark contrast between the teeth and his skin, “But I don’t suppose you can look anything less than intense with eyes like that.”

Dean doesn’t react, and only because two equally strong responses try to seize him at once. One wants to tell this guy that he just almost scratched the Impala, so he can give his flirting the fuck up, the other (wilder, harsher) is tempted to show him just how intense his sight can be. Dean reigns the urge in. He really shouldn’t let himself lose control in the middle of a public road in broad daylight.

Dean settles on ignoring the guy’s comment altogether, “Too bad,” he finally tries to answer the first question properly, “I really wanted to have a look around. I’ve only got a couple of days.”

The stranger seems to consider this. Probably trying to decide whether to keep up the flirtation, Dean realises. His rejection wasn’t nearly as clear as it could have been. On the other hand... “A friend of mine’s the tour guide up there,” he tells Dean, and Dean smiles wryly. Perhaps his inefficient rejection might help him out here.

“That so?”

“That is so,” the grin is back and Dean returns it. “Kibwe,” he introduces himself.

Dean’s hands are in his pockets, and he is happy that the stranger doesn’t seem to expect a shake. He does a split second mental inventory of which ID’s he has with him. “Nathan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Nate,” Kibwe practically purrs.

Dean chuckles silently. “Likewise. Kibwe?” he sounds out the unusual name to himself.

“It’s a mouthful, I know.”

“Nah, I’ll manage.”

“It’s traditionally African. My mom was big on honouring your roots and all that crap.”

A bit of flirtation is fine, but Dean thinks this conversation is progressing a little too quickly, if they’ve already made it to the preliminary parent-introductions. It makes him realise something else, though. “How old are you?”

Kibwe looks slightly taken aback, “Does it matter?”

“Not really, I guess,” even if the flirtation should progress, the guy’s not jail bait-young or anything, “Just curious.” Dean tries to dial up that so-called intense stare. It seems to work. Dean represses a snicker before it shows on his face.

“Only a couple of years younger than you, I’d guess. I’m 24.”

This time Dean actually grins out loud. A couple. Right. He wonders if it is the power in him, that makes him seem, if not young, then younger. “A couple probably can’t do it.”

“How old are you then?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m curious.”

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the mystery, would I?” Also, it just occurred to Dean that he is not entirely sure what the birth date is on Nathan Hamill’s driver’s licence says. He and Sam usually don’t go more than a year or two in either direction of their own birth dates when they forge, but that still gives him quite a wide margin of error.

Kibwe just laughs. “I’ll call my friend up about a private tour, ‘kay? Wanna go somewhere meanwhile?”

The sun is reaching for the horizon now and it’ll set soon enough. Dean could just break in under the cover of darkness. Or he could not go at all, and figure out how to track down an angel instead. He supposes summoning one is out, now that they’re all grounded. Actually, they probably ought to try that.

“Nate?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” Dean still has no idea how he is going to go about getting to an angel. He might as well tag along while he thinks.

“Want to grab a bite to eat?”

Dean’s not that far gone in his head. “Nah,” and after a second’s hesitation, “I already ate.”

That is a plain lie, of course, but he is not hungry, and eating with someone seems to imply all sorts of things. He’s not interested in going there. A coffee, or better yet, a beer, that he can do.

“Wanna grab a beer, then?” Kibwe asks, and Dean only just refrains from narrowing his eyes at him.

“Sure.”

Kibwe turns and starts walking. “Keep up,” he throws over his shoulder. Dean takes an instant to look closer at the guy – and he’s just that, a guy. Reassured, Dean blinks, and follows good-naturedly.

Dean’s evening doesn’t go as he had planned.

Kibwe calls his friend on the way to the bar. The friend, Dean thinks his name is Mal?, agrees to give them a private tour, which, in spite of being what he hoped for, rubs Dean the wrong way. Nothing is ever that easy. Not in the life of a Winchester.

And the first complication comes along fast enough. They won’t go tonight, absolutely no can do. They’ll have to wait till next day, and daylight. (The paintings present themselves much better in sunlight!) Also, both this Mal-guy and Kibwe are coming, and okay, maybe Dean should have foreseen that, but still. Broad daylight and an audience do not exactly make for optimum conditions for him to hunt in.

Even though they have settled the outing, Kibwe still insist on grabbing that beer. Dean mostly wants to just disappear; he has better things to spend his time on than getting drunk with a stranger. And yet he still finds himself in the bar. Because drinking is an old friend, and a knee-jerk way for him to deal with inner tumult.

He barely even recognises, or acknowledges, this inner tumult until a few beers in, though. The conversation with Kibwe is pleasant enough, albeit shallow and, for Dean at least, rather pointless. It has gotten dark outside, and if not for his sharp sight, Dean thinks he would have trouble seeing in the dingy bar.

Someone else does.

A guy stumbles his way towards where Dean is sitting, until he finally fully trips when he is right next to the hunter. He drops the two full glasses he is carrying and upends Dean’s bottle at the same time. There is beer flying everywhere.

Dean jumps up with a growl that is more feral than it should be. Around him, several people are staring at him and (possibly more so, he realises vaguely) the guy sprawled on the floor. The presence of so many people rolls against Dean, life and lust and despair churning through the crowds’ collective veins, and he can feel the waves break over him. He doesn’t just want to dam all those emotions up, he wants to drain the sea dry.

In front of him, the guy on the floor moans and whimpers in a pool of beer.

Before Dean can step closer to the pathetic creature, there is a hand on his arm. He jerks away, only vaguely realising that very few people would react that strongly to a touch on the biceps.

“Come on,” Kibwe says, his hand closing around Dean’s forearm this time. His hold is strong as he drags Dean towards the door, and though Dean could easily dislodge him, he has calmed down enough to realise that he shouldn’t let his murderous anger loose in the close quarters of the bar.

In the dimly lit room, he doesn’t think anyone noticed how dark his eyes grew.

Kibwe takes him home. It takes Dean too long to get himself under control, to calm down sufficiently, to protest. The guy has a small flat, which Dean doesn’t need any kind of expertise to determine was attacked by the monster that is a young, disorderly guy living alone. It’s okay. Dean doesn’t mind the mess. It sort of matches the state of his thoughts right now.

“Are you okay?” his new friend asks him, and Dean takes stock. He is fine.

Except, “Yuck, I’m soaked.” Dean likes to drink beer. Involuntarily showering in it, not so much. Kibwe starts to smile and Dean points an accusing finger at him, “Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll find you some sweatpants or something. The shower’s that way,” he’s clearly trying to suppress a grin, and Dean groans in response.

As Kibwe disappears into his room, Dean wonders at his mood swings. He has no problems controlling himself when he is with Sam, maybe partly because he knows Sam can, at the very least, go a good ways towards kicking his ass, as it is. But he hasn’t got any trouble with Castiel either (who, with the state he is in, isn’t going to be kickin’ any arses for the time being). Granted, Dean hasn’t actually seen much of the angel since he came back with them, but even so.

Yet now, out on his own, he has an itch he is dying to scratch. It sits on his forearm, and in the back of his mind. He might just have to take care of that ghost before he does anything else, or risk ruining his chances completely if he does manage to track down an angel.

He is nowhere close to losing control completely, but the fact remains. He needs to kill.

Kibwe returns with the promised pants and a loose t-shirt on top of a towel. If Dean smelled any less of beer, he’d probably protest against using a stranger’s shower and wearing his clothes. Come to think of it, he probably has spares in the Impala. On the other hand, Dean doesn’t exactly feel that he need be wary of a human.

“Thanks, man.” He heads for the shower.

Dean exits the bathroom dressed in Kibwe’s clothes, all of his own rolled into a tight bundle in his hands. The sweatpants are loose and Dean doesn’t know how he feels about getting slightly more air to the nether regions than he is used to. He doesn’t actually dislike the feeling. And if his host notices or has any objections, well he could’ve provided.

Dean finds the living room empty, but he follows a low noise to the kitchen. If he didn’t know better, he would say it almost sounded like chanting. He shakes his head with a huff. Kibwe turns to face him, leaning against the counter.

“You got a bag I can stuff these in?” Dean gestures with the clothes in his hand.

“Probably have a grocery bag, but... Your clothes won’t dry like that, and it certainly won’t do anything for the smell!”

“It’s okay, man. I’ve got spare in my trunk, anyway.”

“Oh.” This seems to throw Kibwe for a moment, and Dean figures that is fair enough. He probably ought to be on his way to get some of his own clothes by now.

“I made us tea. Figured you might be a bit reluctant to drink beer right now.”

Dean would so have preferred the beer. “Sounds good.”

“Come,” Kibwe leads the way back into the living room, carrying both mugs with him. They settle in either end of the (very comfortable, Dean notices with glee) couch.

“What is it?”

“Just black tea with a little mint,” he hands him one of the mugs.

Dean takes a sip. “Hm,” he peers at the liquid, as though he might be able to see the ingredients (he probably couldn’t, even if he did look properly,) “Is there chamomile in it, too?”

“Not chamomile, damiana. It’s the spicy taste. It’s... a blend.”

Dean ponders a little longer, “What else?”

“Rosemary, nutmeg—”

“Thyme,” Dean supplies, and Kibwe raises an impressed eyebrow.

“Yes. There’s rose petals in it too. Bet you hadn’t guessed that!”

Dean certainly hadn’t Who puts roses in tea? Apparently the same guy who uses all of the above and... Dean takes another sip. He’s quite sure there’s lemon zest in it, too.

They continue drinking their tea in a silence that Dean decides he doesn’t care enough, for to become awkward. Kibwe turns on the television. They settle on a sci-fi flick that is halfway through, and despite himself, Dean manages to get caught up in the plot.

He can feel Kibwe watching him a little too often, and long. Or maybe it isn’t that long – Dean doesn’t actually remember what the norm is; he is too used to Cas’ stares. This Kibwe-guy ain’t got nothing on Dean’s angel.

Dean falls asleep on the couch.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up bloody early, and half considers just closing his eyes again. But he doesn’t. Sleep’s a pleasant enough pastime, but he doesn’t really need it.

He’s on a couch belonging to a guy he hasn’t even known for a full 24 hours, and he doesn’t quite know how he feels about that. Although there is very little in this world that he actually need fear any more, he figures he might be acting a little too carelessly to come across as just another average Joe. His host probably wonders. (Dean seems to recall that the guy was looking rather intently at him last night... Huh.)

But more than his carelessness, it is his indecision which is eating at him. What is he doing here? He still doesn’t know. He should go; go hunt a prey that’ll give him a worthwhile trophy, no matter how Cas would react to that. And yet he doesn’t want to risk pushing their already strained relationship further. It’s ridiculous, too. If they were to add it up, they’ve probably spent more time at each other’s throats, than actually being mutually content. All the more reason for Dean to want to kiss and make up, though. Right.

Dean gets up.

The living room is still dark, and he can hear the steady breaths of a sleeping human from down the hall. Disappearing now would almost be too easy, and yet Dean hesitates. Kibwe managed to get him access to the gallery – with the guide even, who may or may not be the guy Dean spotted in the back of the news clip and whom he was almost sure had seen something inexplicable. Furthermore, Kibwe had seemed kind of excited to go see Horne House – probably more than could be explained away with the low-level (but persistent) flirting. Chances are he and his friend might just go, regardless of whether Dean hangs around. Whatever else, it is probably a poor way to pay him back for his hospitality, to let them wander into a ghost house unattended.

A couple of hours later, Dean is cooking breakfast (never mind the implications of that; there was good stuff in the fridge!). He has been awake for too long, and his mind is not very good company. With a little luck, the smell of bacon will wake the guy whose kitchen he has currently commandeered.

Dean’s made up his mind for now. The deal was to meet Kibwe’s friend (Mal, was it? Cal?) at 10. Which means that Dean’ll have wasted a good five hours since he woke up, but since the majority of that time has already passed... well, whatever. With a little luck Dean will be able to gank a ghost in a couple of hours, and he is really, really looking forwards to the rush.

Kibwe appears in the door-opening cutting off Dean’s thoughts. For a long moment the guy just stares, his eyes growing larger. Dean suppresses an eye roll. This guy had better not turn this into some awkward morning after-thing. Since it isn’t after anything, Dean doesn’t think the drama is warranted.

Luckily, Dean realises, Kibwe is a guy after his own head. He just grins, before getting out plates and an extra load of bacon. Dean doesn’t say anything either, just turns back to the stove. The instant before he does, he sees Kibwe’s smile falter ever so slightly, probably at the perceived rejection. Ironically, the way his bright teeth disappears behind the dark lips does more for Dean than the grin itself.

Dean retrieves and changes in to his own clothes before they meet up with Kibwe’s friend. He’s glad to be back in his own jeans and practical flannel.

The guy who meets them at the end of Horne House’s ridiculously long driveway is average; in height, build, even the dirty blonde colour of his hair. He also definitely is the guide from that clip. Dean grins at him.

“Mal, right?”

“It’s Malcolm.” Dean’s quite sure Kibwe called the guy Mal, but perhaps this guy just doesn’t want strangers to call him by his nickname. Dean can’t say that he gets it (Cas doesn’t seem to mind, as far as he can tell), but whatever.

“So, thanks for doing this, Mal,” Kibwe says, confirming the nickname.

Dean doesn’t miss the look Malcolm throws him, before replying, “Of course. I told you, you’d love it. I wish you’d come sooner, Key. I asked you.”

“I know. I was just busy,” Malcolm snorts, “I was! Photography takes time!”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t. But you could’ve come.” There’s a slight petulant undertone to Malcolm’s reply.

They’re only halfway up the driveway and Dean sort of wants to choke them both.

“Yeah, I know. I just wasn’t sure it really was my thing, you know?”

“But you like art. And there’re some really good landscapes in there.”

“I like it, I’m not the one getting nerd-gasms over it,” Kibwe teases and then continues, addressing Dean, “Mal’s majoring in Arts. Last year.”

Dean grunts a non-committal answer, just as Malcolm lets them in.

Once inside, they makes their way through the two-storey mansion. It is... empty. Just empty.

There’s almost no furniture left. It takes Dean a while to realise that the few chairs and the odd chest which is still standing in the various rooms have been decorated as well. He figures that is why they have been left where they are.

The only other thing standing around are bright, haphazard cones reading ‘Beware, slippery when wet’, spaced around in seemingly random places (most of which aren’t actually wet any more, though the new stains seem kind of permanent).

The walls are covered in paintings, which really shouldn’t surprise him, given the fact that that is the whole point of the new gallery. But they are covered-covered; no patch of white that is not actually a cloud in a sky or the frills of a summer dress is left. Most of the motifs are landscapes, but there are shapes and creatures (he thinks?) here and there, which makes Dean wonder what exactly the Hornes who drew them were smoking.

They make their way through what was obviously once servants’ quarters (now painted too), rooms which might have belonged to house slaves or might, you know, be broom closets (which might at least explain the monster, which looks disturbingly like a shtriga, in one), and even gets up to the attic.

And Dean doesn’t find anything.

No EMF, no cold spots, no homicidal ghosts trying to throw him around or loosen chandeliers (no chandeliers, either, for that matter) over his head.

Through the day Malcolm speaks with Kibwe and Kibwe speaks to Dean, and Dean gets more and more antsy about wasting his time (while simultaneously trying to tune them both out).

“You should come see the orchards as well.” For once Malcolm includes them both in his comment. Kibwe looks approving. Dean would rather be done with it.

The orchards are nice. Nothing special, though the furthest part of them seem untended and therefore sufficiently creepy that they might just have been interesting to Dean under different circumstances. There are also no killer-scarecrows, so on the whole Dean is kind of disappointed.

The sun is shining, birds are chirping and in the background he can hear the gentle song of a stream. Dean pauses. Well, the ghost has water readily available, he supposes.

Kibwe suggests a late lunch which Malcolm agrees to enthusiastically, and Dean manages to worm his way out off, only by promising to return for dinner with Kibwe the same evening. He gets the feeling that Malcolm is not included in that invitation.

Dean does not spend his day looking for clues on who the ghost might be or where they might be buried. Instead he fights an epic battle in his head, still not sure whether he should abandon this silly hunt or not. He kinda wants to go back to the house tonight, just to see if he can’t find anything then. He was really looking forward to getting his game on with this ghost.

On the other hand, that’ll be the second out of four days wasted. And even if Cas promised him that they still have a couple of weeks, even if Sam is working on another possible solution... Who knows how long it will take them to get to an angel when the time comes? They’re all stranded now, and there’s no telling where.

It all results in Dean finding an empty lot on the outskirts of town, where he sits and goes back and forth over the arguments in his mind. He argues with himself that he is not wasting time; this is an approach he has to experiment with a some point anyway.

He sits, out in the open, completely unshielded till long after any reasonable time to eat dinner.

None of the dicks with wings (or without, now, he figures) show up to kill him. It’s turning out to be an awfully disappointing day.

How Dean manages to have something resembling a domestic argument with a guy he met only yesterday, he has no idea. It’s so absurd that he is almost tempted to shut the Kibwe up permanently. Dean could use the stress-relief after another day wasted. He catches himself. At least now he might as well go hunt a ghost. It’s half past ten already, and dark out.

“I should go,” Dean cuts Kibwe off in the middle of a tirade about how he was waiting for Dean.

“Go?”

“Yeah. I mean I’m sorry ‘bout dinner and everything, but. Well. Too late to do anything about that now.”

“I’m not mad at you or anything,” Kibwe tries to backtrack, and Dean really has to fight to suppress his eye roll. He doesn’t think he knows this guy well enough to actually warrant the idiot being mad at him in the first place.

“Whatever.”

“Stay. I mean, there’s no point in you going to rent a hotel room. It’s a waste of money.”

“Dude, I can’t just keep crashing on your couch. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep and... I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

Kibwe looks at him for a long while, and Dean hopes he’ll accept that. He’s seconds away from just pushing past the guy and getting out of there. He doesn’t really have any intention of returning either. Hopefully he’ll kill a ghost tonight and then use the last two days to hunt for an angel.

All of Heaven’s angels are walking the Earth. Seriously, how hard can they be to find?

“You’re cursed,” a gleeful female voice tells him from behind. Dean spins on the spot and comes face to face with a dark adolescent girl who isn’t all there. She’s dressed in a simple gown, and he can just make out the shadows of a few finger-shaped bruises where her neck meets her shoulder, as though somebody grabbed her from behind.

He has been in the house for about over an hour, and he hasn’t sensed anything up until now. Come to think of it, he still doesn’t sense any malevolent spirits, actually.

“It’s a love potion.” The look on her face, more than what she is saying, makes Dean realise that maybe it is not only physically that she isn’t all there. He doesn’t raise his shotgun.

“‘Scuse me?”

“Somebody put you under a love spell,” she giggles, “Yaa can see it, you know. Was it an amandia-potion? I bet it was an amandia-potion! Who gave it to you? Oh, let me guess, let me guess!” She bounces on the balls of her feet, “Tall, dark and handsome, right?”

“Eh, what?” Dean’s dealt with a lot of ghosts in his time. This, though, he is not sure what to do with.

“Oh, maybe you didn’t know!” This seems to excite her even more. “How romantic!”

“Didn’t know what?”

She calms down in a split second. “You have been subjected to voodoo,” she tells him with an almost childish seriousness.

“Voodoo?” It’s not that he doesn’t believe in voodoo, hell he doesn’t have to, he knows it is legit, but he thinks he would have noticed if somebody had tried to hex him. (And, you know, ganked the bitch.) And a love potion? Come on!

“Mmhm. Yaa can see magic. Before I could only sort of... taste it? But they all said Yaa was imagining things. Superstitious Yaa, simple Yaa. Yaa should shut up and do as the Master says. Shut up and go to the Master.” He expression visibly darkens and suddenly Dean can sense the ghost in front of him, too. His flash light sputters feebly in his hand. He turns it off. He doesn’t know why he got it out in the first place anyway. Old habits.

“So you can taste voodoo.” The ghost is bat-shit crazy. Go figure.

“Yes!” she brightens again immediately, then looks at him suspiciously. She’s changing moods so quickly that Dean almost gets whiplash trying to keep up. “You don’t believe Yaa!” she accuses.

“No, no, it’s not...” Why is he trying to placate the ghost again?

“I know, I’ll prove it to you! Come.”

Dean follows.

The girl stops in an empty room, staring intently at the closest wall. Dean watches her for a while.

“Uhm, hello?” he tries when nothing happens. “Miss?” Dean takes a step closer, “Yaa?”

She whips to him, “Oh, you know me! I love it when people know Yaa. Yaa’s not very good at remembering people, but Yaa likes it when people remembers Yaa.”

“Right.”

“Do you want to see what I found you?” She’s gone back to staring at the wall.

“Sure?” Dean’s given up on figuring out what is going on; he just sort of goes with it.

“You need to press that panel.” He obediently puts the shotgun down to follow her instruction.

A section of the wall swings back, it’s seams previously perfectly camouflaged by the lines of the painting adorning the wall. Inside is a shallow nook, with a couple of feathers, some animal bones (cat and rabbit Dean identifies reflexively), an old wooden bowl and a little cotton pouch with what could be lettering on it. He picks it up.

“That’s it!” the ghost sing-songs, “It’s magic! You can have it.”

As Dean looks up at her, she is grinning widely, an open expression on her almost non-transparent face. She might have warned him that the bloody thing was a charm before he touched it, Dean wants to tell her, but he’s not sure she would actually understand.

“Thanks.” He stuffs the cotton bag in his pocket.

“Grigery.”

“Who’s Gregory?”

“I don’t know? Who is Gregory?”

“You said Gregory.”

The poor girl looks confused for a second, then understanding blooms on her face, “Grigery,” she all but squeals.

Dean tries to repress his wince, “What’s that mean?”

“It’s a grigery talisman.”

“Ah. And what, exactly, is that?”

A loud noise and someone cursing from the next room interrupts Yaa before she can explain, and in a blink of an eye she is gone. Dean keeps his own curse internal.

Sneaking towards the disturbance completely soundlessly, Dean takes that decision up for reconsideration.

“What the hell,” he hisses, startling the intruder.

It’s Malcolm.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

The guy has dropped his flash light on the floor, but it still provides enough light that they can see each other. The beam is pointing at a painting of the small stream that runs through the apple orchard. Malcolm looks scared half to death, and Dean’s suddenly happy that his shotgun is still on the floor of the room behind him.

“I, I, I...” the guy, the boy stutters incoherently. Dean sighs heavily and rolls his eyes.

“You’re the last person I’d expect to see here a quarter past midnight.” Did the guy actually follow him here? Probably.

“I... what? Why?”

“Saw a clip about this House on the news. You were in it. I’m guessing you’ve seen the ghost.”

Malcolm stares at him, wide-eyed. “Ghosts.”

“Yes, ghost. Ghosts are real and there’s a ghost haunting this house.”

“No, ghosts. Plural. There’re two of them.”

Well, that’s news to Dean.

“Really?” Dean steps fully in to the room, “What makes you think that?”

“They’re both behind you,” Malcolm whimpers and the next second Dean is slammed into him, and they both collide with the wall still illuminated by the flash light, spluttering.

So much for none of the walls being ruined by the water damage yet. This one is certainly drenched now. As is Dean and poor guy curled up at his feet.

As Dean turns, his eyes have already flashed. He can see both ghosts quite clearly now. Yaa is not actually in the room, rather she is peaking out from behind the door-jamb to the room where Dean left his salt-loaded shotgun. She looks a little insecure, as though unsure whether they’re just playing a game, or if something is actually wrong. In the middle of the room, only a few feet from where Dean stood before, another young woman has materialised. Her skin has the same dark-but-ghastly tint as Yaa’s. Their clothes are the same as well, Dean realises. Servants’ dresses. Old servants’ dresses.

“Who are you?” Dean asks, dark eyes locked on the newcomer.

It’s Yaa who answers, “I’m Yaa and this is Musi. Her name is really Lumusi, but Yaa calls her Musi!”

“Yaa, be silent,” Lumusi hisses.

“And what are you doing here?” Dean figures he might as well get as much information out of them as possible. Anything to make it easier to find their bones.

“Yaa and Musi works,” the younger girl tells him happily, drifting through the wall into the room. Judging by the groan from the floor, that’s a little disturbing to watch for someone who’s not used to that kind of thing. Dean’s mostly fascinated by how her energy warps and filters through the old house.

“Yaa!” Lumusi protests again.

“You don’t work here?” Dean asks her, drawing her attention back to him. For an odd moment he is almost worried about Yaa getting herself into trouble.

“Oh, we worked alright. That’s what slaves do, after all,” she scoffs. “They say house slaves have it better, you know? But I’d rather have been a man in the field than a woman in this house!”

Dean decides not to think about those implications. Still doesn’t explain all the water, though.”

“Did you drown or something?”

For a moment, Lumusi looks stunned. “No,” comes the answer, once again from Yaa. “Musi didn’t drown. Yaa did!”

“Please,” the other ghost begs turning to the dim-witted girl.

“The Master drowned Yaa, because he thought Yaa did voodoo.”

“Yaa, stop!”

“But Yaa didn’t. Lumusi did!”

Lumusi screeches out a high pitched sounds. A glass in the window cracks. The flash light’s bulb pops. There’s suddenly an inch of water on the floor. Yaa disappears.

“You,” the remaining ghost hisses at Dean and rushes at him. Dean welcomes her.

Despite her ghostly speed, Dean has no problem tracking her. She is radiating a desire to kill, and Dean can totally get on board with that. He mirrors it. Yaa didn’t leave voluntarily; this bitch banished her.

The ghosts surges through Dean, and he is quite sure that her cold would have stopped an average human’s heart. But Dean burns, hot as Hell (more or less literally), and the ghost is the one to suffer from the impact.

She’s too big on the whole water-thing, Dean muses. She evaporates.

He gets Malcolm of off the floor and takes him along outside. The night air is slightly chilly and they are both soaked. The cold doesn’t bother Dean, but the boy is shaking.

“You should really have stayed out of this,” Dean tells him. “Let the professionals handle it.”

“That was handling it?” Malcolm sneers back, apparently pretending he is fine. Dean sort of respects him a little for that.

“No, that was just the warm up.” (Yes, Dean thinks he is clever.) “Dealing with it starts now.”

Lumusi made a much bigger mistake by attacking him, than either of them could have guessed, he realises. Once the bitch touched him, he locked on to her. And he can sense her now.

Her presence seems to burn in two different places. From the house comes a roiling feeling of offended anger. From the orchards comes a spark seeped in something else. Something that Dean knows well.

The ghost’s earthly remains reek violent death.

“Come along,”

Dean takes Malcolm along to the Impala to get a couple of shovels. He can tell that they’ll need them. The boy looks almost happy at the sight of the car, but his expression quickly sours when Dean doesn’t let him in, but only opens the trunk.

He hands Malcolm the shovels. “Hold those.” Dean carries salt and gasoline himself. “Tag along, now,” he says mockingly and Malcolm, probably at a loss, complies.

Dean knows he shouldn’t take the civilian with him, but honestly, he is having a little too much fun to care. If they are real lucky, Lumusi will show back up when they find her bones.

Dean makes his way through the orchards to the overgrown row of apple trees in the back. With Malcolm following at his heels Dean allows himself to focus his sight. The effect corresponds to his having suddenly gotten X-ray vision and the bones being luminous besides.

“Here,” he points out the spot where they’ll need to dig and grabs a shovel from Malcolm.

“What?”

“Dig.”

“Why?”

“So we can burn this bitch’s bones.”

Malcolm looks as though he is going to be sick. Dean sighs and pauses, but the boy surprises him again, “And how do you know they’re buried here?” The tone is condescending, but Dean can’t help smiling.

He answers in kind, though, “Professional, remember?”

Dean digs most of the grave out himself. Malcolm helps and hesitates alternately, and actually annoys Dean more than anything. But the boy keeps warm and within Dean’s field of vision, and he’s pretty sure this ghost ain’t gonna leave any casualties before he’s torched her, so he’ll count that as a win.

The grave is shallow, but the bones are tangled in the roots of at least four different trees. They seem to be displaced, too, and Dean is not even sure he can identify all the small bones. He drags the skull away from a particularly thick root, cracking both the bone and the tendril in the process. Malcolm seems to reach breaking point at that exact moment, and takes of running.

Dean looks after him, shaking his head slowly. Then he salts and lights up the bones where they are. Well, this hunt will cost the orchard a few casualties then.

(The flames warm him to his core.)

Dean retrieves the shotgun before he leaves. Paying attention this time, he notices when Yaa joins him, even though there is very little spite in her being.

“Are you leaving now?”

“Yeah. Tell me, Yaa, was any of this your doing?” Dean gestures at a now-dry blotch in the middle of the room they’re in.

“No, Musi did it. But Yaa could have.”

“Are you going to? When people come to see the paintings?”

“No. Yaa likes the pretty pictures. Yaa won’t play with water indoors.”

“And will you be okay without Lumusi protecting you?”

“Musi protected something. Musi never protected Yaa.”

“What did she protect, then?” Yaa shakes her head, and Dean pushes, “Are you going to protect what Lumusi protected?”

“There’s nothing left here for me to protect now.” She disappears.

Sitting in the Impala, watching the raising sun, Dean wonders if he should have located Yaa’s remains and burned them, too. But taking care of Lumusi was enough for him; he feels as calm now as he did when he and Sam dealt with that goddess. When he took her down.

Yaa hasn’t hurt anyone, and she doesn’t mean to. Yes, all ghosts seems to turn vengeful eventually, but for now, he’ll leave her be. Dean kind of likes her. Besides, his earlier argument still stands. Once she starts dropping bodies, some hunter will notice. Till then, well, it’s not really Dean’s problem, is it?

Chapter Text

Dean dozes a bit in the front seat of the car, though he doesn’t mean to. It was a long night, and though the ghost had very little success with her attempt at killing him, Dean wonders if it actually tired him some.

By the time he comes to it is almost nine, and he has probably slept a good two hours.

There’s no indecision left in his mind now. The ghost is gone, and Sam still hasn’t called to say that he’s found anything.

The angel hunt is on. Dean turns the Impala’s key, ready to be on his way.

But it takes him less than a minute to realise that he still hasn’t gotten any idea on where or how to find an angel. With Sam preoccupied, Dean supposes that means research-duty for him.

The local library is nothing fancy, but he decides to try it anyway. Perhaps there is something (anything) on angels walking the Earth, some myths, legends, whatever. If nothing else, Dean can use one of the, probably old and slow, computers. The internet might have something worthwhile.

Whether or not there is anything to be found on the internet, Dean is left to guess. The computers with unlimited use doesn’t actually connect to the world wide web, but only to the library’s own database and, more interestingly, the old newspaper archive.

Gravette appears to be a city proud of its history (Dean doesn't think that is warranted). Newspaper articles over a century old has been digitalised and stored in the database. Dean clicks the first for fun, but when he comes across the notice about a simple slave girl found drowned on Horne’s grounds, he can’t help reading it through. There is almost nothing there. The girl, “with the mind of a child” is presumed to have wandered off in a fancy and fallen in the shallow stream. There was no signs of its being anything but an accident (Dean represses a snarl). The girl was 14.

After this find, Dean cannot help trying to dig up something else on Horne House. Half a year after the notice about Yaa’s death, is another notice, a warning this time, to be on the watch-out for a burglar. Reported stolen is some silver cutlery, a vase, and one female slave, carrying a child.

Dean finds the slave’s name. It is given as Louise, also known as Lumusi.

He stares at the screen, not seeing it. Stolen. A human being. That is bad enough in itself, and then it’s not even true. She was murdered. Her bones made that glaringly obvious to his keener senses. Dean wonders, and then remembers both ghosts’ words about the Master of the house.

He closes his eyes and pictures the old bones against the dark earth. No wonder he couldn’t identify all the small parts of the adult’s skeleton. They’d been bones belonging to a second skeleton in the same grave.

Almost in a trance, Dean continues through the old clippings. Something tells him, that there is more to be found, and he learnt to trust his hunches long before they became an actual thing.

Horne House is mention again exactly one month after the supposed break in. This time it is an article in remembrance of the revered Mr. Horne. The Master of Horne House dies of food poisoning the night of the 2nd of September. Foul play is out-ruled; Mr. Horne’s widow assures that they dined of the same dishes, and that the slaves had no access to any of the food after it was served. Mr. Horne’s son and heir comes of age in spring and will take over the running of the plantation. The widow consoles herself with prayers to the lord and her painting.

It’s past midday when Dean leaves the library. His head is buzzing with the old articles. He really shouldn’t care, but he almost feels sorry for Lumusi the ghost. He kind of wishes that it had been the old man, haunting the place; that it could have been him Dean got to torch. Even if the monster (and human monsters are always worse in Dean’s opinion) had gotten what he deserved, Dean doesn’t think an accidental poisoning was enough.

Dean pauses. Actually, dying is only the first step. If Dean’s assumptions are right, then he knows full well where this guy was going and then, he supposes, Mr. Horne might just be getting all that he deserves after all.

Dean’s phone pulls him out of his contemplation. The caller ID tells him it’s Sam, and just like that, he has forgotten anything about ghosts, slaves and human monsters.

“Sam?” he actually sounds a little breathless to himself.

“Hi Dean, how’s it going on your end?”

His brother shouldn’t even be asking. If he has something to say, it takes precedence over any- and everything Dean is doing in Gravette. “Fine. Ghost’s gone.”

“Good, that’s good,” Sam pauses.

“Sam,” Dean snarls at him, just as he reaches the Impala. Then he stops. Kibwe is walking down the road, and he has obviously seen him.

“Look, I’ve got something, alright? But I’m not entirely sure... I’ll have to go through some of the index. Shouldn’t take too long. But perhaps, if you’re done, you could start heading back?”

“I’m on my way.”

Dean turns away from Kibwe and climbs into the Impala. He revs the engine, and pulls out, just as the dark man reaches the door.

Dean’s wasted enough time. It’s time to help Cas.

Chapter Text

100 Years Ago:

Lumusi gave the grigery talisman to Yaa as a good luck charm, because Yaa believed in that kind of stuff. So did Mr. Horne, however, and suspecting the girl of being evil rather than simple drowned her in the stream one evening.

Lumusi was pushed down the stairs by a hired brute under orders from her Master. The object was to provoke a miscarriage, but she broke her neck and died before she hit the bottom, taking her unborn child with her. She was buried in the orchard, and the break in staged to hide her murder. The child’s father was Mr. Horne. It was not the first child he had fathered on one of his female slaves.

The poison was not actually in Mr. Horne’s food, but in his cognac. None of the slaves did have access to that. His wife did.

Other notes:

Kibwe’s mom was big on honouring your roots. She saw voodoo as part of their cultural heritage.

“Aphrodesia passion tea” apparently doesn’t work too well on demons.

Yaa means Thursday’s child in Akan.