The Dumb Oxen of Lawrence
Aug. 17th, 2013 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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saroseficsPlease heed the warnings. I hesitated about posting this because I know it won't be everyone's cup of tea, but it really does all come out right in the end.
Pairing: Gen (though there is about half a page of Sam/OFC and Dean/OFC at the very end)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~6,700
Warnings: This story is very much in the vein of darker fairy tales--temporary slavery, amnesiac humans used as draft animals while under enchantment, non-graphic/non-sexual physical abuse (absolutely no sexual contact occurs), non-explicit/non-sexual nudity, humiliation, good ol' Winchester self-loathing --BUT I promise it has a happy ending, and the entire dark part has a purpose that is revealed in the eucatastrophe.
Notes: AU from the end of Season 7. Inspired by Sir Orfeo, "Leaf by Niggle," and just about every non-Disney fairy tale I've ever read. The beginning is actually an idea I very nearly tried to pitch to Jeremy Carver for the Season 8 premiere... and I sort of wish I had, although this tale took a left turn at Phoenix as I was writing it.
Summary: Out of leads and out of hope, Sam turns to the one being in the world he thinks stands a chance of being able to find and help him rescue Dean and Cas: the king of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. But mixing Winchesters and Sidhe could be perilous even at the best of times. With Sam's sanity still being questionable and Dean still raw from Purgatory, can either brother find "happily ever after" in his vocabulary?
The Dumb Oxen of Lawrence
A Fairy Tale
By San Antonio Rose
There were many who came to Lough Lean every year. Some wanted only to see the view. Some sought the fairies, though few deserved the fairies’ notice. Some sought help; some sought death and either found it more swiftly than they hoped or found themselves back in Killarney unharmed.
Few caught Manannan’s attention the way this tall young American had.
It was ages that were on him, not years, and deep sorrow, deep as the ocean he’d crossed to seek Danu’s people. He was weary and desperate and very nearly mad. As the poor mortal sat sighing on the shore of Lough Lean, he seemed not to know whether he saw what he hoped to see or only a trick of his mind. Betimes he pressed hard on his left hand with the thumb of his right, as if to assure himself of what was real.
Manannan made up his mind to find out what the man wanted and showed himself.
The man barely looked up. “O’Donoghue?”
Manannan smiled. “You’re read the Yeats, I see. Good book, that. Aye, ’tis one of the names that’s on me. And who might you be?”
“Sam Winchester.”
Manannan’s smile faded. The whole of Faërie knew of the Winchester lads.
But Sam looked up more then. “Please. I need your help. My brother’s gone, and... I can’t find him.”
“How do you mean?”
“We—he and a friend and I—we went to kill Dick Roman, the-the alpha Leviathan. And... it worked, but he exploded, and Dean and Cas... they’re just gone. I have to find him, save him.”
“And why do you seek the help of the Sidhe?”
“Dean’s fae-touched.” When Manannan didn’t reply to that, Sam stammered, “I—I just—I thought if... if anyone would know how to find him, it—it’d be the king of the fairies.”
“And what will you give in return?”
“You can have him,” came the murmured reply. “You can have us both.” Manannan frowned, but Sam raised a hand and shook his head. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I’ll not do business with a man who’d sell—”
“I’m not selling my brother. I’m selling me, my soul.”
Manannan’s frown turned puzzled.
“Look, God knows I don’t deserve it, but Dean’s not gonna let me do this alone. Just give me time to convince him this is the best way. But... we’ve been to Hell. We’ve been to Heaven. Earth’s got nothing left for us. I don’t care what you do to me, but... Dean deserves a happy ending after... after everything.” Sam’s exhausted, defeated eyes pleaded more eloquently than his mouth could.
Manannan sighed and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Go back to Killarney, lad. Get some food. Get some sleep. I’ll send for you when I know something.”
Sam heaved a sigh as heavy as the ages that hung on him. “Okay.”
“Sam. I will send for you. And soon.”
Sam nodded and stood.
“Do you happen to know which fairies have dealt with your brother?”
“Not by name. There... there was a town in Indiana—Elwood—where a man had summoned a leprechaun to help with his business, and the fairies ended up taking a bunch of firstborn sons, including Dean. Dean was the only one who fought back, so they let him go.”
“When was this? How long ago?”
“Yearrrr and a... half? Yeah, I think... about then.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I kinda... didn’t have a soul at the time,” he confessed in a rush. “I mean, my... soul was still in the Cage with Lucifer and Istilldon’tknowhowitworked sopleasedon’task, but....”
Manannan put a steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s all right, lad. I’ll do what I can. Go on.”
Sam nodded and left. Manannan blew out a breath, summoned a sentry, and sent him to fetch the leprechaun who’d been responsible for the Elwood fiasco.
Part of Sam couldn’t believe he’d thought this was a good idea, sending the Impala and the last of his stuff to Jodi Mills before maxing out the last of his fake credit cards to buy a standby ticket for an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up; now he was stuck here with no better leads and hardly even a promise from the fairies. He’d used most of the last of his cash on a one-way train ticket to Killarney, and he barely had enough left for a meal at a pub and a room for the night. There certainly wasn’t enough left to get drunk on, but the pint of Guinness he had with his food packed enough of a punch combined with the jet lag that he conked out as soon as he got back to his room, not even bothering to undress—not that there’d be any point, since he hadn’t brought even a shaving kit with him.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when the insistent ringing of the room telephone woke him.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mr. Sambora,” said the desk clerk’s lilting, apologetic voice when he answered. “Says Mr. O’Donoghue sends his regards.”
That jolted Sam wide awake. “I’ll be right down,” he replied. He ran to the bathroom to finger-comb his hair into something like submission and swipe some toothpaste over his teeth with his finger (and why he had toothpaste but no toothbrush, he had no idea), then bolted down to the front desk to meet his visitor.
“Ah, Mr. Sambora,” said the cabbie who was standing at the desk with a knowing smile. “If you’ll just come with me, please.”
Sam nodded. “Sure. Thanks.” He tossed his room key onto the desk with a nod to the clerk and followed the cabbie outside and into the cab at the curb.
“Don’t be nervous, now, Sam,” the cabbie said as Sam buckled his seatbelt. “Things might be a bit out of the ordinary, but you’ll not be harmed.”
“Have they found my brother?” Sam asked breathlessly.
“Patience, my lad, patience.”
With that they drove away, through the streets of Killarney, out to Lough Lean—and then the cabbie merrily drove off the shore and down into the water. Sam panicked for a second, but there was still plenty of air in the cab as it dove through the dark water and toward a growing light at the bottom of the lake.
“What is that?” Sam asked, leaning forward to get a better view.
“Och, don’t you know? Why, ’tis Tír-na-nOg, the Land of Youth!”
Sam suddenly had the chorus of “Yellow Submarine” stuck in his head—only the cab wasn’t yellow, it was black. He couldn’t remember reading anything about amphibious fairy taxis in the lore. Welcome to the 21st century, he thought half-hysterically.
He didn’t know when they switched from diving through water to diving through air, but there was definitely air and not water surrounding him when the cab finally came to a stop on the street in front of a shining palace and a footman opened the cab door to let him out. Sam took a couple of deep breaths and followed the footman inside, trying to remember his manners and not run. He couldn’t even process the splendor of what he was seeing; he just had to get to O’Donoghue to find out what news there was of Dean.
It took forever, but the footman finally led him into the room where a grim-faced O’Donoghue was waiting and announced, “Mr. Sam Winchester from America, sire.”
“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked. “Have you found him? How is he?”
O’Donoghue grabbed him by the shoulders. “Steady, Sam. Breathe.”
Sam gulped down a breath and let it out again.
“Yes, we’ve found Dean. He’s alive.”
“So where is he?”
“In Purgatory.”
Sam breathed hard a couple of times and ran a hand over his mouth, trying to pull himself together. He couldn’t open a portal to Purgatory using Ellie Visyak’s spell; not only was it too insanely dangerous, not only did he not have the right ingredients, but Death would surely kill him if he tried. But maybe if... if the leprechaun hadn’t been lying about being able to get his soul out of the Cage, then... well, O’Donoghue hadn’t told him there wasn’t a way....
“What do you need?” he asked aloud. “My blood, a limb, my liver, my heart? Name it.”
“Steady, now,” O’Donoghue said again. “We’re not like the Unseelies; there’s no need of blood or the like. But we will need you, and you’ll need your strength. You’d best eat.”
That gave Sam exactly one second’s pause. He knew the lore about eating fairy food—but what the hell... he hadn’t had breakfast, and he’d already promised his soul in repayment. “Okay.”
There was a big round table in the room already, and now a meal appeared in front of the chair nearest to Sam. O’Donoghue steered him into it and waited as he wolfed the food down. Sam thought the food probably tasted pretty good—at least it wasn’t bad—and he didn’t register any sensation that felt like magic, but he was too anxious and eating too fast to even properly taste the food until he got to the last couple of bites and finally realized that he was getting full. And by then it didn’t matter.
“Okay,” Sam sighed after swallowing the last bite. “What now?”
“Hold hard. Let that settle a bit while I show you to your chambers.”
Sam started to object that he hardly deserved chambers of his own but thought better of it. “Yes, sir.”
O’Donoghue nodded once and led him slowly through another maze of hallways to a suite. There were a bunch of fairies in armor in the bedroom, along with a silver bowl on a pedestal that reminded him of the Mirror of Galadriel standing at the foot of the bed. O’Donoghue introduced him to the assembled fairies, who saluted him.
“So what’s the plan?” Sam asked.
O’Donoghue handed him a vial of some bluish-green potion. “Firstly, drink this.”
Sam carefully withdrew the stopper, sniffed of the potion, and finding that it didn’t smell dangerous, tossed it back like a shot of whisky. “Okay,” he said, handing the vial back, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded—the stuff hadn’t burned on the way down.
“Now.” O’Donoghue guided him to stand between the pedestal and the bed. “Think of your brother, and look into the water.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment and called up every happy memory of Dean he could reach quickly, and each one seemed to tug him toward the pedestal. He opened his eyes and looked into the water, which went cloudy—or maybe his eyes were going swimmy—until it finally focused on a washed-out forest, where Dean and Cas were back to back and fighting for their lives. As the potion took effect, Sam found himself getting dizzier and dizzier, swaying back and forth as he fought to keep his balance.
“Now let go,” said O’Donoghue, and Sam felt himself falling headlong into the water and backward onto the bed at the same time as he blacked out.
When his head and his vision cleared, he was riding, riding, charging through the air with a host of armed fairies following him toward Dean and Cas. Sam couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or not, but he had a sword in his own hand, and they swooped down on the monsters and drove them away before circling back to Dean and Cas.
“Sammy, what the hell—” Dean began.
“Don’t ask,” Sam replied, sheathing his sword and holding out a hand to help Dean up on the horse behind him.
But even as he grabbed Sam’s hand, Dean turned back and held out his other hand to Cas. “Who the hell are these guys?”
Cas just shook his head. “They’re Sidhe, Dean. Angels can’t live in Faërie. I can’t come with you.”
“What do you mean, you can’t come with us? We’re not leaving you!”
“Dean,” Sam objected.
“Our time grows short,” one of the fairies reported. “We must leave now.”
“Cas, come on!” Dean demanded.
Cas backed away, still shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dean. Don’t worry about me. Just go!”
As if that had been an order, the fairy horses took off, forcing Sam to tighten his grip on Dean’s wrist so Dean wouldn’t be left behind.
Yet still Dean kept reaching back. “Cas! CAS!!”
Sam wanted to look back and stop Dean from flailing, pull him onto the horse’s back, chide him for being so stubborn about rescuing someone who didn’t want to be rescued—hell, yell at Cas himself for being so stupid as to want to remain in Purgatory—but he knew the Orpheus myth too well. So as much as it killed him to leave Cas behind, even as tears streamed down his face and the dark sky closed down around them, he gritted his teeth, strengthened his iron grip on Dean’s wrist, and did. Not. Look. Back.
“CAAAAAAAS!!!”
Sam woke with a loud gasp and sat bolt upright. He was on the bed in the fairy palace, and it didn’t look like anyone else in the room had moved. But there was something solid and warm around which his right hand was still clutched in a death grip, a warm body slumped on the floor next to his legs, and a noise like Dean trying desperately not to cry.
“Cas, dammit....”
“Dean,” Sam breathed.
Dean gasped and popped up off the floor like he’d been burned, spinning to face him wide-eyed. “Sam!”
“It worked.” Sam finally let go of Dean’s wrist, only to jump up himself and pull his brother into a desperate hug. “I can’t believe it worked.”
“Sammy,” Dean sobbed, grabbing the back of Sam’s shirt with both hands. “I knew you’d find me.”
“I’m so sorry about Cas.”
Dean sniffled. “Hey. Not your fault. At least you got me out, even if you did nearly rip my arm off.”
Sam huffed a chuckle. “Also not my fault. If you’d just gotten on the damn horse....”
Dean snorted, thumped Sam on the back once, and backed away to arm’s length. Then he sobered. “Sam, Cas said those guys were fae. What’d you do?”
“Dean....”
“Did you make a deal?”
“I was out of options. Nobody else could find you. And they’d already claimed you once.”
“Dammit—” Dean looked around and picked out O’Donoghue immediately, then advanced on the fairy king, pointing at Sam. “Let him go.”
“It’s too late, Dean,” O’Donoghue said quietly. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. Sam’s already eaten our food, of his own free will. ’Tis the law of the magic; there’s naught I can do.”
Dean rounded on Sam. “You ate the food?”
Sam held out his hands. “I’d already made the deal. Besides, what have we got to go back to? All our friends are dead!”
Dean stalked a few paces away, running a hand over his nose and mouth.
Sam sighed heavily and turned away, head bowed. “I’m sorry, Dean. You don’t have to stay.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
And as if on a PA system, Sam heard his own words playing back to them: I don’t care what you do to me, but... Dean deserves a happy ending after... after everything.
Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders and spun him around. “Dammit, Sam, my only happy ending is for you to have a happy ending! What’s left for me back there without you, huh? You think I deserve that apple-pie life and you don’t? You think I can live on Earth knowing you’re... you’re... Sammy?”
Sam suddenly felt woozy again, his head spinning, his vision tunneling.
“Sammy?!”
“’Sokay, D’n. G’... g’head... leave me....” Sam’s eyes fluttered shut as his knees gave way.
“SAM!”
When he woke, he had no memory.
He had no names for anything—for himself, who he was, what he was, where he was. He could hardly see. There were things on him, things that did not move when he did, but some of them made noise. Not that he could move much. He was heavy in his middle and did not even have the strength to lift his head.
He had done terrible things, he knew somehow. He deserved no better.
He slept and woke again when something touched him. Somehow the touches got him to roll over and rise a little way, and something was pushed under his nose. He blinked and sniffed. It smelled wet, and he realized he was thirsty. He licked at it a little, and the wet was cool and sweet and went down his throat and felt good. Then something else was put in front of him, next to the cold-wet, and he sniffed it and licked at it and it stuck to his tongue. He pulled his tongue back and the things on his tongue rolled between his teeth and crunched when he bit down. He crunched them up and swallowed, and it was good. He was hungry. So he lapped alternately at the cold-wet and the small-crunchy until he was satisfied. Then he lay down again, and the cold-wet and the small-crunchy were taken away, and he slept.
The same thing happened again a few more times, but then one time he wasn’t allowed to lie down again. Something tapped his back end until he rose a little further, and then something pulled at the cold-hard around his neck, and he shuffled forward as best he could. Something about the way he was moving seemed wrong—his front-movers were straighter than his back-movers, and he didn’t think there was supposed to be a cold-hard around his tender bits—but he couldn’t remember what right would have been.
And even so, he had done terrible things. He deserved no better.
He still couldn’t really see well, but the texture he was moving over changed from hard-scratchy to soft-crumbly, and the smell was different. Then the pulling stopped and something pushed his shoulder, and he stopped and stayed still. He heard a noise like what he made when he moved coming up beside him, but he didn’t have the strength to look to see what made it.
Something hard slid between his neck-thing and his shoulders, but it didn’t push on his throat. He stayed very still. Then something heavy, hard-behind-soft, came down to rest across the back of his neck. There were clicks. Still, he did not move, even though he didn’t understand. The hard-heavy shifted a little.
There was a loud moving noise and a cry, and the hard-heavy jolted and hurt him. He yelped—but he had no words. There was a crack and a smell—a bad scary smell, and he remembered hot and sharp and cold and tearing and bad bad bad. He panicked and tried to bolt, but he was caught in the hard-heavy, and then there were more cracks and more hurt until he finally just lay straight down and stopped moving.
They took the hard-heavy off then and took him back to the other place. He lay very still there and hurt and knew he deserved no better.
After another sleep and a shuffle over to a corner to make wet and stinky and a shuffle back to where he could sleep again, there was more small-crunchy and cold-wet, and then he was taken back out again. So was the other... he still didn’t have a word, hadn’t seen, couldn’t smell or touch. They put the hard-heavy back on him, and he stayed very still, even though he was shaking. So did the other.
Something new was pushed under his nose then, white and hard. He sniffed and took it gently with his teeth. It crunched a little in his teeth—but when his mouth-wet touched it, it tasted sweet! This was good, then? Well, he would take it, anyway, and crunched up white-sweet the rest of the way and drank the cold-wet that was given to him. And he wasn’t hurt, so that was good.
Then they tapped his back end to tell him to move, and he started to, but the other didn’t quite the same way, and hard-heavy pushed wrong, and he stumbled. He got up and tried to look to see how to stay with the other, but he looked the wrong way, and they got more and more confused, and there were more cracks and more hurt and no more white-sweet that day. But the corner where he’d made stinky was clean again when he went back, and there was a box there where he could make stinky and it would be not-stinky, so the day wasn’t all bad.
The next day they put hard-heavy on him a different way, and when he looked—why, there was his other! (That wasn’t the right word, he knew, but it was almost the right word, so he stuck with it.) He watched his other’s front-movers when it was time to move, and soon they could start and stop together and not stumble at all. There was more white-sweet after that, and someone rubbed something on his back when he went inside, and there was no more hurt.
Next came turning. There were cracks then, but no hurt, and he and his other didn’t stumble and learned what sound meant left and what sound meant right and what sounds meant start, stop, and faster or slower. Then they added wide-slaps, and he and his other learned the same thing again, only with someone behind them. This was all good.
Then there was a day with no hard-heavy. He was taken out after he ate, but someone new came and poured cold-wet over him and rubbed him all over and washed the dirty away. Then the new someone gave him white-sweet for no reason and made a tinkly happy noise when he took it from her, petted his head as he ate it, and made the same noise when he licked her hand once to thank her. Then she pushed her lips against the top of his head and left, and he was taken back inside and given more to eat, and then he was left to rest.
That was good. He didn’t deserve it, but that was good.
The next day, though, things were confusing again. He and his other were taken out again, but to another place, and when hard-heavy and wide-slaps were there, they added something else before the wide-slaps signaled Start. He and his other started... but the new thing was very heavy and stuck on something, and he and his other couldn’t go fast. There were cracks and hurt, and he pulled as best as he could, but they couldn’t go fast, and finally he couldn’t keep going at all. He stumbled and fell down and couldn’t get up even when they stopped hurting him and took hard-heavy off. They let him lie there until he could get up again, then took him inside.
There was something new in his food the next morning, warm and chewy. It tasted good, so he ate it all. His cold-wet was different, too, white with a new taste, but it was good. He felt much better and stronger after that, and though he and his other were still slow, they didn’t stumble or tire so fast. But other than for cold-wet and day-food, there was no stopping, not even for making wet or stinky. That wasn’t good—but he deserved no better.
He got stronger and better at pulling the heavy thing, and soon he and his other were going pretty fast every day. They went to other places to pull the heavy thing and finished at each place faster than they had the place before. There was more white-sweet when they did good. And every however-many days, the other somebody would come and wash him and clip his head-hair and chin-hair, and that was good.
Then one morning he woke to find one of the cold-hards gone—and he remembered what his hands were and what they did. He could see better, too.
His food was different again. His drink was in a cup—how did he know what that was?—and his food was in a bowl with a spoon, and it was soft and warm. He ate and drank and felt good, but he didn’t understand.
Then Master—where had that name come from?—took him to the first place where he and his other had pulled the heavy thing. But there was no hard-heavy this time. Master led him to a place and nudged him to sit up with his front showing, and then Master put something around his neck that hung down by one hand. Then Master handed him a pointy thing that he thought he should know how to use, and he tried holding it a couple of different ways but wasn’t sure what was right.
Master got down in front of him, motioned watch me, and pushed the pointy thing into the ground to make a hole. That wasn’t right, but he did the same thing anyway. Then Master reached into the hanging thing and took out some small things to drop in the hole and covered the hole again. He did the same. Master looked happy and pointed away to his left, then got up and walked away. He still didn’t quite understand, but he moved over a little way and did the poke-drop-cover again while they brought what sounded like his other out to do the same thing.
But his other wasn’t like him. His other made a noise that made him look up—
That was what pointy things were for! KILL BAD!
Only they hit and hurt his other, and when he tried to go help and kill bad, they hurt him, too, until he put pointy thing down and stopped moving. Then they took him back inside.
When they took him out again the next day, he didn’t look up at all. Pointy things weren’t for kill bad. Pointy things were for poke-drop-cover.
But they brought his other over next to him—on the wrong side, but still. His other was beside him. And then Master took a clanky thing and put it between his neck-thing and his other’s neck-thing. That... felt better. Then Master gave the pointy thing to him and the hanging thing to his other. He thought he got the idea. He poked, and his other did drop-cover. Master looked happy, pointed where to go, and walked away.
This was easier, better. He and his other worked together, and it was good and went fast. They went far before day-food, when they could stop and eat... and for the first time, he could turn and see his other.
Green was all he could think, green eyes like grass. (He’d tried to eat grass once. That was bad. This green was good.) He and his other made surprised noises at the same time. But then Master came, and day-food was over.
When he went back inside at the end of the day, inside looked too big. He looked up—and there was no wall between him and his other.
Before he could figure out what to do, his other came over to where the wall should be, put a hand up, and pushed a little. The hand crossed over to his side. His other hurried across where the wall should be, over to his side, next to him.
This was good. This was so good.
His other looked at him for a moment, then raised a hand again and touched his knee, his shoulder, the dark mark on his front (his other had one just like it). Then his other’s hand touched the side of his face and rubbed a little. And that was right. So he touched his other’s shoulder and rubbed a little.
His other pulled him forward until their fronts touched and wrapped both arms around him. And that was right, too, so he wrapped both arms around his other, and his other made a happy noise.
They stayed like that until food came, and then they had to move apart to eat. But after that, he went to where the wall had been and lay down and looked at his other. His other looked at him for a moment, then came over and touched his face again and lay down beside him. It took some shifting to figure out how to lie without their cold-hards touching—it hurt when that happened—but they got it, and he slept and felt happy.
In the morning, there was only one door.
Things stayed mostly the same after that. After poke-drop-cover in all the places, there was pull-and-give-cold-wet, and green-pull-up and green-not-pull-up, and flying-thing-scare, and those went on for quite a while. His pretty would still come and wash him and clip him and give him white-sweet, and sometimes he and his other would play-fierce before the wash and his pretty and his other’s pretty would laugh, and sometimes his pretty would want to play-fierce and he would play-chase and play-catch-and-miss, and she would laugh. And that was good.
Sometimes he would dream, though, and remember bad things and cry out, and his other would wake him and pet his face until he could stop crying. Sometimes his other would dream bad things, too, and he would do the same for his other because... well, it was right, that’s why.
Once things were bad on wash-day, though. His other’s pretty was making noises to him and patting his head, and suddenly his other growled and knocked him over and hit his face, and it wasn’t play. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he was sorry, so he went still and limp on his back. His other’s hands wrapped around his throat and pushed a little, but he didn’t move, and neither did his other, not for a long moment. Then his other let go—but the pretties were leaving, and Master came and put them back inside. His other went to the far wall and wouldn’t look at him, so he went to the corner by his box and curled up and lay down facing the wall. He didn’t move for a long time, not even when food came and he heard his other eat, crunch-crunch-bad. There was a long pause, and then his other came over and shook his shoulder. He didn’t move, but his other kept shaking until he finally rolled over, and his other looked sorry and handed him his food. He ate, and things were better again, but he stayed away from his other’s pretty after that.
Then one day he woke before daylight to find the cold-hard on his legs was gone—and he remembered that he was a man.
Shame at what he’d endured washed over him, but still he knew that he had done terrible things and deserved no better. But more things than his memory, such as it was, had changed. He and his other had something soft between them and the straw, and something soft over them, and he remembered that this was a bed. There was no more straw on the floor, just bare wood, unfinished but smooth enough not to hurt his feet. He had pants on—just pants, and scratchy ones that only came to the knee, but they covered him nonetheless. There was no more box in his corner, but two new little doors in a new wall that made the room smaller; one went to a toilet, and one went to a small shower. There was a sink in the room, too, and a table with two chairs, and in his other’s wall, there was a new window that looked out on one of the fields they had been working.
He wondered whether this was what he deserved or better than he deserved.
He was still looking out the window when his other woke and explored the room just as he had. But they didn’t—couldn’t—speak, only sign and grunt still. That felt wrong, but he hadn’t figured it out before food came. And food was different, too, on a plate and fit for a man... eggs and bacon and ham and other things he didn’t really think he had ever had names for. And there was coffee to drink, and that was very good.
Better than he deserved? Possibly. Quite possibly.
After they ate, Master took them to one of the fields where the tall plants had started turning brown in spite of their watering. Master picked up a big metal-and-wood thing and went to the near corner of the field, hooked the metal part around a bunch of plants, and—cut them down!
He and his other cried out in dismay.
But Master picked up one plant and rubbed the top of it and held the top out for him to smell, and it smelled like grain. He picked up a piece carefully and tasted it, and there was the crunchy feel and sweet-nutty taste he’d been eating all along. Now he understood, and his other did the same and also understood. Then Master signed that he should cut and his other should gather until they had enough to tie together, and they understood that, too. There were no more whips, no more beatings, only a handing over of the tool and a sign that meant Get on with it.
He and his other worked hard all that day until it was too dark to work more, and they did the same the next day and the next until all the grain was cut down. And when all the grain was cut, he and his other had to shake the grain out of the straw and put the grain in bags, and then some of the bags got poured into a thing with a big wheel that he and his other had to turn together by pushing on the poles that stuck out of it. He missed seeing the pretty ladies, but he was grateful for the shower because neither he nor his other had to go to bed dirty, and he was always so tired at the end of the day that he ate and showered and went straight to bed.
Finally, he woke and things were better still. The scratchy pants and the thing on his family jewels were gone, replaced by real underwear and soft pants that reached down to his ankles, and he was wearing a shirt. He felt of his face and discovered that his beard, which he hadn’t had time even to trim, was gone. There was a rug on the floor, and shoes and socks beside the bed, and a mirror over the sink that he looked in and didn’t recognize the face looking out. Breakfast was already on the table, too, so he woke his other and they ate.
Then Master came with two of his helpers. Master nodded, and one helper came and took off his collar while the other helper did the same for his other—and full memory came flooding back.
“Dean,” Sam gasped, turning to his brother, at the same time Dean gasped, “Sammy!”
“Dude, you okay?” Dean continued.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”
“Yeah, yeah—but what. The ever-loving. HELL was that all about?!” Dean exploded at Master—O’Donoghue.
“I gave you each what you thought you deserved for yourselves,” O’Donoghue replied calmly. Before Dean could splutter his way into anything like a coherent sentence, O’Donoghue held up a hand. “It had to be this way—else you could not receive what each of you most wanted for the other.”
That took the wind right out of both brothers’ sails. “What?” Dean asked weakly.
“You lads have brought us a fine harvest. Won’t you come enjoy your reward?”
I’ve got my brother back, Sam wanted to say. That’s my reward. I don’t deserve anything more. But Dean looked like he wanted to say the same thing, and Sam wanted more than that for Dean, so much more when he had the chance to be on the good side of the king of fairies and out of the hunting/destiny/whose-Apocalypse-is-it-anyway crossfire. And if getting a good life for Dean meant accepting a good life for himself....
“How can I say no?” they both replied at the same time.
Then O’Donoghue smiled and led them into his throne room and presented them to the court, and everybody cheered. And he ordered a bounty paid to each brother—a pound of emeralds for every blow, a pound of diamonds for every lash, a pound of silver for every day without clothes and a pound of gold for every day without their memories, and a castle for the two of them with a servant for every day’s worth of labor and a horse for every day of rest. Everybody cheered again, but Sam was about ready to hyperventilate. At least, he would have if he hadn’t looked over at Dean and seen the way he was grinning at the thought of all that treasure and known that Dean was planning to do a Scrooge McDuck if he got even half a chance. Then he had to fight a giggle fit.
Hell, this was Faërie. It might actually work and not, y’know, end with Dean landing with a thud on the surface and complaining about how hard gold was. Either way, he really wanted to see Dean try.
“And finally,” O’Donoghue said, startling Sam back to attention. “No gift that I can give can fully repay what you men have done for this world by ending the Apocalypse and returning Leviathan to Purgatory. I can come no closer than to give you in marriage my two foster-daughters who tended you during your enchantment.”
Sam felt himself blush to his collarbones as ‘his pretty’ and ‘his other’s pretty’—two of the most beautiful women in the room, and that was saying something—stepped out of the crowd and curtseyed to him and Dean, respectively. Yeah, he’d seen some action on Earth, more than Dean even knew, but looking back....
His lady seemed to realize what he was thinking and shook her head with a quiet laugh. “Nay, a mhuirnín,* I loved you when first you came to beg for your brother’s life. I’ll not ask such play of you again as we had these last months—though there’s other sport to be had, I’ve no doubt,” she added with a smirk that made his mouth go dry.
“Well, go on, lad,” O’Donoghue said with a chuckle.
Sam swallowed hard and finally repaid all the kisses she’d rained on his witless head these last... however long it had been, and everyone cheered so loud the walls shook.
Then she and her sister pulled him and Dean away to a feast—and what a feast it was! Sam had never seen so much food in his entire life, and he was quite sure Dean never had, either. It was full medieval style, too, with O’Donoghue and his wife seated at the middle of the high table and Dean and his new wife to one side and Sam and his new wife to the other, and umpteen courses served from the other side of the table, and jesters and jugglers and dancers and musicians and on and on doing their thing in turns in the middle of the hall. Sam ate until he couldn’t eat anymore and tried to drink in moderation but wasn’t sure he managed, and then he sat out a few courses just to pay attention to the entertainment, and then he ate again until he really couldn’t eat anymore.
Until they brought out an apple pie, and he had to at least toast his brother with a bite of that. And Dean was flushed from the strong wine and the good food and the hot chick to the point that he might have actually been glowing, but when Sam raised his fork in salute, Dean glowed all the brighter and raised his fork in return.
And after that... well, the fairies invented “happily ever after,” didn’t they?
* a mhuirnín – sweetheart
Pairing: Gen (though there is about half a page of Sam/OFC and Dean/OFC at the very end)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~6,700
Warnings: This story is very much in the vein of darker fairy tales--
Notes: AU from the end of Season 7. Inspired by Sir Orfeo, "Leaf by Niggle," and just about every non-Disney fairy tale I've ever read. The beginning is actually an idea I very nearly tried to pitch to Jeremy Carver for the Season 8 premiere... and I sort of wish I had, although this tale took a left turn at Phoenix as I was writing it.
Summary: Out of leads and out of hope, Sam turns to the one being in the world he thinks stands a chance of being able to find and help him rescue Dean and Cas: the king of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. But mixing Winchesters and Sidhe could be perilous even at the best of times. With Sam's sanity still being questionable and Dean still raw from Purgatory, can either brother find "happily ever after" in his vocabulary?
A Fairy Tale
By San Antonio Rose
There were many who came to Lough Lean every year. Some wanted only to see the view. Some sought the fairies, though few deserved the fairies’ notice. Some sought help; some sought death and either found it more swiftly than they hoped or found themselves back in Killarney unharmed.
Few caught Manannan’s attention the way this tall young American had.
It was ages that were on him, not years, and deep sorrow, deep as the ocean he’d crossed to seek Danu’s people. He was weary and desperate and very nearly mad. As the poor mortal sat sighing on the shore of Lough Lean, he seemed not to know whether he saw what he hoped to see or only a trick of his mind. Betimes he pressed hard on his left hand with the thumb of his right, as if to assure himself of what was real.
Manannan made up his mind to find out what the man wanted and showed himself.
The man barely looked up. “O’Donoghue?”
Manannan smiled. “You’re read the Yeats, I see. Good book, that. Aye, ’tis one of the names that’s on me. And who might you be?”
“Sam Winchester.”
Manannan’s smile faded. The whole of Faërie knew of the Winchester lads.
But Sam looked up more then. “Please. I need your help. My brother’s gone, and... I can’t find him.”
“How do you mean?”
“We—he and a friend and I—we went to kill Dick Roman, the-the alpha Leviathan. And... it worked, but he exploded, and Dean and Cas... they’re just gone. I have to find him, save him.”
“And why do you seek the help of the Sidhe?”
“Dean’s fae-touched.” When Manannan didn’t reply to that, Sam stammered, “I—I just—I thought if... if anyone would know how to find him, it—it’d be the king of the fairies.”
“And what will you give in return?”
“You can have him,” came the murmured reply. “You can have us both.” Manannan frowned, but Sam raised a hand and shook his head. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I’ll not do business with a man who’d sell—”
“I’m not selling my brother. I’m selling me, my soul.”
Manannan’s frown turned puzzled.
“Look, God knows I don’t deserve it, but Dean’s not gonna let me do this alone. Just give me time to convince him this is the best way. But... we’ve been to Hell. We’ve been to Heaven. Earth’s got nothing left for us. I don’t care what you do to me, but... Dean deserves a happy ending after... after everything.” Sam’s exhausted, defeated eyes pleaded more eloquently than his mouth could.
Manannan sighed and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Go back to Killarney, lad. Get some food. Get some sleep. I’ll send for you when I know something.”
Sam heaved a sigh as heavy as the ages that hung on him. “Okay.”
“Sam. I will send for you. And soon.”
Sam nodded and stood.
“Do you happen to know which fairies have dealt with your brother?”
“Not by name. There... there was a town in Indiana—Elwood—where a man had summoned a leprechaun to help with his business, and the fairies ended up taking a bunch of firstborn sons, including Dean. Dean was the only one who fought back, so they let him go.”
“When was this? How long ago?”
“Yearrrr and a... half? Yeah, I think... about then.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I kinda... didn’t have a soul at the time,” he confessed in a rush. “I mean, my... soul was still in the Cage with Lucifer and Istilldon’tknowhowitworked sopleasedon’task, but....”
Manannan put a steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s all right, lad. I’ll do what I can. Go on.”
Sam nodded and left. Manannan blew out a breath, summoned a sentry, and sent him to fetch the leprechaun who’d been responsible for the Elwood fiasco.
Part of Sam couldn’t believe he’d thought this was a good idea, sending the Impala and the last of his stuff to Jodi Mills before maxing out the last of his fake credit cards to buy a standby ticket for an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up; now he was stuck here with no better leads and hardly even a promise from the fairies. He’d used most of the last of his cash on a one-way train ticket to Killarney, and he barely had enough left for a meal at a pub and a room for the night. There certainly wasn’t enough left to get drunk on, but the pint of Guinness he had with his food packed enough of a punch combined with the jet lag that he conked out as soon as he got back to his room, not even bothering to undress—not that there’d be any point, since he hadn’t brought even a shaving kit with him.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when the insistent ringing of the room telephone woke him.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mr. Sambora,” said the desk clerk’s lilting, apologetic voice when he answered. “Says Mr. O’Donoghue sends his regards.”
That jolted Sam wide awake. “I’ll be right down,” he replied. He ran to the bathroom to finger-comb his hair into something like submission and swipe some toothpaste over his teeth with his finger (and why he had toothpaste but no toothbrush, he had no idea), then bolted down to the front desk to meet his visitor.
“Ah, Mr. Sambora,” said the cabbie who was standing at the desk with a knowing smile. “If you’ll just come with me, please.”
Sam nodded. “Sure. Thanks.” He tossed his room key onto the desk with a nod to the clerk and followed the cabbie outside and into the cab at the curb.
“Don’t be nervous, now, Sam,” the cabbie said as Sam buckled his seatbelt. “Things might be a bit out of the ordinary, but you’ll not be harmed.”
“Have they found my brother?” Sam asked breathlessly.
“Patience, my lad, patience.”
With that they drove away, through the streets of Killarney, out to Lough Lean—and then the cabbie merrily drove off the shore and down into the water. Sam panicked for a second, but there was still plenty of air in the cab as it dove through the dark water and toward a growing light at the bottom of the lake.
“What is that?” Sam asked, leaning forward to get a better view.
“Och, don’t you know? Why, ’tis Tír-na-nOg, the Land of Youth!”
Sam suddenly had the chorus of “Yellow Submarine” stuck in his head—only the cab wasn’t yellow, it was black. He couldn’t remember reading anything about amphibious fairy taxis in the lore. Welcome to the 21st century, he thought half-hysterically.
He didn’t know when they switched from diving through water to diving through air, but there was definitely air and not water surrounding him when the cab finally came to a stop on the street in front of a shining palace and a footman opened the cab door to let him out. Sam took a couple of deep breaths and followed the footman inside, trying to remember his manners and not run. He couldn’t even process the splendor of what he was seeing; he just had to get to O’Donoghue to find out what news there was of Dean.
It took forever, but the footman finally led him into the room where a grim-faced O’Donoghue was waiting and announced, “Mr. Sam Winchester from America, sire.”
“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked. “Have you found him? How is he?”
O’Donoghue grabbed him by the shoulders. “Steady, Sam. Breathe.”
Sam gulped down a breath and let it out again.
“Yes, we’ve found Dean. He’s alive.”
“So where is he?”
“In Purgatory.”
Sam breathed hard a couple of times and ran a hand over his mouth, trying to pull himself together. He couldn’t open a portal to Purgatory using Ellie Visyak’s spell; not only was it too insanely dangerous, not only did he not have the right ingredients, but Death would surely kill him if he tried. But maybe if... if the leprechaun hadn’t been lying about being able to get his soul out of the Cage, then... well, O’Donoghue hadn’t told him there wasn’t a way....
“What do you need?” he asked aloud. “My blood, a limb, my liver, my heart? Name it.”
“Steady, now,” O’Donoghue said again. “We’re not like the Unseelies; there’s no need of blood or the like. But we will need you, and you’ll need your strength. You’d best eat.”
That gave Sam exactly one second’s pause. He knew the lore about eating fairy food—but what the hell... he hadn’t had breakfast, and he’d already promised his soul in repayment. “Okay.”
There was a big round table in the room already, and now a meal appeared in front of the chair nearest to Sam. O’Donoghue steered him into it and waited as he wolfed the food down. Sam thought the food probably tasted pretty good—at least it wasn’t bad—and he didn’t register any sensation that felt like magic, but he was too anxious and eating too fast to even properly taste the food until he got to the last couple of bites and finally realized that he was getting full. And by then it didn’t matter.
“Okay,” Sam sighed after swallowing the last bite. “What now?”
“Hold hard. Let that settle a bit while I show you to your chambers.”
Sam started to object that he hardly deserved chambers of his own but thought better of it. “Yes, sir.”
O’Donoghue nodded once and led him slowly through another maze of hallways to a suite. There were a bunch of fairies in armor in the bedroom, along with a silver bowl on a pedestal that reminded him of the Mirror of Galadriel standing at the foot of the bed. O’Donoghue introduced him to the assembled fairies, who saluted him.
“So what’s the plan?” Sam asked.
O’Donoghue handed him a vial of some bluish-green potion. “Firstly, drink this.”
Sam carefully withdrew the stopper, sniffed of the potion, and finding that it didn’t smell dangerous, tossed it back like a shot of whisky. “Okay,” he said, handing the vial back, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded—the stuff hadn’t burned on the way down.
“Now.” O’Donoghue guided him to stand between the pedestal and the bed. “Think of your brother, and look into the water.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment and called up every happy memory of Dean he could reach quickly, and each one seemed to tug him toward the pedestal. He opened his eyes and looked into the water, which went cloudy—or maybe his eyes were going swimmy—until it finally focused on a washed-out forest, where Dean and Cas were back to back and fighting for their lives. As the potion took effect, Sam found himself getting dizzier and dizzier, swaying back and forth as he fought to keep his balance.
“Now let go,” said O’Donoghue, and Sam felt himself falling headlong into the water and backward onto the bed at the same time as he blacked out.
When his head and his vision cleared, he was riding, riding, charging through the air with a host of armed fairies following him toward Dean and Cas. Sam couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or not, but he had a sword in his own hand, and they swooped down on the monsters and drove them away before circling back to Dean and Cas.
“Sammy, what the hell—” Dean began.
“Don’t ask,” Sam replied, sheathing his sword and holding out a hand to help Dean up on the horse behind him.
But even as he grabbed Sam’s hand, Dean turned back and held out his other hand to Cas. “Who the hell are these guys?”
Cas just shook his head. “They’re Sidhe, Dean. Angels can’t live in Faërie. I can’t come with you.”
“What do you mean, you can’t come with us? We’re not leaving you!”
“Dean,” Sam objected.
“Our time grows short,” one of the fairies reported. “We must leave now.”
“Cas, come on!” Dean demanded.
Cas backed away, still shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dean. Don’t worry about me. Just go!”
As if that had been an order, the fairy horses took off, forcing Sam to tighten his grip on Dean’s wrist so Dean wouldn’t be left behind.
Yet still Dean kept reaching back. “Cas! CAS!!”
Sam wanted to look back and stop Dean from flailing, pull him onto the horse’s back, chide him for being so stubborn about rescuing someone who didn’t want to be rescued—hell, yell at Cas himself for being so stupid as to want to remain in Purgatory—but he knew the Orpheus myth too well. So as much as it killed him to leave Cas behind, even as tears streamed down his face and the dark sky closed down around them, he gritted his teeth, strengthened his iron grip on Dean’s wrist, and did. Not. Look. Back.
“CAAAAAAAS!!!”
Sam woke with a loud gasp and sat bolt upright. He was on the bed in the fairy palace, and it didn’t look like anyone else in the room had moved. But there was something solid and warm around which his right hand was still clutched in a death grip, a warm body slumped on the floor next to his legs, and a noise like Dean trying desperately not to cry.
“Cas, dammit....”
“Dean,” Sam breathed.
Dean gasped and popped up off the floor like he’d been burned, spinning to face him wide-eyed. “Sam!”
“It worked.” Sam finally let go of Dean’s wrist, only to jump up himself and pull his brother into a desperate hug. “I can’t believe it worked.”
“Sammy,” Dean sobbed, grabbing the back of Sam’s shirt with both hands. “I knew you’d find me.”
“I’m so sorry about Cas.”
Dean sniffled. “Hey. Not your fault. At least you got me out, even if you did nearly rip my arm off.”
Sam huffed a chuckle. “Also not my fault. If you’d just gotten on the damn horse....”
Dean snorted, thumped Sam on the back once, and backed away to arm’s length. Then he sobered. “Sam, Cas said those guys were fae. What’d you do?”
“Dean....”
“Did you make a deal?”
“I was out of options. Nobody else could find you. And they’d already claimed you once.”
“Dammit—” Dean looked around and picked out O’Donoghue immediately, then advanced on the fairy king, pointing at Sam. “Let him go.”
“It’s too late, Dean,” O’Donoghue said quietly. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. Sam’s already eaten our food, of his own free will. ’Tis the law of the magic; there’s naught I can do.”
Dean rounded on Sam. “You ate the food?”
Sam held out his hands. “I’d already made the deal. Besides, what have we got to go back to? All our friends are dead!”
Dean stalked a few paces away, running a hand over his nose and mouth.
Sam sighed heavily and turned away, head bowed. “I’m sorry, Dean. You don’t have to stay.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
And as if on a PA system, Sam heard his own words playing back to them: I don’t care what you do to me, but... Dean deserves a happy ending after... after everything.
Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders and spun him around. “Dammit, Sam, my only happy ending is for you to have a happy ending! What’s left for me back there without you, huh? You think I deserve that apple-pie life and you don’t? You think I can live on Earth knowing you’re... you’re... Sammy?”
Sam suddenly felt woozy again, his head spinning, his vision tunneling.
“Sammy?!”
“’Sokay, D’n. G’... g’head... leave me....” Sam’s eyes fluttered shut as his knees gave way.
“SAM!”
When he woke, he had no memory.
He had no names for anything—for himself, who he was, what he was, where he was. He could hardly see. There were things on him, things that did not move when he did, but some of them made noise. Not that he could move much. He was heavy in his middle and did not even have the strength to lift his head.
He had done terrible things, he knew somehow. He deserved no better.
He slept and woke again when something touched him. Somehow the touches got him to roll over and rise a little way, and something was pushed under his nose. He blinked and sniffed. It smelled wet, and he realized he was thirsty. He licked at it a little, and the wet was cool and sweet and went down his throat and felt good. Then something else was put in front of him, next to the cold-wet, and he sniffed it and licked at it and it stuck to his tongue. He pulled his tongue back and the things on his tongue rolled between his teeth and crunched when he bit down. He crunched them up and swallowed, and it was good. He was hungry. So he lapped alternately at the cold-wet and the small-crunchy until he was satisfied. Then he lay down again, and the cold-wet and the small-crunchy were taken away, and he slept.
The same thing happened again a few more times, but then one time he wasn’t allowed to lie down again. Something tapped his back end until he rose a little further, and then something pulled at the cold-hard around his neck, and he shuffled forward as best he could. Something about the way he was moving seemed wrong—his front-movers were straighter than his back-movers, and he didn’t think there was supposed to be a cold-hard around his tender bits—but he couldn’t remember what right would have been.
And even so, he had done terrible things. He deserved no better.
He still couldn’t really see well, but the texture he was moving over changed from hard-scratchy to soft-crumbly, and the smell was different. Then the pulling stopped and something pushed his shoulder, and he stopped and stayed still. He heard a noise like what he made when he moved coming up beside him, but he didn’t have the strength to look to see what made it.
Something hard slid between his neck-thing and his shoulders, but it didn’t push on his throat. He stayed very still. Then something heavy, hard-behind-soft, came down to rest across the back of his neck. There were clicks. Still, he did not move, even though he didn’t understand. The hard-heavy shifted a little.
There was a loud moving noise and a cry, and the hard-heavy jolted and hurt him. He yelped—but he had no words. There was a crack and a smell—a bad scary smell, and he remembered hot and sharp and cold and tearing and bad bad bad. He panicked and tried to bolt, but he was caught in the hard-heavy, and then there were more cracks and more hurt until he finally just lay straight down and stopped moving.
They took the hard-heavy off then and took him back to the other place. He lay very still there and hurt and knew he deserved no better.
After another sleep and a shuffle over to a corner to make wet and stinky and a shuffle back to where he could sleep again, there was more small-crunchy and cold-wet, and then he was taken back out again. So was the other... he still didn’t have a word, hadn’t seen, couldn’t smell or touch. They put the hard-heavy back on him, and he stayed very still, even though he was shaking. So did the other.
Something new was pushed under his nose then, white and hard. He sniffed and took it gently with his teeth. It crunched a little in his teeth—but when his mouth-wet touched it, it tasted sweet! This was good, then? Well, he would take it, anyway, and crunched up white-sweet the rest of the way and drank the cold-wet that was given to him. And he wasn’t hurt, so that was good.
Then they tapped his back end to tell him to move, and he started to, but the other didn’t quite the same way, and hard-heavy pushed wrong, and he stumbled. He got up and tried to look to see how to stay with the other, but he looked the wrong way, and they got more and more confused, and there were more cracks and more hurt and no more white-sweet that day. But the corner where he’d made stinky was clean again when he went back, and there was a box there where he could make stinky and it would be not-stinky, so the day wasn’t all bad.
The next day they put hard-heavy on him a different way, and when he looked—why, there was his other! (That wasn’t the right word, he knew, but it was almost the right word, so he stuck with it.) He watched his other’s front-movers when it was time to move, and soon they could start and stop together and not stumble at all. There was more white-sweet after that, and someone rubbed something on his back when he went inside, and there was no more hurt.
Next came turning. There were cracks then, but no hurt, and he and his other didn’t stumble and learned what sound meant left and what sound meant right and what sounds meant start, stop, and faster or slower. Then they added wide-slaps, and he and his other learned the same thing again, only with someone behind them. This was all good.
Then there was a day with no hard-heavy. He was taken out after he ate, but someone new came and poured cold-wet over him and rubbed him all over and washed the dirty away. Then the new someone gave him white-sweet for no reason and made a tinkly happy noise when he took it from her, petted his head as he ate it, and made the same noise when he licked her hand once to thank her. Then she pushed her lips against the top of his head and left, and he was taken back inside and given more to eat, and then he was left to rest.
That was good. He didn’t deserve it, but that was good.
The next day, though, things were confusing again. He and his other were taken out again, but to another place, and when hard-heavy and wide-slaps were there, they added something else before the wide-slaps signaled Start. He and his other started... but the new thing was very heavy and stuck on something, and he and his other couldn’t go fast. There were cracks and hurt, and he pulled as best as he could, but they couldn’t go fast, and finally he couldn’t keep going at all. He stumbled and fell down and couldn’t get up even when they stopped hurting him and took hard-heavy off. They let him lie there until he could get up again, then took him inside.
There was something new in his food the next morning, warm and chewy. It tasted good, so he ate it all. His cold-wet was different, too, white with a new taste, but it was good. He felt much better and stronger after that, and though he and his other were still slow, they didn’t stumble or tire so fast. But other than for cold-wet and day-food, there was no stopping, not even for making wet or stinky. That wasn’t good—but he deserved no better.
He got stronger and better at pulling the heavy thing, and soon he and his other were going pretty fast every day. They went to other places to pull the heavy thing and finished at each place faster than they had the place before. There was more white-sweet when they did good. And every however-many days, the other somebody would come and wash him and clip his head-hair and chin-hair, and that was good.
Then one morning he woke to find one of the cold-hards gone—and he remembered what his hands were and what they did. He could see better, too.
His food was different again. His drink was in a cup—how did he know what that was?—and his food was in a bowl with a spoon, and it was soft and warm. He ate and drank and felt good, but he didn’t understand.
Then Master—where had that name come from?—took him to the first place where he and his other had pulled the heavy thing. But there was no hard-heavy this time. Master led him to a place and nudged him to sit up with his front showing, and then Master put something around his neck that hung down by one hand. Then Master handed him a pointy thing that he thought he should know how to use, and he tried holding it a couple of different ways but wasn’t sure what was right.
Master got down in front of him, motioned watch me, and pushed the pointy thing into the ground to make a hole. That wasn’t right, but he did the same thing anyway. Then Master reached into the hanging thing and took out some small things to drop in the hole and covered the hole again. He did the same. Master looked happy and pointed away to his left, then got up and walked away. He still didn’t quite understand, but he moved over a little way and did the poke-drop-cover again while they brought what sounded like his other out to do the same thing.
But his other wasn’t like him. His other made a noise that made him look up—
That was what pointy things were for! KILL BAD!
Only they hit and hurt his other, and when he tried to go help and kill bad, they hurt him, too, until he put pointy thing down and stopped moving. Then they took him back inside.
When they took him out again the next day, he didn’t look up at all. Pointy things weren’t for kill bad. Pointy things were for poke-drop-cover.
But they brought his other over next to him—on the wrong side, but still. His other was beside him. And then Master took a clanky thing and put it between his neck-thing and his other’s neck-thing. That... felt better. Then Master gave the pointy thing to him and the hanging thing to his other. He thought he got the idea. He poked, and his other did drop-cover. Master looked happy, pointed where to go, and walked away.
This was easier, better. He and his other worked together, and it was good and went fast. They went far before day-food, when they could stop and eat... and for the first time, he could turn and see his other.
Green was all he could think, green eyes like grass. (He’d tried to eat grass once. That was bad. This green was good.) He and his other made surprised noises at the same time. But then Master came, and day-food was over.
When he went back inside at the end of the day, inside looked too big. He looked up—and there was no wall between him and his other.
Before he could figure out what to do, his other came over to where the wall should be, put a hand up, and pushed a little. The hand crossed over to his side. His other hurried across where the wall should be, over to his side, next to him.
This was good. This was so good.
His other looked at him for a moment, then raised a hand again and touched his knee, his shoulder, the dark mark on his front (his other had one just like it). Then his other’s hand touched the side of his face and rubbed a little. And that was right. So he touched his other’s shoulder and rubbed a little.
His other pulled him forward until their fronts touched and wrapped both arms around him. And that was right, too, so he wrapped both arms around his other, and his other made a happy noise.
They stayed like that until food came, and then they had to move apart to eat. But after that, he went to where the wall had been and lay down and looked at his other. His other looked at him for a moment, then came over and touched his face again and lay down beside him. It took some shifting to figure out how to lie without their cold-hards touching—it hurt when that happened—but they got it, and he slept and felt happy.
In the morning, there was only one door.
Things stayed mostly the same after that. After poke-drop-cover in all the places, there was pull-and-give-cold-wet, and green-pull-up and green-not-pull-up, and flying-thing-scare, and those went on for quite a while. His pretty would still come and wash him and clip him and give him white-sweet, and sometimes he and his other would play-fierce before the wash and his pretty and his other’s pretty would laugh, and sometimes his pretty would want to play-fierce and he would play-chase and play-catch-and-miss, and she would laugh. And that was good.
Sometimes he would dream, though, and remember bad things and cry out, and his other would wake him and pet his face until he could stop crying. Sometimes his other would dream bad things, too, and he would do the same for his other because... well, it was right, that’s why.
Once things were bad on wash-day, though. His other’s pretty was making noises to him and patting his head, and suddenly his other growled and knocked him over and hit his face, and it wasn’t play. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he was sorry, so he went still and limp on his back. His other’s hands wrapped around his throat and pushed a little, but he didn’t move, and neither did his other, not for a long moment. Then his other let go—but the pretties were leaving, and Master came and put them back inside. His other went to the far wall and wouldn’t look at him, so he went to the corner by his box and curled up and lay down facing the wall. He didn’t move for a long time, not even when food came and he heard his other eat, crunch-crunch-bad. There was a long pause, and then his other came over and shook his shoulder. He didn’t move, but his other kept shaking until he finally rolled over, and his other looked sorry and handed him his food. He ate, and things were better again, but he stayed away from his other’s pretty after that.
Then one day he woke before daylight to find the cold-hard on his legs was gone—and he remembered that he was a man.
Shame at what he’d endured washed over him, but still he knew that he had done terrible things and deserved no better. But more things than his memory, such as it was, had changed. He and his other had something soft between them and the straw, and something soft over them, and he remembered that this was a bed. There was no more straw on the floor, just bare wood, unfinished but smooth enough not to hurt his feet. He had pants on—just pants, and scratchy ones that only came to the knee, but they covered him nonetheless. There was no more box in his corner, but two new little doors in a new wall that made the room smaller; one went to a toilet, and one went to a small shower. There was a sink in the room, too, and a table with two chairs, and in his other’s wall, there was a new window that looked out on one of the fields they had been working.
He wondered whether this was what he deserved or better than he deserved.
He was still looking out the window when his other woke and explored the room just as he had. But they didn’t—couldn’t—speak, only sign and grunt still. That felt wrong, but he hadn’t figured it out before food came. And food was different, too, on a plate and fit for a man... eggs and bacon and ham and other things he didn’t really think he had ever had names for. And there was coffee to drink, and that was very good.
Better than he deserved? Possibly. Quite possibly.
After they ate, Master took them to one of the fields where the tall plants had started turning brown in spite of their watering. Master picked up a big metal-and-wood thing and went to the near corner of the field, hooked the metal part around a bunch of plants, and—cut them down!
He and his other cried out in dismay.
But Master picked up one plant and rubbed the top of it and held the top out for him to smell, and it smelled like grain. He picked up a piece carefully and tasted it, and there was the crunchy feel and sweet-nutty taste he’d been eating all along. Now he understood, and his other did the same and also understood. Then Master signed that he should cut and his other should gather until they had enough to tie together, and they understood that, too. There were no more whips, no more beatings, only a handing over of the tool and a sign that meant Get on with it.
He and his other worked hard all that day until it was too dark to work more, and they did the same the next day and the next until all the grain was cut down. And when all the grain was cut, he and his other had to shake the grain out of the straw and put the grain in bags, and then some of the bags got poured into a thing with a big wheel that he and his other had to turn together by pushing on the poles that stuck out of it. He missed seeing the pretty ladies, but he was grateful for the shower because neither he nor his other had to go to bed dirty, and he was always so tired at the end of the day that he ate and showered and went straight to bed.
Finally, he woke and things were better still. The scratchy pants and the thing on his family jewels were gone, replaced by real underwear and soft pants that reached down to his ankles, and he was wearing a shirt. He felt of his face and discovered that his beard, which he hadn’t had time even to trim, was gone. There was a rug on the floor, and shoes and socks beside the bed, and a mirror over the sink that he looked in and didn’t recognize the face looking out. Breakfast was already on the table, too, so he woke his other and they ate.
Then Master came with two of his helpers. Master nodded, and one helper came and took off his collar while the other helper did the same for his other—and full memory came flooding back.
“Dean,” Sam gasped, turning to his brother, at the same time Dean gasped, “Sammy!”
“Dude, you okay?” Dean continued.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”
“Yeah, yeah—but what. The ever-loving. HELL was that all about?!” Dean exploded at Master—O’Donoghue.
“I gave you each what you thought you deserved for yourselves,” O’Donoghue replied calmly. Before Dean could splutter his way into anything like a coherent sentence, O’Donoghue held up a hand. “It had to be this way—else you could not receive what each of you most wanted for the other.”
That took the wind right out of both brothers’ sails. “What?” Dean asked weakly.
“You lads have brought us a fine harvest. Won’t you come enjoy your reward?”
I’ve got my brother back, Sam wanted to say. That’s my reward. I don’t deserve anything more. But Dean looked like he wanted to say the same thing, and Sam wanted more than that for Dean, so much more when he had the chance to be on the good side of the king of fairies and out of the hunting/destiny/whose-Apocalypse-is-it-anyway crossfire. And if getting a good life for Dean meant accepting a good life for himself....
“How can I say no?” they both replied at the same time.
Then O’Donoghue smiled and led them into his throne room and presented them to the court, and everybody cheered. And he ordered a bounty paid to each brother—a pound of emeralds for every blow, a pound of diamonds for every lash, a pound of silver for every day without clothes and a pound of gold for every day without their memories, and a castle for the two of them with a servant for every day’s worth of labor and a horse for every day of rest. Everybody cheered again, but Sam was about ready to hyperventilate. At least, he would have if he hadn’t looked over at Dean and seen the way he was grinning at the thought of all that treasure and known that Dean was planning to do a Scrooge McDuck if he got even half a chance. Then he had to fight a giggle fit.
Hell, this was Faërie. It might actually work and not, y’know, end with Dean landing with a thud on the surface and complaining about how hard gold was. Either way, he really wanted to see Dean try.
“And finally,” O’Donoghue said, startling Sam back to attention. “No gift that I can give can fully repay what you men have done for this world by ending the Apocalypse and returning Leviathan to Purgatory. I can come no closer than to give you in marriage my two foster-daughters who tended you during your enchantment.”
Sam felt himself blush to his collarbones as ‘his pretty’ and ‘his other’s pretty’—two of the most beautiful women in the room, and that was saying something—stepped out of the crowd and curtseyed to him and Dean, respectively. Yeah, he’d seen some action on Earth, more than Dean even knew, but looking back....
His lady seemed to realize what he was thinking and shook her head with a quiet laugh. “Nay, a mhuirnín,* I loved you when first you came to beg for your brother’s life. I’ll not ask such play of you again as we had these last months—though there’s other sport to be had, I’ve no doubt,” she added with a smirk that made his mouth go dry.
“Well, go on, lad,” O’Donoghue said with a chuckle.
Sam swallowed hard and finally repaid all the kisses she’d rained on his witless head these last... however long it had been, and everyone cheered so loud the walls shook.
Then she and her sister pulled him and Dean away to a feast—and what a feast it was! Sam had never seen so much food in his entire life, and he was quite sure Dean never had, either. It was full medieval style, too, with O’Donoghue and his wife seated at the middle of the high table and Dean and his new wife to one side and Sam and his new wife to the other, and umpteen courses served from the other side of the table, and jesters and jugglers and dancers and musicians and on and on doing their thing in turns in the middle of the hall. Sam ate until he couldn’t eat anymore and tried to drink in moderation but wasn’t sure he managed, and then he sat out a few courses just to pay attention to the entertainment, and then he ate again until he really couldn’t eat anymore.
Until they brought out an apple pie, and he had to at least toast his brother with a bite of that. And Dean was flushed from the strong wine and the good food and the hot chick to the point that he might have actually been glowing, but when Sam raised his fork in salute, Dean glowed all the brighter and raised his fork in return.
And after that... well, the fairies invented “happily ever after,” didn’t they?
* a mhuirnín – sweetheart
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Date: 2013-08-30 04:28 am (UTC)