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As the last rumbles from the song Kashmir passed, John Winchester turned off the engine.
“We’re here. I’ll get us a room,” he said over his shoulder to his sons Sam and Dean, who had fallen asleep, before exiting the car.
Dean jumped in his seat at his voice, startling himself awake, and knocking the consciousness back into Sam, too.
“Let me sleep.”
“Sammy, come on. You can sleep in the motel.”
“Dean,” he whined, but let himself be manhandled by his older brother, newly twelve years of age, out of the car and into the room their dad had just rented for the foreseeable future.
“Can we get muffins tomorrow, Dad?” Sam mumbled with his face smashed on his pillow, eyes fluttering close.
“Dean’ll have to take you,” John replied. “I have to get an early start on work.”
“You always say that.”
“He doesn't mean it,” Sam distantly heard Dean say just before drifting away. Unlike him, Dean took some time before settling down, helping his dad with the bags. He was the last to close his eyes.
In the morning, he woke up as his dad made to move from his bed.
“You're leaving already?” he asked, taking a moment to look at the semi-covered window. “The sun's not out yet.”
“You know I gotta go, Dean. Kids are disappearing out there and I need to figure out what's doing it.”
“I can help!” he whispered, minding his sleeping brother on his left.
“You help by taking care of your brother. Money's on the table” he said, and closed the door on his way out.
Dean blew out the air with his mouth, covered his eyes with his forearm, and decided to sleep until the actual morning came.
Something tried to shake Sam awake. Sam valiantly tried to ignore it.
“Hey, Sammy, we have to get breakfast.”
He groaned. “Can’t we eat later?”
Dean huffed. “We can get you your muffin.”
“I’m up!”
“Brush your teeth and meet me outside with your bag. Remember to pack the markers.”
Sam leapt from bed to change from his pyjamas and did just that. Dean locked the door after him and pocketed the keys.
Sam peered over the railing. “I can't see the Impala. Dad's not here?”
“He had to leave.”
“He didn't even say goodbye!”
“Sure did. You just went right back to sleep, you lazy ass.” Sam humphed. “Come, the dinner's right this way; saw it on a pamphlet.”
“Why are we even in Swampville, Nowhere; population: 130?”
“Because Dad has work here. You know this. Anyway, be glad the dinner's near, or you would have had to walk across the bog on an empty stomach. Bleh.”
The bell on the door rang and they helped themselves to a booth. A waitress, overworked and sleep-deprived, approached to greet them. The pink nametag on her chest caught their eyes quickly, telling them her name was Olivia.
“Hi!” Olivia said, then did a double take. “Are you kids alone?”
“We can pay,” Dean protested.
Olivia pushed a stray strand of her blond hair behind her ear. “That’s so not what I asked, but I won’t turn you away. Your parents aren’t gonna magically appear, so you’ll probably just go back to the streets, and there’s enough dead kids as it is.”
“Good,” Dean said tersely.
“I want a muffin!” Sam pipped in.
A smile appeared on Olivia’s face. “Sure, sweetheart. We got blueberry, banana, chocolate, and peanut butter.”
“A banana one, please. A milkshake, too. Strawberry.”
“Sure thing. You?”
“Just some toast with eggs, and tap water. Thanks.”
She left after a couple of more pleasantries and Sam got out his colouring book and markers from his ratty Shazam bag.
“I’m finishing Spider-Man, see?”
He pushed his book towards him and tapped on an almost completely coloured picture of the hero in one of his signature poses. Everything he had coloured, he had done inside the lines, but there was still something off about it. Case in point, Dean’s certain Spider-Man’s costume wasn’t supposed to be brown with orange accents.
“I’m pretty sure he’s red and blue, Sammy.”
Sam rolled his eyes and gave him a face. “I know that, Dean, but I lost the blue one at the last motel in Ohio and the red one hasn’t got any ink left. After I finish him, I’ll try the maths book next. The decimals are really hard.”
Mathematical decimal problems weren’t, of course, meant to be solved by seven-year-olds, but no one was about to tell Sam that. The kid was a genius, and had gotten through the maths worksheet for kids his age almost a couple of years ago. He would figure out decimals eventually.
“I could help you.”
“I know, but I want to do it alone.”
As Sam focused on his books, Dean tried to recall what he had overheard from his dad about the case. Three kids, ages eight, eight, and six, had gone missing during the past week. Witnesses said they saw them walking outside alone. There was something about a fire from one of the kids, but Dean couldn’t remember who had caused it, or how long ago that was. He couldn't remember why that was relevant, either.
It wasn’t much to go on, but Dean was fairly confident he could rule out changelings, ghosts, ghouls, and werewolves. It wasn’t the type of place for a wendigo either, but that left about everything else. Gods, rawheads, witches, vetalas—and who knew what else.
Soon, Olivia the waitress came back with their food, and Dean reluctantly paused his mental recollection.
“There are two muffins. We only asked for one,” Dean pointed out.
She winked at him and held a finger between her lips. “It’s on the house. It’s chocolate, also. I always say you can never go wrong with chocolate. Stay as long as you like, I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
Dean felt something uncomfortably stuck in his throat and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall down. “Thank you.”
They spent the next couple of hours nursing their food, though Dean made quick work of his toast and eggs. As promised, no one bothered them during their stay, but as noon approached, he started to feel they had overstayed their welcome.
He called for the bill and asked for directions to the closest library. It was a bit of a walk, especially for Sam, and Dean remained on high alert for potential threats, but they made it there unscathed. Finally, he felt he could breathe.
While Sam went to explore the kids’ section, Dean made a beeline to the mythology one. It was thankfully deserted, but the presence of other people would not have stopped Dean. He started with everything local and worked his way into more generalised monsters. The reading material was a bit above Dean’s level, but he managed to find his footing somewhere along the line. Newspapers turned out useless, and there was no local folklore involving abducted children, but he reasonably concluded this probably wasn’t the work of a vetala—another creature off his list, then.
Lunchtime came and with it came a moody Sam. He was a bit sceptical of his supposed research project, but shut up quickly at the mention of food. He made Sam stay put as he ran across the street to the only McDonald's he had seen until now and bought a big combo with extra fries They split the soda and fries on a bench just outside the library, but otherwise, each ate their own piece and left enough for a moderate-sized dinner. As long as the leftovers stayed inside the bag, the librarian told them they were welcome to stay, and they did so.
The rest of the day wasn’t as productive for Dean, who found no new lead, though it seemed Sam had a blast. He had befriended the son of the librarian and they had spent the entire afternoon and early evening talking about dinosaurs in space.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Sam said. “Aiden said his school was nice, and he wanders a lot, so he told me of all these bitchin’ places! If Dad can keep this job longer — maybe it would be nice, here.”
Dean, who could not tell his brother that he hoped to whoever was listening that Dad could finish this job tonight without explaining himself, made a face and deflected. “Swampville, Sammy? Not really my thing.”
They reached the motel a little after sundown with no problem. Reluctantly, Dean paused his investigation to watch cartoons with his little brother, who had complained about never spending any time with him, though they both knew it was a blatant lie.
By the time the Scooby-gang apprehended the fake monster for the fourth time, they grew hungry. Dad still hadn't come back, but Dean wasn't too worried. Dad was the best hunter in the world, and whatever he was hunting, Dad would find a way to outsmart it. As for the money, they had plenty for tomorrow, so there was no need to worry for a while, even though he would continue to play it safe. Tonight's dinner was already covered, besides, so they dug in while a rerun of Thundercats played on the TV box.
“It’s getting late,” Sam informed him as Mumm-Ra talked with the Ancient Spirits of Evil. “When’s Dad coming back?”
Dean had, however, no idea. Dad could be just around the corner, looking for his set of keys; he could be breaking into the Police Station's records, evading guards and connecting dots; he could be saving the missing kids, sending them off to their families; he could be in the middle of the final showdown, going toe-to-toe with the monster before eventually coming out victorious. Dean, stuck at the motel, had no way of knowing which.
Instead of saying all this, Dean replied, “Soon, but after we go to sleep. I’m beat.”
Next morning was more of the same. Dad left before the sun was truly up and left little Sammy to Dean’s watchful eyes. This time, unlike yesterday, Dean did not wake on time to bid his dad goodbye, nor was he aware when John had crept back to their room. The only evidence he had been here at all was a couple of extra fivers in the money pile by his bedside.
Dad was alive. Perhaps Mom’s angels were doing their jobs. Dean was too old to really believe in them; he wasn’t a little kid who thought Santa or the Easter Rabbit were real, and unlike a lot of adults, he knew what things really went up at night, but still he couldn’t help hoping someone out there always made sure Dad came back home.
They had leftover fries and a fruity drink from the vending machine for breakfast. Dean combed through Dad’s notes in his duffle while Sam showered, and organised them in his mind when his turn in the bathroom came. There wasn't much he didn’t already know, but it was nice to know his dad was advancing on the case.
Another kid had been taken yesterday, aged seven, tallying up to four missing children whose ages were never younger than six and older than eight. Monsters that fed on children suddenly started to sound less likely: they wouldn't know to keep it at a small age range. The last creature that favoured children that Dad had hunted couldn’t tell a hunched ten-year-old from a five-year-old. No, this was starting to sound ritualistic.
Someone banged on the door.
“Hurry up, Dean! Aiden said he'd meet me at the park, the one with the big slide. I can't be late!”
“Coming, Sammy!”
Dean cut off the shower and dried himself quickly before jumping into his jeans and red t-shirt.
“You know how to get there, right?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, he drew me a map. Wanna see?”
Dean inspected the map with a near-neurotic intensity. It was drawn in a paper with yesterday’s library stamp, confirming Sam’s word that his new friend hadn’t had it conveniently on hand, and it was almost a mirror to the one Dean had seen in their motel’s lobby. Sam’s friend had added a few marks Dean didn’t remember seeing on the official map, but Weird Allen's Cat Cemetery and Dead Fish Well weren’t places he would advertise having if he wanted any tourism to happen too.
Sam’s friend also had helpfully marked down with a neon blue marker the route from the motel to the park behind a garage.
“Alright, you can lead the way, Sammy,” he said magnanimously.
Dean stayed vigilant throughout their walk, scrutinising the people walking by and yet marching with unearned confidence. Sam was too occupied navigating through the streets to be truly alert to any potential danger, so like a good older brother, Dean would pick up his slack.
“Dean, relax,” Sam said after thanking the old lady who stopped to help them find the shoe shop on Sam’s map.
“I’m relaxed,” he lied through gritted teeth and tense jaw as he saw her walk away. That old lady had been too close to Sam for comfort. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she could have decided to pick him up and run anytime. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy.”
Sam gave him an unimpressed bitch-y face. “You looked like you were ready to bite her head off.”
“Uh-huh. Say, Sammy, isn't that the shoe shop we've been looking for the past ten minutes?”
Sam jumped back and ran towards it. “It is! But you’re still a jerk. You shouldn’t have treated her like that.”
“Who cares. You’re a bitch, but you don’t see me lecturing you,” Dean shot back, following Sam around the shop and into an old stone bridge.
“Dad told you to stop calling me that!”
“Bitch!”
“Jerk!”
“Whatever. Eyes and feet on the road, Sammy. I don’t trust this swamp to be crocodile-free. It’s probably got those worms that suck your blood. Vampire worms.”
Sam rolled his eyes but got away from the rail made of rope. “They’re called leeches, Dean. Did you know…” Then, Sam proceeded to excitedly explain to his slightly horrified brother the differences between leeches and regular worms, relegating the map-reading to Dean.
Right, left, around the weird-looking tree, and left. After that, straight down until they arrived at the garage. Easy. Dean had no idea how Sam had gotten them lost earlier.
There was one thing bugging him, though.
“How do cars even get here?”
Sam chose to ignore his question and ran ahead. Dean let him. “We’re here! We’re here!”
The place was rusty as well as dirty, with wooden boards hammered on the windows. The door was bolted shut. A few useless metal parts laid on the entryway. The brown awning looked to be on the verge of caving in.
The wind stilled, then changed direction, and a sign painted on cloth flew to Dean’s field of vision. It read: SPARKY'S GARAGE.
Dean eyed his brother, who was coming back from the big slide with a frown and said, “It looks abandoned.”
“On the back says it's ‘in dispute.’”
There were no track marks coming from the city to the garage, only an old one going further into the woods, with little plants growing along its way.
Dean’s eyes went back to his brother again. “I know that tone. What happened?”
Sam pouted. “Aiden isn’t here.”
“Maybe he’s running late.”
They waited on the swings for an hour before calling it quits. Sam was upset and Dean was mad some rando kid bailed on his brother and upset him. If Dean ever saw him again, he would teach him better.
They headed back to town in a sombre mood and ate their McDonald's' lunch in mostly silence. Nothing he tried had any effect, not even buying him the box with the toy. He refused to be moved from their room when Dean told him they were going to the library and held onto a streetlight when he tried to get him into the only joke shop in little Swampville.
In the end, there was not really any choice but to go back to the dinner and their pricey food for dinnertime.
Sam’s eyes went round. “Are you sure, Dean?” he asked, because he knew they didn’t typically return to a dinner when there was a perfectly serviceable junk food joint nearby.
“‘Course, I am, Sammy,” he said, smirking, because this was the first positive reaction he had gotten out of him.
“Can I get a muffin again? Oh! Let's get cookies. Maybe Olivia can give you a free one.”
Dean shushed him as they settled into a booth, the same as last time. “Not so loud.” He glanced at the prices posted on the wall and the cookies on the showcase. “Maybe if we get lucky. She might not even have gotten this shift.”
It was, indeed, Olivia who came to take their order. She was the only one serving at this hour and didn’t look any less exhausted than the first time they had seen her.
Still, she smiled radiantly.
“I’m glad to see you again. It seems someone liked my muffins.”
Sam nodded seriously. “They were really good.”
“It’s only you?” Dean asked, hopeful. Perhaps they might score that extra cookie, after all.
“Yeah, got the late shift on Saturdays and Wednesdays. Everyone else already ate in town, so it’s just the three of us.” She procured a notepad and a pen and raised her eyebrow. “So, what’s it gonna be today?”
“Just one cookie and two tap waters.”
“Chocolate, oatmeal, and raisins,” Sam enunciated carefully.
Her other eyebrow raised to meet its match. “Just one?”
Dean felt himself turn scarlet. “I mean —”
She waived him off. “I got it, kid. I was actually making a new batch to bring home. It’s only chocolate, though.”
“Two of those, please!” Sam requested.
“I can add the oatmeal and raisins.”
It was him that waved her off this time. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”
She clipped the pen and left to man the kitchen. It wasn’t long before a sweet smell made its way to the brothers. Sam, the younger one, for some reason, felt it was the perfect time to revisit his request to stay.
“Your friend stood you up!” Dean argued hotly. “You wanna live in the same town as whatever-his-name-was?”
Sam fidgeted. “Maybe Aidan’s mom didn’t let him go.”
“Maybe Aidan is a lying liar that lies. Maybe he tricked you. Maybe he doesn't even like you.”
“Well, who cares about Aidan! I like this place, and you can always get a free cookie, or muffin, or — whatever!”
“You didn’t like it a couple of days ago, and that’s not how it works with food.”
“I hadn’t seen it, then. I have now; and why not? It’s worked so far.”
“Dammit, Sammy. That’s because the lady is worried we’ll get ourselves killed! Four kids are missing and if spending a second more here will prevent whatever is doing this from nabbing us, then I don’t think she’ll care if I have a freebie or two.” To Sam’s shocked face, Dean heard himself keep talking. He was panicking, too. He hadn’t meant to say anything that could clue in Sam about the true purpose of their visit. “She probably knows we don’t have much money. It’s why she offered the first time, I’m sure. It’s only pity, Sam. News travels fast in a small town and by the time you get to school, everyone’ll know. You don’t want them pitying you.”
Sam licked his lips and looked incredulously at Dean. “Four kids are missing?” he choked out. “Why the hell would Dad drag us here? The job can’t pay that well. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
Dean opened his mouth to reply something, anything to get him away from the topic of hunting, then closed it when nothing came out; he opened it again, and because his mind was still blank, went to try for a joke.
At that moment, the smell of chocolate was overwhelming, and Olivia was placing their cookies on the table.
Perhaps angels existed, Dean thought madly, and they didn’t do jack but protect him from conversations he didn’t want to have with his brother.
Olivia, as if she hadn’t heard the screaming match they just had, smiled. “Hope you enjoy it. They’re freshly made.”
Sam clicked his tongue. “Thank you,” he said to Olivia, even though he didn’t stop glaring daggers at his brother. With wisdom that came from knowing Dean all his life, he knew he would not get any more answers for now, so he grabbed the cookie and bit it in half. Fuming, he gobbled down the other half and turned to the window. There was nothing to see there but darkness, but Sam was in a mood where he wouldn’t mind anything there was to see as long as it didn’t have his brother’s face.
Dean chuckled and took a smaller bite out of his. It was good; the flavour was rich and sweet, with a tang of something else, something minty that Dean couldn’t identify, but that complimented the chocolate nicely.
For some reason, Dean noticed it was blessedly quiet. Not a single bird sang outside, and the stereo had stopped playing tunes. Dean couldn’t even hear Olivia fussing from the kitchen — or from anywhere.
Dread pooled around him as he took this in. He didn’t know what this meant, but aside from a gun, that he didn’t have, their gut was a hunter’s best friend — and his said he needed to take Sam and ran. He wasn’t a hunter yet, but he was the next best thing they had.
He jerked towards his brother with every intention of pulling him back to the motel room kicking and screaming, but his words died before leaving his tongue.
Sam had fallen asleep with his forehead to the window, his nose scrunched between them. His mouth was half open, dripping drool already, which meant he was in deep sleep, despite the very obviously uncomfortable position.
As Dean’s vision blurred, he dropped his gaze to the cookie in his hand.
He went under quickly.
Dean’s awareness returned in fragments.
The first time he stirred awake, he couldn’t make his eyes open. His eyelids felt glued to his face and his tongue was heavy. He was confused; despite the comforting rumble of a car, he felt on edge. There was something wrong, even if he blacked out before deciding what.
The second time, there was no engine running, and he heard a breezy voice speaking. He still couldn’t move his body in any way, but he could pay enough attention to know the voice was speaking to him.
“Just, look what you’re making me do, kid,” she grumbled, and he felt his body move up. Arms that weren’t his hoisted him in the air until they dropped him on a bony shoulder. “Thank God I did that strength spell before. You are heavier than your brother, kid.”
Whatever paralysing spell he was under, it could not stop Dean’s heart from hammering. His throat dried out, but he was helpless to do anything more.
“It’s three times now that I’m crossing this little bridge tonight, and by foot at that. Someone will find the car, but I wiped my prints, so we should be good unless there were any Peeping Toms. I hope you appreciate how much trouble you and your brother are, kid. It’s my uncle's property we’re going now, they could trace it back to me.”
The third time it happened, he was in a car again. A different car, going by the smoothness of the ride and the fact that he had a little more elbow room now. His eyes still felt heavy, urging him to go back to sleep, but he could open them slightly, and he was going to take advantage of that.
Sam was on the floor of what appeared to be a pickup truck, dead to the world. It didn’t surprise Dean — he had eaten the whole cookie in under ten seconds. Dean, who had just had one small bite, still couldn’t completely feel his toes.
In the driver’s seat, there was a blond woman humming to a country song on the radio, as if she didn’t have two kids drugged in her backseat. She didn’t look any different than the first time he saw her, offering him a free dessert with a wink, and it terrified him. At the time, Dean had thought her kind; he couldn’t believe he hadn’t suspected that kindness came with strings attached.
Dean hadn’t guessed her being anything other than human, but that was the problem with witches, his dad always said, they looked and felt like everybody else.
The fourth time he came to, he promised himself it would be the last.
It seemed they had arrived at their final destination. The air smelt putrid and the sticky ground dug into his back, but he stayed still, unwilling to tip his hand too early. Cautiously, aware the witch could be breathing down his neck, Dean opened his eyes, which narrowed instinctively to adjust to the darkness of the night.
He was in a well-house, facing a wall. It didn’t look like it received any kind of maintenance, covered in spider webs and mold as it was.
Trying not to crane his neck too much, he looked out for Sam’s form. Thankfully, he found him lying on his front just a foot away from him. For some reason, Sam hadn’t been dragged completely in. He hadn’t even been tied up.
Neither had Dean.
Slowly, knowing the witch could appear the minute he made one wrong move, he got to his knees. His legs were still a little shaky, but he could manage to crawl towards his brother and check for a pulse. Sam’s neck was closer than his wrists, so he dug his fingers there and counted with bated breath.
His pulse was slow, just not worryingly so. Sam was asleep.
“Sammy,” he whispered, then repeated himself more sharply when that brought no result. He shook him by the shoulders and grabbed at his hair, desperate for a reaction that was seemingly not coming. No matter what he did, Sam remained asleep.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
Dean’s head jerked towards the surprised voice of the witch. Not waiting for her to make her move, he put himself between his brother’s body and her.
“You’re not touching him,” he rasped.
Her face morphed into a cruel smirk. “Cute, but it’s not gonna stop me, kid. So, how did you wear off my sleeping potion? It’s mighty strong.”
“I took just a nibble. Didn’t take me that long to figure out that cookie was bad news.”
“Hmm, too bad for your brother you weren’t a little quicker on the draw.”
Shame filled him. There was nothing he could say to deny her words. It was true; and worst of all, he wasn’t in any condition to fight the witch off and carry Sam back to the motel. He didn’t know how they were going to get out of this one. Short of a spectacular stroke of good luck, in which Dad would be already on their trail, he was out of ideas.
Whatever ended up happening, he had to buy enough time until the scales tipped to his side.
The witch opened the door of the cupboard and, from the few things left, procured a rope. She whistled appreciatively, turning to him with an arm extended, and murmured something that Dean was certain was a spell. Having nowhere to go without putting Sam on the line of fire, he braced himself for it, and was unsurprised when the air pinned him back to the well.
“Stay still,” she said with amusement, before tying his wrists to the bars of the window.
“I’m sure you’re wondering how I can do this,” she said to the silence as she made the final knot. “Magic’s real, kid. All those creatures of fairy tales are real. Me? I’m a witch.”
“Are unicorns real too?” he snapped. Of course, he already knew the world was a lot bigger than people believed it to be, but if she didn’t know he was training to be a hunter, she would underestimate him. He wasn’t going to correct her and vanish the first advantage he had found until now.
She rolled her eyes. “Laugh it up, kid. It’s not me who can’t magically move.”
“If you’re a witch, why don’t you have a wand?”
“Wand’s a conduit, or a little something extra. I don’t need one. Many witches don’t.”
“Why do you need me and my brother? Why’d you kidnap the other kids? I’m pretty sure you know we aren’t the money type.”
“I’m the one with the spellbook, kid, and you’re the one tied up to the window. I don’t need to tell you anything.”
“As you said, I’m the one tied to the window. Can’t exactly tell your evil plan to — to the police before you kill me.”
She tut-tutted. “So much cynicism in such a small body.”
“So you’re saying you’re letting us go?”
“Now, don’t get ahead of yourself. I never said that. You just surprised me, is all. Not many kids are like that; none of the other children were when they woke up.”
“I’m precocious like that.”
She examined him from head to toe. “I can see that.” She looked at her watch and then stretched out her neck out the window, calculating. Coming to a decision, she made herself comfortable on the windowsill made of stone. “I guess I’ve got time until the potion finishes moonbathing.”
“Moonbathing,” he mouthed.
“It’s kind of a long story, I think.”
“I’m not going anywhere right now.”
“No, you aren’t,” she smiled, fairly wry. “All right. I’m a witch, but there are different kinds of witches: natural and demonic, and many smaller types inside each, some that even overlap, and so on. My ex-coven and I are natural witches; that means no deals with demons for boosts of magic or whatever, by the way.”
He snorted. “Demons now, too?” he said sincerely and disbelievingly. There were many things out there, but he’d never heard of demons.
“Oh yeah,” she crackled. “One dressed up as my nan, one time. Bastard tried to sell me something like a booster for my magic, but I sent it packing. Though they're rare, I’ll grant you.”
“Right,” he drawled, stretching out the word.
“It did have one thing right, you know? My magic was too weak. I could train for years and years and never get to be as powerful as Perfect Ursula. It could take centuries before I match her.” She made a face and glowered. “My own mother liked her more than me.”
“Going by your record, I’ll say you killed her.”
She pursed her lips. “I… I considered it but no. The whole coven would have wanted my head; everyone loves Ursula. I thought the best revenge would be to become more powerful than her, so I stole some forbidden books from our elder’s library, hoping for… I don’t know. Something, anything… and I got it. I found a spell that would let me absorb others’ magic, but it needed five people to work, of roughly the same age, save one. I… I messed up taking my third sacrifice and the coven found out. My own mom expelled me, but no one noticed I took one book with me. Their loss, I say. Once I’m powerful enough, I’ll go back; I’ll teach them they shouldn’t have tossed me away.”
Dean heard every part of her tale, soaking all the information in search of something to exploit, but he got stuck at something.
“Then… why did you kidnap me and my brother? We aren’t witches; we don’t have magic. The other kids, too. They are just kids!”
The witch huffed a laugh. “Everyone has magic, kid, even if they don’t hone it. My powers don’t come from demons because I’ve always had them. They are just… small. They aren’t enough on their own, no matter how long and hard I’ll ever train. I could always turn myself into a demonic witch for the boost, but I have some principles. I gotta draw the line somewhere.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m not magic. My brother isn’t magic!”
“Everyone can do magic, but not everyone can do strong magic.” She flashed him a wicked smile. “It’s funny you mention your brother. See anything different about him? What about you?”
Dean looked at Sam on his right. He was intact, if a little dirty and rumpled.
“Look at his skin,” she stage-whispered.
Dean did, and for a moment didn’t see anything. Then, a cloud casting its shadow through the bars of the windows moved, and he saw it.
Sam’s skin now had a vivid purple hue that hadn’t been there before. It was like a big, giant bruise, with none of the swellings that came with it.
Stunned, Dean looked down at his hands. They, too, glowed violently purple, but his glow was less intense than Sam’s.
“Wha-what is this?” he stammered out.
The witch hummed. “A sleeping potion wasn’t the only thing I laced those cookies with. I like to see how much magic I’ll get once I consume you, so you glow with as much magic potential as you have inside. And my, it’s big.”
Dean looked down again, moving his glowing hands against the light of the moon. No matter how he saw them, he couldn’t unsee the glow.
“Typically, people glow different tones of pink, but the closer to blue, the more powerful you are. No one is blue, of course, but it is said that the most powerful witches can get to a purple that’s very similar. I, with almost two decades of training under my belt, am still pale pink. But somehow, you, your brother, and the kid from yesterday are all purple! You know how unfair that is?”
“Is he still alive?”
The witch snorted. “Yes, but not by much. I need them all alive to extract their magic, but I don’t need them hearty and whole. The fish smell masks their sweat and faeces, thankfully.”
As if struck by a sense of clarity, Dean knew exactly where they were. Dead Fish Well, he remembered his brother pointing out on the makeshift map. It was a long way from their motel. Even if his dad was on his way, it would still take him a while.
Dean needed to keep her talking.
“Why choose kids, anyway? Wouldn’t someone older have more magic?”
“Of course, but kids are easier to lure and move around. You wouldn’t believe how quickly they’d follow a stranger if they’re shown a little kindness.”
Dean didn’t have to fake the disgust that showed on his face. “You’re sick.”
“It’s not my fault your parents neglect you and belittle you enough that you all are willing to accept that comfort from a stranger. I’m just reaping what they’re sowing, really.” She smirked, lowering her gaze to her watch. With her finger, she tapped it twice. “It’s time.”
She extracted herself from the windowsill and side-stepped Sam’s body on her way out of the well-house. Feeling the strength return to his legs, Dean used the rope tying his wrists to pull himself up and towards the window.
Outside, there was a table with a red mantelpiece, and on top of that laid a cauldron and a book surrounded by candles and dried leaves. The witch ambled in its direction, confident in her success.
Swerving his body back, Dean took in the scene before him.
Sam had not moved an inch, nor shown any sign of waking. Rounding the well, four small bodies huddled close, looking inert despite the witch’s words. Their faces were largely unfamiliar to him, though one of them tugged at his memory: it was Sam’s friend from the library, the one that had supposedly stood him up. The ground was sticky with what Dean could only imagine was fish fluids and its rotten carcasses accumulated at odd places. A little peek over the rim of the well confirmed there were more where those came from, stacked from the very bottom, though still with a long way to go towards the surface.
At that moment, he knew for certain: they were no match for the witch.
The witch strutted back, and unlike Dean, with her head held high. One hand carried the cauldron, while the other the book that could only be filled with spells and incantations. Both were carried like trophies that she reverently put on top of the stones making up the perimeter of the well, just out of Dean’s reach, as if taunting him to do something about them.
The liquid of the cauldron was black as tar and thick, and had the handle of a wooden spoon emerging from it. The witch grabbed it and fed a mouthful to the smallest of the children quick enough that Dean’s protests came out too late.
“Stop it!” he exclaimed uselessly. “You don’t need to do this!”
“I do,” she replied, looking fixedly at the kid that had to have been the six-year-old. “Watch this.”
Dean’s eyes complied, fearful and paralysed, but his hands moved on their own, tugging and twisting the rope using the bar and windowsill, hoping to fray it enough to escape his bonds.
The sharp pink glow of the kid’s skin suddenly darkened, going darker still until Dean could hardly tell it apart from her Darth Vader t-shirt. Something started leaking then, not from the ceiling, but from her face. It was black and oozing like the potion, and made a trail down her body. Handfuls of hair went down with it, revealing a skull that soon, too, turned into goo. Were there used to be the arms, only one bicep remained, glimming with blood, though it would not stay that way for long. Black sludge dripped from where the elbow should be, eating up the bone and veins. The t-shirt, stained and ruined, slipped down her body as it lost its form, covering the once red skirt completely.
Bile rose in Dean’s throat. He couldn’t stop the heaves that followed it, either.
The witch, unaffected by what was left of the little girl, put back the spoon, moving the cauldron closer to her, and paged through the spellbook.
“Here,” she said to herself. Stopping to read the section carefully, she moved her lips soundlessly. “All right, I think I’ve got it,” she chuckled.
The witch crouched down next to the black mass. With the t-shirt that once depicted Darth Vader’s infamous helmet, she scooped up a good chunk of the goo before turning to him. In three large steps, the witch towered over Dean, whose eyes had started crying freely, and enveloped his head with the fabric, muttering under her breath.
The embrace was so tight that, for a moment, Dean felt he could not breathe. The next moment, it was over; the pressure was non-existed, and he hurled on top of his shoes.
“There, there,” the witch said above him, right before Dean felt a hand petting his hair. He froze. “One down, just four to go.”
“Please not Sammy,” Dean begged between wheezy gasps.
The next one to be fed from the cauldron was Sam’s friend. This time, Dean knew better than to look, focusing instead into wearing down the rope violently. His desperation was probably not helping any, but he couldn’t make himself calm down. Despite his attention centred elsewhere, he could not mute the sound of the ooze dripping down and falling on more of its kind.
“Breathe in, kid,” was all the warning he got before got a faceful of dark sludge. He vomited again; it was mostly water this time that mixed with his snot.
“Please not Sammy,” he begged again.
The next kid to go was a blond and slightly round boy. He was tall for his age and was dressed in green hand-me-downs. His eyes were the first thing that turned to slime.
When his shirt was draped over his face, Dean found himself with a bone-deep tiredness that his body could not find the energy to do anything more than passively let himself cry. Accosted by fatigue, his eyes began slipping, although his heart beat no less frantic. He only had one last chance to save his brother.
“Why are you putting this all on me?” he asked.
The witch paused her proceedings to throw one inquisitive look towards him. “I’m collecting my magic.”
“Wasn’t there any other way to separate them from their magic?” he cried. “There has to be!”
As if they were in any other situation, as if Dean did not still have the remains of three children on his face, the witched guffawed a laugh. “There’s many spells to severe a witch’s connection to their magic, but to take it — this is why this one is so special. Magic is part of everything. It makes up the cells and the atoms. You can’t separate that, but you can condense it, and then I can eat it.”
“You — eat me?”
She nodded with a sympathetic expression on her face, the first he had seen since waking up in the well-house. “Alive, I’m afraid. I put their magic in you before I make it ripe, and then I do it again. Some monsters are made just because they ate too much human flesh, and the spell takes that risk into account. It keeps most of the magic and leaves out the nasty possibility of turning into a wendigo.”
Something rushed to his ears, but Dean forced himself to keep asking questions. The moon was dwindling, and Dad should have arrived at the empty motel room some time ago. The rope was almost ready to give out, and Dad had to be near.
“Why was Sammy’s magic purple?” Dean gasped at the straws. “You said it was rare. If I’m going to — to get eaten alive — at least — why was my brother different?”
“I have no idea,” she said with a bit of a whine. “And not just him: you and the second child of today, the one with a dino tee. There’s something in you — only old and powerful witches are purple. It’s unheard of for a child to be. And you couldn’t feel this because you didn’t cast the spell, but there is something in your brother’s blood that’s ten times stronger than the other kid. I hate him so much! I hate you all! There’s something wrong with his body that’s wrong like yours, and something wrong in his blood that makes that stronger — and you don’t have that. He can’t have been born that this. It reeks of demons' work, but not only that. It’s — strange and it makes me mad how he can be demonic like the dino kid, and something other like you, while I just get pale pink. What do you all have in your water supply?”
Her words where overwhelming, but Dean was not going to let them affect him now. Later, he could question what the witch even meant with all that. Nonetheless, biting his lip, he eyed the spellbook briefly, and his mind flashed back to what she had said that he already had had the time to process. Everyone had magic, she had said. Yours would be powerful, she had implied.
As the witch fed the last kid that was not his brother, the ropes fell down and Dean made up his mind. He was too late to save the kid, but he tackled the witch to the edge of the well. Had it not been for the element of surprise, she would not be already half-way in, but she had been distracted, and she hadn’t known Dean’s father had trained him how to fight with people twice his size. With her own heavy book, Dean dealt one last blow. She slipped inside and fell to the fishes, alive still.
Dean counted his breaths until they matched the beating of his heart, and until the witch’s hollering fell to the background, even if not due to her volume. She was trying to climb. Injured but capable of movement meant she was still deadly. It meant she would stop Dean from leaving with Sam to safety.
Any moment now, Dad would pass through those door. Dean just needed to be a little patient. He needed the witch to be a little slower, too.
The spellbook grew heavy in his hand.