Chapter Text
Harvelle’s Tavern
Ellen comes down the stairs and looks around the tavern with mild irritation. Empty glasses are strewn across the counter of the bar and the floor hasn’t been swept. True to his name, Ash is sleeping in front of the died-down fire like Cinders from the tale, one arm uncomfortably bent behind him and the blanket over him spotted with soot and ash. His ability to fall asleep anywhere no longer surprises her.
She prods him gently with the toe of her boot and he jolts awake, red-eyed and wild-haired, ominously mumbling something about “Beware the wolves in the woods.” Ellen gives him a look of tolerant amusement before starting to open the shutters and windows.
Going out onto the porch, she takes a deep breath of the cool morning air. It’s frosty, the season just turning, the leaves of the trees already displaying the burnt orange and faded yellow of fall. Noticing some movement in the tree line, she watches a thin, rangy-looking wolf lope out of the forest that surrounds the tavern. It’s the third morning she’s seen it. It stands there and stares at her for a moment before turning around and disappearing back into the shadowy undergrowth.
She goes back inside and watches Ash haul himself to his feet. “Want to help me clean up, Sleeping Beauty? It’s what I pay you for, after all.” He looks around him, blinking and confused. “You’re in Harvelle’s Tavern,” Ellen reminds him. “It’s a Sunday morning. Your name’s Ash.”
Nodding gratefully, he grins at her before going behind the bar and pouring himself a tankard of beer. He downs all of it thirstily and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. ‘Breakfast of champions,’ Ellen thinks as she starts clearing the bar of glasses.
Regular as clockwork, Bobby comes in and sits in his usual stool at the end of the bar. “Mornin’,” he says gruffly, scratching his unkempt beard. Ellen pours a beer and places it on the bar in front of him. He gives her an annoyed look and taps his fingers impatiently.
“No whiskey before breakfast, Singer.”
“You’re bossy, Ellen. I’m too old for mothering.”
“Mm-hmm.” Ellen wipes down the bar and starts rinsing glasses, ignoring the way he grumbles under his breath as he opens the leather-bound book he’s brought with him and starts flicking through the pages, resentfully sipping his beer. Ash gets the broom from the back and whistles a jaunty tune as he sweeps the floor. He’s the most cheerful person Ellen knows.
The tavern door bangs open and Jo walks in, cheeks pink with the cold, a rifle slung over her shoulder and a brace of skinned rabbits in her hand. She’s briefly etched in golden sunlight as she pauses in the doorway. Ellen smiles. Her daughter’s bold beauty surprises and delights her on a daily basis.
“Ash, you dickhead, what did you do with that box of rifle shells? I searched fucking everywhere for them this morning.”
Girl’s got a mouth like a sailor on her, though.
“They’re in the trunk in the storeroom, where they always are,” Ash replies amenably. He’s over at the fire, slicing potatoes into a sizzling skillet and turns his face away when the bacon fat spits and spatters. Jo goes over and smacks him on the back of the head.
“You said you’d leave a spare box on the bar for me. I can’t find anything in that storeroom in the dark. I almost impaled myself on a sword and I think I inhaled some goofer dust or something. I’ve been seeing stars all morning. Nearly shot a tree out in the forest, thinking it was a deer.”
“Not goofer dust,” Ash says with a chuckle. “Probably just my special blend of herbs to make life a little bit starrier.”
Jo grumbles in irritation. “You’re such an idiot. Some of us don’t want to be stoned all day. I’ve got things to do.”
Ellen throws a dishtowel over her shoulder. “Jo, stop bickering with him. And Ash, make sure you clear out that storeroom today. It’s a mess in there.”
Jo punches Ash on the arm for good measure before coming over and flinging the rabbits on the bar. She sits on a stool next to Bobby and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “Morning, old man. Isn’t it a little early for necromancy.”
“Never too early for necromancy, Beautiful.” Bobby ruffles her hair affectionately before returning to his book.
“Breakfast’s ready,” Ash says, laying the table in front of the fire where they always eat together. Jo leaves the room to clean up, taking the rabbits with her. Bobby and Ellen sit down at the table as Ash piles their plates with bacon and fried potatoes.
“Bring the bread back with you, Jo,” Ellen calls out, pouring freshly-squeezed orange juice into glasses. Jo comes back into the room with a loaf of bread and a small pot of butter and places them in the middle of the table.
Bobby has his book open at his elbow and says with a mouth full of food, “So the prophecy claims he’ll rise from the underworld before the first snowfall.”
Leaning over, Ellen flicks the book closed. “No demon talk before breakfast, Bobby. You know the rules.” She pretends not to see the amused, long-suffering look Bobby shares with Jo and Ash. What they don’t realize is somebody has to maintain some level of normalcy and family routine. She glances around the table and feels affection rise up in her for this disparate, fierce little band of people that she loves.
They eat and talk about inane things: chores to complete and their plans for the day. They’re running low on iron and silver for the weapons-forge out back and somebody needs to go into the village to get a supply of holy water from Father Murphy. Jo recounts the story of her stoned adventure in the woods, how she could hear the trees breathing and the river whispering to her. Everybody laughs when she describes taking aim at the tree she thought was a deer. It almost descends into a food fight when she throws a chunk of bread at Ash and he mocks her for being uptight.
When the table has been cleared, the mood grows more serious and focused as Bobby opens the leatherbound tome and says, “After journeying through the wasteland, he’ll reach the gates where his daughter, Sin, will set him free and allow him to cross over from the underworld into our world.”
Ellen sets out four mugs and pours the coffee. “He’ll be looking for his vessel, a son of Eve.” She gives Bobby a dark look when he adds whiskey to his coffee from the flask he always carries with him. The man’s internal organs must be pickled in alcohol already. He grins defiantly as he slips the flask back into his pocket. She smiles back at him, defenseless against his gruff and affable charm. He’s one of the best people she knows - brave and good and steadfast, despite everything life has thrown at him.
Jo twirls her knife lightly into the wood of the table. It’s the hunting knife she inherited from Bill. She carries it around with her everywhere like a magical talisman. “Can’t we just hunt him down and kill him before Lucifer finds him? Seems like the most practical course of action to me. It would pre-empt all this other bullshit.”
Ash’s jaw tightens. “Sure, Jo, why don’t we just hunt down every child of Eve and burn them all at the stake? Life would be a whole lot simpler if we got rid of every human cursed with her gift.”
“I’m not talking about you, you idiot. Having the occasional prophetic dream is not like being the vessel for the Devil.”
Ellen sighs. The only time their bickering comes close to real conflict is when this comes up. Jo has a very black and white perception of things. Bill was that way too. “He’s a human being, Joanna, one with free will and his own choices to make. We can’t go around killing people who may or may not turn evil.”
“Your mom’s right,” Bobby weighs in. “We don’t cross that line. A hunter has to live by a code or we become like those scared mobs with their pitchforks and their burning torches. Murder is murder.”
Jo gives Ash a contrite smile across the table where he’s glowering at her. “Stop looking so grumpy. You have stupid hair and a stupid gift for foretelling the future, but you know I love you and I’d stab anybody in the heart if they ever tried to take you away from us.”
Ash throws a crust of bread at her. “You don’t have to be so fighty and aggressive just because you’re pretty as a princess. Everybody knows you’re nut-hard on the outside and soft as butter on the inside.”
In retaliation, Jo flicks a bit of butter at him and laughs when it lands on his forehead and sticks there. “Being a dreamer is the lamest gift. Can’t you do something more impressive, like controlling the elements. A firestarter would be so much more useful to have around.”
“Can we get back to this, young ‘uns. Time’s a-wasting.” Bobby wipes a smear of butter off the yellowed parchment page of the book open on the table. “The prophecy says Lucifer’s vessel will be a second son, a dark wolf and favorite of Eve’s, one with a gift more powerful than those before him. Standing against him will be his first-born brother, the chosen vessel for the mightiest general in God’s army.”
“Shitty prophecy, pitting brother against brother like that,” Ash says.
Jo replies, “Maybe the older brother will finally realize his little brother is an evil darkling and drown him in the river before he plunges the world into chaos.”
Ellen pours herself another mug of coffee. It feels like a two-mug kind of morning. “Blood ties between brothers carry their own power. It’s why fratricide was the first murder. Ash, can you get the stuff from the storeroom for the tracking spell.”
Ash leaves the room and Bobby lays a map out on the table. When Ash comes back with what they need for the spell, Bobby positions a wooden tripod over the map and says something in Latin that makes the pendulum hanging from the middle start to swing over the map. They stand around the table and watch it. At first it just swings lazily from side to side, but then it stops abruptly and quivers for a few seconds before jerking erratically all over the map. The rusty copper hinge connecting it to the tripod screeches in protest.
“What’s it doing?”
“Don’t know,” Bobby replies to Ellen’s question. “Never seen it do that before.” He stills the pendulum and repeats the incantation in Latin before letting it go again. It remains still for a moment before jerking suddenly to the left and hovering in place, the sharp end pointing to a spot on the map. Bobby leans forward to get a closer look. When he stands upright again, his face is pale and a frown wrinkles his forehead.
“What?” Ellen asks sharply.
Before he can reply, the double doors of the tavern bang open and two men appear on the threshold. A cloud crosses the sun and for a moment they’re just dark, faceless silhouettes in the doorway.
Ellen shivers and feels Jo move closer to her. Bobby positions himself in front of them and Ash reaches for a butter knife lying on the table.
The first man steps forward into the room. He’s a little shorter than the other one looming behind him. Both of them are tall and strongly built, dressed in travel-worn clothing. Ellen takes in the width of their shoulders, the careful tension in their stances, their watchful gazes, and the way they keep their hands at their sides like they’re prepared to reach for a gun if the need arises. Hunters, she’d bet. Young, though, despite the way they wear experience like a well-worn coat.
She steps past Bobby. “What can we do for you, boys? A little early for beer, isn’t it?”
“Are you Ellen Harvelle?” the first one asks. He looks a little older than the other one. He’s about as good looking a man as Ellen has ever seen, symmetrical features and a strong bone structure, full lips, red-gold stubble and grass-green eyes. There’s a tough veneer to him that Ellen suspects partly comes from being that pretty. Jo tries to counteract her good looks in the same way. It’s not easy getting people to take you seriously when you’re always the prettiest person in the room.
“Who wants to know?” she asks, a mild smile countering the steeliness of her tone.
The good-looking one returns her smile with one of his own. “We do,” he says in a tone that's a little aggressive with an undertone of flirtation. It makes Ellen’s lips twitch into a genuine smile, in spite of herself. She’s always had a soft spot for youthful defiance.
The tall one huffs a quiet laugh and shoulders past the first, stretching his hand out to Ellen. “Sorry about my brother. My name’s Sam and his name’s Dean. We heard this was a safe haven for hunters.” He looks over her shoulder at the map and tripod on the table as he shakes her hand. “Is that a tracking spell? Who are you looking for?”
Ellen gives him a considering look. He’s less easy in his skin than his brother, too tall and trying too hard to be non-threatening and affable. There’s something difficult and complicated underlying all that boyishness. Ellen has a sharp eye for people who are hiding things. And this one is hiding something.
“We just met, boy,” Bobby says gruffly. “Not like we’re about to start sharing things with you straight off.”
“That’s Bobby. My daughter, Jo. Ash is the one gripping the butter knife like a murder weapon.”
Sam raises his hand in a half-wave and says, “Hello.” There’s something about him that makes Ellen want to hug him protectively and simultaneously kick him and his too-pretty brother out of her tavern. She has a feeling that a whole lot of complications just walked through her front door.
Ash places the knife back on the table. “How’d you find out about the tavern?”
“My dad used to come here sometimes,” Dean answers. He’s the one who normally does the talking, Ellen notices. His brother’s quieter, more observant. “You might remember him. John Winchester.”
“You’re John Winchester’s boys?” Ellen asks in surprise.
Bobby echoes her disbelief. “John has kids? How come he never mentioned either of you?”
“Dad conveniently forgot our existence for a while,” Dean says dryly. When his brother makes an irritated sound of disagreement, he adds, “But we don’t hold it against him. He got caught up in the life. You know how it is. It’s not easy balancing your priorities when you’re trying to destroy the demon that killed your wife. Revenge can be all-consuming.”
Ellen can hear the hint of grief underlying his glib words. Every family caught up in the life has their own stories and burdens. Looking at Jo, she says, “Balancing family with hunting isn’t easy for anybody. As a parent, you want to protect them from it, keep them out of it for as long as you can, but kids tend to make up their own minds.”
Jo pouts at her. The hunting knife is in her hand and she twirls it deftly, one haughty eyebrow raised. It has Bill’s initials carved into the blade. Jo thinks it keeps her connected to him, that she’s just like her father. She’s wrong, though. Ellen sees herself and every stubborn, defiant aspect of her character mirrored back at her in every decision Jo makes.
She sees Dean swap a flirtatious smile with Jo and thinks, ‘Here comes trouble.’ But then he gives his brother a look, the meaning of which she can’t quite parse. They clearly have a code between them, a way of communicating non-verbally, one that comes from long familiarity. Ellen has been serving beer to hardened, secretive hunters since she was knee-high. She can read most men at a single glance. The majority of people—even seasoned poker players—leak their feelings through their body language without knowing they’re doing it. There’s something unusual about the connection between these two brothers. Something that unsettles her.
“We heard your dad found the colt and killed Azazel with it. If anybody was going to do it, it was John Winchester. Most single-minded man I ever met. An obsessed egotist, but a talented hunter.”
“You’re Bobby Singer, right?” Dean asks. Bobby nods in response. “Dad said you were a curmudgeonly old bastard but a wise man and the best there is on the lore and prophecy. He couldn’t have done it without your help. You pointed him in the right direction so he could track down the colt. He owes you a debt of gratitude. My brother and I do too.”
“So where is he? He owes me at least a bottle of whiskey.”
“He’s out of the life,” Sam answers. “He settled down and got remarried. Her name’s Kate. They’re happy.”
Bobby raises his eyebrows. “Not a lot of hunters survive long enough to make that choice. From the look of you, I’m assuming you boys are continuing the family tradition. How does John feel about his sons hunting?”
“We make our own decisions,” Dean replies.
Ellen huffs a laugh at the defiance of his tone. “You eaten yet today?” When they shake their heads, she starts clearing everything off the table. “Sit down. You’re welcome at my table. Ash, make them some breakfast.”
The brothers sit on one side of the table. Bobby, Jo and her face them on the other side.
“If you want a spare set of hands, Sam and me are happy to help with whatever you’re working on.” Dean eyes the map and tripod Ellen placed on the top of the bar. “Anything interesting going on?”
Bobby gives them a long look. “If you know about Azazel, the Wolf-demon, then you’ve probably heard the prophecy about Lucifer rising. Azazel was Lucifer’s standard-bearer, one of the original princes of the underworld.”
Ellen notices the way the brothers shift uncomfortably. That bond of awareness between them is crackling with unspoken communication. There’s no doubt they know about the prophecy.
“Lucifer’s chosen vessel is a child of Eve, a human with extraordinary power. Demons have always been attracted to them. Their power comes from her, the mother of all. Eve meant her chosen few to be guardians of humankind, but being human, they’re fallible and open to corruption and temptation.”
Dean’s expression hardens. “Sounds like old wives’ tales to me.”
Ash pauses in the middle of breaking eggs into the skillet. “Ask your brother. He knows exactly what Bobby’s talking about.”
“And why would you think that?” Dean asks him coldly.
Ash snorts in disbelief. “Seriously? I could feel that energy coming off him as soon as he walked through the door. Those of us with the curse recognize each other. Isn’t that right, Sam?”
Sam hesitates before nodding. “Yes, I can feel it in you, too,” he says quietly.
Ellen has been watching him. There’s a haunted expression on his face that makes him look younger and more vulnerable. Her heart clenches in pity for him. Besides Ash, she’s met others with the mark of Eve and knows what a burden it can be.
“Guardians of humankind, my ass,” Ash scoffs, scrambling the eggs. “Those of us with Eve’s gift know it’s a curse. People either want to throw a couple of coins your way to read their fortune like you’re some charlatan clairvoyant or they want to burn you at the stake. Most of us keep it hidden. It’s why I didn’t say anything when you walked in. Some won’t even acknowledge to themselves they have the curse. One time during a poker game I said something to a hunter who I knew was reading the cards in my hand and the son of a bitch punched me in the face for suggesting he was mixed up in witchcraft.”
Ellen notices how Bobby’s hands are tightening on the leather-bound book of prophecy, his knuckles whitening. She knows the brothers have noticed it too. They’re wary and watchful. Oblivious to the tension building around the table, Ash laughs and continues, “You remember, Ellen? You kicked him out at gun-point and threatened to shoot him if he ever came around here again.”
There’s a silence when Ash stops talking.
Bobby leans across the table and says in a darkly serious voice, “I thought I got the Latin mixed up when we did the tracking spell because it pointed right here to the tavern. We’re looking for Lucifer’s vessel and here the two of you are, a first and second-born son, one with Eve’s power coursing through him.”
Jo lays her knife threateningly on the table and the brothers stiffen with tension. Ash instantly moves to stand behind Jo, the spoon he was using to stir the eggs clenched in his hand. Ellen has seen him craft weapons out of all kinds of things but she doubts he’ll be able to fight these men with a wooden spoon, especially not the sons of John Winchester.
“Jo, put that knife away,” she says mildly. “You’re not stabbing anybody at the breakfast table. Can’t you see they don’t mean us any harm. Sam’s scared half to death of his own power and there’s no way Lucifer’s possessing him while his brother’s around to prevent that from happening. They’re here because they need our help. Ash, those eggs are burning.”
The Winchester brothers look at her with gratitude. She doesn’t think they’ve had anybody besides each other to rely on for a long time. “This tavern has been in my family for three generations,” she says to them. “You’re safe under my roof.”
“We appreciate that, Ellen. And just so you know the Devil’s not getting anywhere near my brother while I’m still breathing,” Dean says fiercely. “It’s always been me and him. He’s the smartest, strongest person I know and he only ever uses his gift for good. Saving people, hunting things, it's what we do, what our dad taught us by example. There’s no way the Devil’s corrupting that for his own purposes. Other demons have tried and failed. Azazel’s dead because he believed he could claim Sam for himself.”
Ellen thought she was too experienced and cynical for the feeling that rises up in her. She can tell that the bond between these two brothers goes beyond the usual loyalty between family members who hunt together or the fraternity that exists between hunters willing to sacrifice their lives for each other. Dean’s faith in his brother seems so pure it’s almost ideological, a faith bordering on religious conviction. That kind of idealism takes her breath away for a moment.
And it pains her to see the expression written on Sam Winchester’s face. He believes in his brother in the same way. Less so in himself.
“Well, sign me up for that, brother,” Ash says in a tone of excited admiration. “I’ve got nothing better to do than fight the Devil.”
Ellen’s lips twitch. Ash loves a cause and the idea of a mission. He’s a foolhardy romantic at heart. “Does John know?” she asks the brothers.
“No, and he’s not finding out,” Sam replies tightly. “He’s out of the life and he’s not getting dragged back into it because of me.”
Watching the play of expressions across Dean’s face, she asks, “Is your brother in agreement with that decision?”
Ellen can tell he’s not wholly convinced when Dean’s jaw tightens and he says, “Dad’s not getting involved. This is on me and Sam.” He’s clearly decided it’s Sam’s decision to make, not his, and is trying to respect his brother’s right to make his own choices.
Bobby taps the book of prophecy thoughtfully. “If experience has taught me one thing it’s that people make their own way in this life. Fate and the lore be damned. Prophecy is not immutable. There wouldn’t be any purpose to hunting if we didn’t believe we could alter the course of things. Actions count more than words in old books.”
Jo stabs her knife into the table. “I’m in. Let’s kill the Devil.”
Ellen feels a shiver of apprehension. Her daughter aspires to be like one of those warrior queens of old, the worthy subject of heroic ballads, an icon of defiance. Her favorite stories when she was a little girl were about Boadicea, the Victorious. Bill used to read them to her every night. A safe and ordinary life will never be enough for Jo and there’s no standing in her way. Ellen knows that. The only way to keep her safe is to fight by her side. And Ellen has never been afraid of a fight.
“There’s a witch we know—” Bobby starts and is interrupted by Jo and Ash groaning simultaneously.
“Not her,” Jo complains. “Please tell me we don’t have to work with her again. She nearly got us killed last time.”
“She’s not trustworthy,” Ash adds. “She’s only ever in it for herself and she’s mean.”
“Really, really mean,” Jo agrees.
“She’s changed,” Bobby says firmly. “She isn’t the same since she got back. She tried living the high life in the city before realizing she couldn’t turn her back on her calling. Eve wouldn’t let her. She may be vain and sharp-tongued, but her divinations are right and true. The magic keeps her honest. And if nothing else, she’s terrified of Eve’s wrath.”
“Rowena is a high priestess and powerful witch,” Ellen explains when she sees the look of confusion on Dean’s face. “She has the gift of prophecy. She’s helped us before.”
“Okay, but who is this Eve you keep talking about?”
They all look at him in astonishment.
“I thought she was that naked woman in the Bible who ate the apple and caused the fall of all humankind.”
Bobby frowns at him. “Don’t you know anything?”
Ash laughs. “Eve is the mother of all. She’s the lifeblood in all things. She’s the wind, the waters, the hungry fire and the nourishing earth beneath our feet. She’s the sun and the darkness behind the moon. She’s in the bloody violence of birth and the patient worm that devours the dead. She’s growth and decay. The beginning and the end.”
Jo rolls her eyes. “Before he breaks into song. Eve is Mother Nature. She’s older than God. Way older than the Devil. God harnessed her power to create the world.”
“She’s the white wolf,” Sam says quietly.
They all turn to look at him. Ash asks sympathetically, “Is that how she appears to you in your dreams?” When Sam nods, Ash says, “In my dreams I sometimes see her as a stag in the woods. She’s sitting upright on a throne of tree roots that have erupted out of the earth. There’s a crown of songbirds on her antlers and a band of wolves surrounding her throne, their mouths bloodied from killing. She’s fucking terrifying.”
“Stags are male, you idiot,” Jo says.
“She’s both, Jo,” he replies patiently.
“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Dean asks his brother and grits his teeth when he nods. “Sometimes you could share the details with me, Sam.”
“Lately she only appears to me as mom.”
The look on Dean’s face makes Ellen stand up. “Let’s give the Winchesters some privacy for this conversation. Jo, the rabbits need cooking for dinner. Ash, that storeroom needs clearing out. I’m going into the village to get the holy water from Father Murphy.”
Bobby stands up. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, that’s alright,” she answers. “I’ll go alone. You’ve got things to do.”
“Take a gun, Ellen. There’s a lot of wolves around.”
She nods and leaves.
The whole way through the forest to the village she’s aware of being followed. Shadowy shapes slink through the undergrowth alongside the path, staying just out of sight. She keeps her gun in her hand, cocked and ready, just in case.
The busyness of the village on market day is a relief. She buys a jar of honey and a couple of plucked and gutted chickens. A butcher encouragingly offers her some bleeding pig livers and she wrinkles her nose in distaste at the nauseating smell of congealing blood. She uses the same expression on Father Murphy when he suggests she should step into the confession booth because it’s been a while. Not today, she says to both him and the butcher. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not ever.
The wolves in the undergrowth shadow her back to the tavern. Finally losing her nerve, she backs up against a tree, her gun aimed at nothing but silent underbrush. “What do you want?” she shouts.
There’s no response. Just the whispering wind and the cool, hushed green of the forest.
Feeling foolish, she picks up the basket she’d dropped and notices a crack in the jar of honey. Taking a breath to calm the wild beating of her heart, she tells herself, ‘You’re strong enough for whatever’s coming. Everything’s okay. That dread you’re feeling in the pit of your stomach is nothing but your imagination.’
Back at the tavern, Dean is working with Bobby in the weapons forge. She can hear their laughter above the sound of hammers on iron and feels a pang of regret that Bobby never had any children of his own. He would’ve made a great father.
Inside, Ash is sitting with Sam in a corner of the tavern. They’re poring over old, leather-bound books and Ash is talking excitedly and gesticulating wildly, his too-long hair standing up in all directions from running his fingers through it. That haunted look she’d noticed earlier has gone from Sam’s face. He’s wearing an amused expression as he watches Ash. It’s impossible to get a word in when he gets like that.
Sam becomes aware of her presence and smiles at her. There’s a profound deal of gratitude in that smile. She wonders what it must feel like to be that young and to carry such a heavy yoke of responsibility. ‘You’d better be worth it, Sam Winchester,” she thinks as she returns his smile.
Jo is in the kitchen chopping carrots and humming to herself. It’s a tune Bill always used to whistle when he was cooking. Ellen wraps her arms around her daughter’s slender waist and breathes in the clean, sweet fragrance of her hair. She kisses her neck and says, “I love you and I’m so proud of you.”
Jo turns around and gives her an arched-eyebrow look. She’s about to say something—probably something sarcastic—but changes her mind and pulls Ellen into a hug. “I love you too, mom. You’re everything that I’ve ever wanted to be.”
Mirror, mirror on the wall…
It’s later that night and Sam’s getting ready for bed. He’s standing in his underwear in front of the water-marked mirror in the bathroom adjoining the room he and Dean are sharing in Harvelle’s Tavern.
He looks at his reflection. His cheeks are thinner and there are dark smudges underneath his eyes. That’s what having nightmares every night will do to you. Dean keeps lecturing him for not sleeping or eating enough but he has no appetite and trying to fall asleep is a trial.
He used to dream of violent battles between winged angels; a long and breathless drop downward through a blackened sky emblazoned with lightning; a desperate, drowning struggle across a fiery lake; then a long journey through a burning desert. Now he dreams of standing in a clearing in a forest, his boot on the neck of a warrior lying at his feet. The warrior’s final, gasped breath and the loud crack of bone as Sam crushes his throat beneath his boot always jolts him awake, terrified and sweat-soaked, reaching desperately for Dean, who holds him tightly and allows Sam’s fierce possession of his body as if sex were a talisman against death.
She’s always there now on the edges of the clearing in his dreams, sometimes as a white wolf, sometimes as a fair-haired woman in a white dress. He knows she’s his mother, even though he has no real memories of her. Every night she watches him kill his brother and he doesn’t know what she’s thinking and feeling as she stands there silently. Is it horror or sorrow or just curiosity?
Last night she was closer than ever before, her hand stretched out toward him. Surprised and curious, he’d turned away from his task of ending the warrior’s life and faced her. He heard the warrior struggle to his feet behind him, breathing heavily and painfully. “Sam,” he said, his voice rough and damaged. “Sam!”
He woke up with Dean shaking him. “Sam, hey, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re just dreaming.”
They were sleeping in an open field near a river, lying under a heavy woolen blanket together close to the fire. The night was cool and crisp, the dark sky filled with bright stars. Dean soothed him with his rough hands and warm mouth, distracted him from the remnants of the dream that haunted his mind.
Shaking himself free of those haunting images, he frowns at his appearance in the mirror.
He needs to cut his hair and have a shave. He looks like a bandit or thin-faced religious zealot, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. Leaning forward, he splashes his face with cold water. When he lifts up again, he startles backward because for a second it looked like his reflected self remained standing there when he bent forward, a hard-faced and dark-eyed double in the mirror. He turns quickly and looks behind him but there’s nobody else in the bathroom with him.
Looking back at the mirror, he clenches his teeth and hisses at his reflection, “Fuck you.”
“You know only crazy people curse at themselves in the mirror, right.”
Dean has come up behind him. He turns him around to face him and runs a hand down his stubbled cheek. “You need a shave. You’re starting to look like a crazy mountain man. No wonder children run away screaming when they see you. Stay there,” he says, filling the bowl with warm water from a metal jug he’s brought with him. “And hold still.” He reaches for the straight razor where Sam left it on the shelf and flicks it open.
Sam closes his eyes as Dean lathers up his face and shaves him carefully, running the blade along his cheeks and jawline and up his neck. It’s quiet, just the sound of their breathing and the rasp of the razor. Sam grimaces when Dean nicks his Adam’s apple. “Sorry,” Dean says and leans forward to lick away the blood with his tongue. Sam starts to harden and makes a small sound of desire. He opens his eyes and sees Dean smiling at him. Rinsing a cloth in the warm water, Dean wipes his face and neck, then gently pats his cheek. “Now you’re too pretty to curse at in the mirror.”
“Still not as pretty as you are. It must be hard. Looking the way you do and everybody swooning at the sight of you.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “We’ve all got our burdens to bear, Sammy.” He turns Sam to face the mirror and tucks his chin over his shoulder. “Look at you, so strong and brave and beautiful.” Sam tries to turn his face away from the sight of himself but Dean reaches around and grips his jaw, holding him there. “I’m so proud of you and the man you’ve become. Everything that’s thrown at you and you’re still here, still fighting, still hopeful.” He reaches down and pulls at the drawstring of Sam’s underwear. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. There's nothing else looking back at us. It’s just you and me here.”
Sam meets his eyes in the mirror. There’s a flush along Dean’s cheekbones and he’s hard against his ass. Sam’s underwear falls down to his ankles and Dean takes his dick in his hand. He strokes him and a rough sound breaks from Sam’s mouth, his breathing getting heavier. “Keep your eyes open,” Dean instructs, fumbling between their bodies to loosen his own pants. The feeling of Dean tucking his hard length between his legs makes Sam twitch involuntarily. Dean’s arm tightens around his chest and he holds Sam against his body as he thrusts into the tight gap between his thighs, nudging against his balls. Sam clenches his legs tightly together.
They’re both open-mouthed and breathless, watching each other and themselves in the mirror. The grip on his dick tightens. “I’ve got you,” Dean whispers in his ear. “Just me and you.” Sam bites his lip and watches Dean in the mirror as his brother's eyes squeeze shut and his face tenses, then loosens into a soft, lost expression. Hot warmth floods between Sam’s legs. He can’t keep his own eyes open when he lets go, heat blooming through his body and his head falling back onto Dean’s shoulder as he comes in his brother’s hand.
Dean kisses his ear and the side of his neck, his hand slipping down at the back to stroke the entrance to his body, rubbing and pushing the wetness between his legs up inside him. Sam twitches again and lets out a groan, widening his legs and feeling Dean’s fingers deeper inside him. “I can’t get hard again yet. Do you want me to suck you and keep my fingers inside you?”
Sam laughs quietly and lifts his head. “No, I’m good. That was good.”
Dean steps back and gives him a small smile. He rinses the cloth and wipes Sam clean first, then himself. Sam yawns and Dean nods in approval, a smirk on his face. “The things I’ve gotta do to get you to go to sleep.”
“Your sacrifices are appreciated, Dean,” Sam says dryly.
“C’mon, let’s go to bed.”
They lock the door, push the two single beds together and salt the windows even though Bobby told them the tavern is heavily warded. Dean tucks himself behind Sam and pulls the covers over them. “Wake me up if you need me and don’t go walking outside if the nightmares and insomnia get really bad. Ellen said there’s an army of wolves out there in the woods.”
“Mm-hmm,” Sam murmurs sleepily, already drifting off.
He dreams about being in the clearing again. He’s alone, no sign of the warrior anywhere. The fair-haired woman is walking a circuit around the outer edge of the clearing, not looking at him. Her feet are bare and her long white dress trails on the ground, the hem ragged and muddied.
“Mom,” he calls out to her, but she ignores him, walking with silent, steadfast purpose round and round and round.
A golden haze starts to fill the clearing and he looks up, expecting to see dawn breaking, but the sky is dark above him and the moon is hidden behind grey billowing clouds. He looks around him and notices how the golden light has solidified into a dome that encloses the clearing.
He walks up to the edge of it and puts his hand out, but jerks it back when the solid light burns his palm. He has to take another step backward and another as the burning dome moves nearer to him, getting smaller and smaller, encroaching closer and closer on him.
Turning around, he notices a red fox sitting on its haunches in the middle of the clearing. Its eyes are glowing a bright blue. “Hey,” he says to it softly. “Where did you come from?” It bares its sharp little teeth at him and growls before turning and running straight through the golden wall.
The woman is waiting on the other side and the fox leaps into her arms. She holds it close to her body and stands there, tall and still, watching him silently. He notices the antlers on the top of her head he’s sure weren’t there before. Her face is indistinct, not human, terrifying.
He gasps in fear, steps backward and yells in pain when his back meets the burning wall that has crept up behind him. He’s enclosed on all sides and the heat is claustrophobic and terrible. “Help me,” he cries out to the woman. She stares at him impassively and the fox barks a little laugh.
“Please help me,” he shouts again as the golden walls close in on him and he loses consciousness in searing heat and pain.