Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Stir Up The Dust, Breathe My Name ❯ Stir Up The Dust, Breathe My Name ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Title: Stir Up The Dust, Breathe My Name

Author: roguebitch

Pairing: None. Sam, Dean. Two Voodoo Gods.

Rating: PG-13 for cussin'.

Summary: Another Sam-tries-to-get-Dean-out-of-his-deal fic, this time with added Voodoo!

Length: 2,753 words

Disclaimer: The Brothers Winchester belong to Kripke/The CW, although I think they'd get better treatment if I owned `em. Legba and Kalfou belong to themselves and I want to keep it that way. This is a transformative work done for love, not money.

Beta: I owe a debt of gratitude to ficwriter1966, who critiqued this for the Writer's Workshop at EyeCon and gave me some good pointers. Then lady_fox read it over to let me know what I missed.

Author's Note: This story came out of the discussion that followed Dean's deal, specifically the idea that the boys should be nicer to The Trickster because Gods trump Demons. And I got to thinking, what sort of god would be able to reverse Dean's deal? I had a boyfriend in my teens and early twenties who was very into Voodoo, so I probably know more about it than I ever needed too, but hey, it makes for a fun story base!

Legba is the god of the crossroads and doorways in Voodoo, but he has an opposite number in Kalfou, who is the Trickster in this pantheon. He is also the King of Demons. There is a very good reason why Dean ends up ridden by Legba and Sam by Kalfou in this story.

The title comes from the Neil Finn song “Secret God”, which you can find over <a href=” http://www.mediafire.com/?ymjryqmzy1j”> here</a>.

They were in Louisiana, which seemed perfect to Sam, as if events had aligned to bring him here to perform this ritual. He had found a crossroads with a tree nearby. Ditching Dean had been easy, he had left while Dean was hustling pool in a nearby bar, stealing a car to drive out there at sunset. He'd left a note: Coffee. Back later.

Sam had set up an altar where the crossroads met. In the dirt of the crossroads Sam had sketched the vévé:

Two bowls on either side of the symbol held red candles, lit in the dusk against the encroaching night. A tray held a plate with a serving of grilled chicken and sweet potatoes, with a tobacco and pipe lay on the platter next to the food. There was also a clear bottle of cane liquor, or klefen, with sprigs of herbs in it. A gnarled stick rested on the ground next to the tray.

Sam's iPod was attached to a pair of portable speakers, which were piping out a sparse, three-step drumbeat into the night. Sam started to dance.

It might come as some surprise that Sam was a good dancer. After all, his life hadn't allowed for the kind of levity that dancing might indicate.

Additionally, the Winchesters, being such manly men, would never indulge in such seemingly girly behavior as dancing. Not even if it might get them laid.

Right?

Well, Sam didn't dance for fun. Never had.

Sam danced for work.

There were some rituals that required more of the participant than a facility with dead languages.

Staid adherence to Latin recitation was hardly the best recipe for ecstatic communion with the divine, Sam had noticed.

So Sam, using his typical academic rigor, studied Indian dervishes, Native American ceremonies involving dance, Aboriginal rituals, and Maori haka.

(Sam would never forget the day Dean caught him practicing the haka. He had nearly laughed himself sick at Sam stomping and slapping his bare chest. Then Sam had charged up to him, face horribly contorted and tongue sticking out grotesquely. Dean had yelped, “Freak!” and fled.)

(Dean would later insist that he hadn't run away, he was just respecting Sam's academic privacy.)

Sam spun, stomped, and twisted in time to the thready drums, attempting to separate thought from intent, desperation from desire. He pushed down his fear, the sense that this was his absolute last resort, and that he might fail and lose Dean forever.

The drumbeat echoed his heartbeat and became part of his blood. It filled him and sifted rationality from him. He chanted, “Papa Legba, open the gate for me. Attibon Legba, open the gates so that I may pass through. Papa Legba, open the path and when I return, I will pay homage to the loa.”

Sam danced and chanted. He felt his nerves settle as he lost the meaning in the words. Awareness filled him as the combined actions of recitation and dancing brought him into a trance state.

Sam felt like he was floating above his body, so when enormous invisible fingers gripped the top of his skull and a gigantic hand wrapped around his waist, it was if it were happening to someone else. He allowed himself an instant of relief -- He came -- and surrendered to being taken.

“Sam! What are you doing?” bellowed Dean. Sam's head whipped around as he fell back into his body. Dean stood at the edge of the circle of candlelight, expression horrified.

Sam felt the gripping fingers and the awareness of otherness rush away from him, feeling like wind blowing across his scalp. Dean's eyes rolled up in his head and he staggered.

Then Dean looked up and Sam knew it wasn't his brother looking out of those eyes. He opened his mouth and Sam was sure.

“Where's my cane, boy?” a querulous voice demanded. “Show some hospitality to an old man!” Dean-not-Dean limped closer to the altar as Sam warily offered him the gnarled stick. Not-Dean snatched it from him.

“That's better.” Not-Dean thumped the cane on the ground in emphasis. Then he made his way over to a nearby stump and sat. Sam brought over the tray with the food, drink, and pipe.

“Papa Legba, may I speak?” Sam asked respectfully.

“After I've eaten,” the god replied. “You've grown taller since I last saw you. Sit, so I can look at you without you looming over me.”

Sam dropped to the ground with alacrity and sat cross-legged.

Sam didn't know why Legba had decided to mount Dean, but he knew Dean would be pissed. Dean wasn't even part of the ritual, how could he have come to be ridden?

Legba finished his meal, topping it off with a long swallow from the bottle. He smacked his lips. “This is good klefen, boy. You make it yourself?”

“Yes, sir. The hardest part was fermenting it without my brother seeing it. Then he'd know what I was planning.”

Legba nodded. Watching his brother's body do things and yet knowing it wasn't Dean performing the actions disoriented Sam badly. Legba filled the pipe, lit it, and took a long draw.

Exhaling smoke, Legba gestured with the pipe. “Did you want me, or my services as the gatekeeper?”

“I need your advice, Papa Legba.” Sam had a hard time looking directly at Dean, ridden as he was by the loa. He seemed to shimmer, divinity rippling around him like heat haze, like his skin couldn't hold it in.

Legba waved the hand with the pipe in the air, leaving a trail of smoke. “Tell me your story.”

“It's my brother. He traded his soul to the Crossroads Demon to save me. I can't - I can't live without him. You're the god of the crossroads. Can you help me? Help him?” Sam's eyes stung as he made his plea. He had never felt so desperate.

Legba looked thoughtful, drawing on his pipe. Sam held his breath. He could hear the sounds of the night around him: crickets, mockingbirds, and the sound of a frog or two from the bayou not far from the road.

Finally, Legba spoke.

“I can see the trade written on his soul, but there is something bigger written on it.” Legba looked up suddenly, skewering Sam with Dean's green gaze. “Your name.”

“I don't understand.”

“It is not in my purview to reverse these bargains.” Legba continued. “Your case is the concern of another.”

Sam felt despair seep into his body. Even the gods couldn't help him.

Legba raised his voice. “Kalfou! I know you're out there! Come and talk!”

A sudden wind blew and the vévé in the dirt rearranged itself.

Sam sprawled on the ground as he was shoved aside in his own body, filling up with something awesome and large and almost too big to be contained in such a tiny prosaic space as mere flesh.

“This is highly unorthodox.” The voice was Sam's, but the drawling, amused tone was nothing he'd ever used. The consciousness operating it was wholly other and Sam couldn't feel or do anything but watch out of his own eyes.

“I think you know these boys.” Legba stated to Kalfou.

Sam's body picked itself up and dusted itself off. “Of course I do. They've killed my horses twice now.”

Legba raised an eyebrow.

“My anthropomorphic personifications, then. Picky picky.” sighed Kalfou.

“You have a special interest in them, then.” continued Legba.

“Oh, they're very entertaining. Following their adventures is like watching really good TV. This one,” Kalfou jerked a thumb at Sam's chest, “needed to learn a lesson about his dependence on his brother.”

“And you were the one who had to teach him, then?”

“Of course!” Sam, shoved into a corner of his soul, could feel the pride radiating from Kalfou.

“I think, brother, that you are mistaking balance for dependence.”

Kalfou was taken aback.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You saw what happened when that one was deprived of his brother. Extrapolate. What if you were to be without me?”

The sense of aghast wrongness and rage was so enormous that Sam's comprehension threatened to leave him entirely. It would be easier to be unconscious than to be rolled by the god and his outsize, inhuman, emotions.

“Exactly. Balance. This one and that one cannot exist without each other. It is more in your jurisdiction than mine to reverse these deals, however. I am the Gatekeeper, but you, you are the Trickster. All must bow to your whim: man, gods - and demons.” Legba grinned, an expression so utterly devoid of humanity that Sam was surprised that Dean's skin didn't just crack and flake off. Sam wondered if he looked similarly inhuman to Dean's hijacked perception.

Legba continued, “They already lost one Winchester. Beings so careless shouldn't be allowed the opportunity to possess another.”

“I like the way you think, brother,” Kalfou replied. Sam felt him fill with glee. “Things would be much less amusing without the pair of them. I've seen what happens to this one when he's out of balance. No fun at all.” Kalfou moved closer to Legba. “I'll do it, reverse the deal. Get that one's soul back.”

“If you do this, you can't mess with the boys any longer, you understand?” Legba pointed his pipe warningly at Kalfou.

“After this, I'll have no more interest in crossing their paths - unless they cross mine first.”

“Fair enough.” Legba drew again on his pipe and puffed out a cloud of smoke. It grew larger and larger. It was so dark that light fell into it and never came back out.

Kalfou stepped up to the cloud. He peered into it for a moment, and then said, “Ah, there it is.” He reached into it with both hands, and a sound of inhuman rage assaulted Sam's senses. If he'd had any hands, he would have covered his ears, but he had neither. He had to endure the sound with his usurped awareness while it felt like he was being ripped to shreds.

Threads of absolute black raced up Kalfou's arms, following the path of Sam's veins, then disappeared.

Legba waved his hand dismissively and the cloud dispersed as if it had never been. The screaming abruptly stopped.

Kalfou stepped into Legba's space, announcing, “Time this was returned to its rightful owner,” and Sam watched horrified as his hands grasped Dean's face and tipped it up.

Nonononono, Sam chanted to himself as Kalfou pressed his mouth to Legba's, kissing him deeply, slipping his tongue in. Sam could only watch as the darkness poured into Dean's mouth, transmuting into light racing like molten fire through Dean's veins and then disappearing.

It didn't escape Sam's notice that Kalfou left his eyes open so that Sam could see Dean as he kissed him.

Legba chuckled indulgently as Kalfou stepped away. “Always have to be a firestarter, don't you?”

“If it's not fun, why do it?” responded Kalfou. “My work here is done.”

Sam was abruptly returned to his body as Kalfou left him. It felt strange, like a too-large suit. He tumbled to the ground again, catching himself on one hand, panting. He looked up at Legba through sweat-damp hair.

“Is that it? Does he really have his soul back?” Sam gasped, trying to get to his feet.

“Sit, boy. Mortals aren't built to host gods with impunity.”

Sam sank to his knees again, still regarding Legba warily.

“Your brother is free of his contract. You are both your own without lien and prior claim. But!” and here Legba leveled a stern gaze at Sam. “This is the last time intervention will be permitted. You both have to stop making foolish decisions in the name of your love for each other.”

It was so absurd to be lectured by a god using his brother's body and using Dean's exact same tone of voice that Sam really wanted to laugh. But he was just too tired, so he only nodded respectfully.

“Ask your brother how he feels yourself.” Legba said, and suddenly Dean was sprawled in the dirt.

Sam stared at him for a long minute. Dean rolled over onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes.

“Dude,” Dean announced. “Soon as I get the energy I am going to kick your ass.”

Sam scrabbled over to Dean on hands and knees, lifting him up in his arms, snuffling tears into his shoulder, smelling leather and sweat and Dean, just Dean.

Dean, for his part, just flailed weakly at Sam, muttering, “Get off,” with no heat, until Sam pulled away and looked into his face.

“How do you feel? Do you feel any different?”

“How do I feel? I feel like I just got ridden by a god and kissed by my brother - with tongue! How the hell do you think I feel?” Dean's gaze was narrow and furious. He threw Sam's hands off him angrily.

“I didn't kiss you,” Sam protested, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “You know that was just Kalfou, fucking with us.”

Dean pulled himself into a sitting position by the simple expedient of using the front of Sam's t-shirt as a ladder.

“You got snot on the leather.” observed Dean tartly.

“Forgive me for being relieved that you're not going to Hell.” retorted Sam, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

At that, Dean's face clouded over with anger again.

“Jesus, Sam, what were you thinkin'? Don't you know how dangerous it is to mess with voodoo?”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Dean, there's nothing I wouldn't do to get you out of the deal. Nothing. If I had to storm the gates of Hell to save you, I'd do it. And it's not like I haven't done this before. I just wanted to ask Legba a question. It just, uh, it just sorta snowballed from there.” Sam spread his hands. “I didn't mean for any of the other stuff to happen. But I can't be sorry that it did. You're out of the deal. Free and clear. Forever.”

Dean, kneeling in the dirt, looked up into the Louisiana sky. He patted his chest as if he were looking for something in his pockets, and then smoothed his palms over the front of his shirt. He sighed.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked Sam.

“Because you'd try to stop me. Like you did. As it is, you messed things up plenty by showing up when you did, but it all turned out for the best.”

“You ever think that there's a demon out there that's pretty pissed off at us right now?” Dean kept staring at the sky. Sam chuckled.

“Just one?” he said. “It'll have to get in line.”

Dean was silent for a moment, and then he looked over at Sam and grinned.

“I guess it will,” he said.

“Do you feel any different?” Sam pressed.

“I feel -“ Dean's voice hitched a little. “I feel like I got another chance, Sammy.” He clenched his jaw, teeth gritted against any possible leakage of emotion. Sam looked away, his eyes filling up again with tears of relief.

Dean stood, then proffered a hand to Sam and pulled him up. He threw his arms around Sam in a quick, fierce hug. “Never do that again, Sam.”

“Back atcha, Dean. No more stupid deals, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean started back along the road.

“How'd you find me, anyway?” Sam asked.

Dean looked thoughtful. “I decided to go for a drive and ended up out here. I saw you at the crossroads and got closer to stop you if you were doing something stupid. And then…everything else happened.”

“Kind of like you were being led,” Sam's voice was thoughtful.

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean got to the Impala and swung himself inside. Sam followed suit on the passenger side. Dean looked over at Sam. “You, by the way? Worst kisser ever.”

“Dude, you didn't even feel it,” Sam protested.

“I did, it was so bad even Legba thought so.” Dean replied, starting up the car and driving out into the night.

“Then Legba should take it up with Kalfou, because I did not kiss you.” Sam insisted. “Gross. I'm gonna need about a gallon of mouthwash.”

The casual observer could be forgiven in thinking that Sam and Dean's bickering was less than loving, less than kind. But for the two of them, the underlying message being transmitted was very simple.

I'm okay, Sammy. Thank you.

I love you, too, Dean.

-- fin