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Since I guess this is the shamash, I'm posting it separately.
The prompt: Sam/Dean, with kabbalah!
Dean gets a new hunting partner. Dean/OC, Sam/Dean. Sexual content.
2.
After the third worried message from Sam, Dean started sending him cellphone pictures. Road signs -- NEW YORK CITY 212 -- titty bar signs -- WORLD CLASS TOPLESS GIRLS -- church signs -- JESUS SAVES, BUT ONLY IF YOU PITCH STRAIGHT. That worked; Sam even sent him a couple of his own: street signs in English and Chinese, Alcatraz Island, a place that sold classic cars. It was kind of like they were saying “We’re okay” to each other, except without the part where that was a lie.
Atlanta was warm, and the ghost haunting the downtown tunnels was a one-man job, easy. The neo-Nazis dabbling in Nordic magic were slightly tougher, but in the end it was Dean goddamn Winchester standing in the synagogue, six unconscious and worse skinheads on the floor around him, and the hippie-rabbi blinking up at him with big grateful eyes.
Dean had sort of thought that rabbis would be like priests, and true, they both had scarves. But hers was tie-dyed silk, like the rest of her outfit, half a hundred shades of blue and purple. The same iridescent colors showed up in the pots and bowls scattered to all sides, half of them shattered to pieces on the floor.
The synagogue looked a lot like a church, with pews, stained glass windows, and even an organ on the back wall. Only the big wooden cabinet and the absence of crosses made it clear that these folks stopped at the Old Testament. Dean wasn’t about to disapprove.
“That thing,” Rabbi Simcha said at last, “it was real. What they called up was real.” Her voice was distant, but Dean guessed she wasn’t going into shock. Sometimes God-followers took it hardest, and sometimes they just nodded and went on, happy in the idea that demons meant angels.
Dean never argued.
“Yup,” he said, and grabbed some of the loose ropes the neo-Nazis had intended to use on her. He knelt by the one who was moaning the loudest and began to hogtie him. Because his arm was bleeding, and he could tell that the cut was deep enough to scar, he wasn’t careful about shoving his knee into the small of the guy’s back.
“How did you know what they were planning?” she asked, rubbing her wrists where they’d grabbed her. Her curls had gone to frizz in all the excitement, but she ignored them, same as she ignored the bruise rising on her cheek.
He grinned down at the trussed, semiconscious tough and moved to the next one. “That’s my job. I find mystical nasties, I hunt them, and I get rid of them.”
She said something in what he guessed was Hebrew. “And you do this alone.”
Dean kept working. “I do what’s gotta be done.”
“But you’re hurt.”
He closed his eyes for a second. There was a muscle in his right leg that didn’t ever let up now, and his back started complaining after about three hours in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t feel anything in two of his fingers, and three weeks ago he’d gotten a knock to the head that had him puking for two days. “I’m still here,” he said.
“I’m going to call the police,” she said.
“I can’t stick around for that,” he told her, looking over at where she was straightening a chair that had fallen. The paint would clean up, but he couldn’t say whether the place would ever look the same to her again.
She nodded. “Then can you come back tomorrow night?”
He was already shaking his head. “Places to go, things to kill –”
“Please,” she said, her hand going to the star pendant around her neck. He could see the red line on her soft flesh where they’d tried to tear it off.
He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, okay.”
Bonus round: identify Rabbi Simcha's denomination. Show your work. The winner receives virtual gelt. Because it is virtual, you may imagine it is tasty. Seriously, why isn't there a market in luxury gelt? Have I missed out?
The prompt: Sam/Dean, with kabbalah!
Dean gets a new hunting partner. Dean/OC, Sam/Dean. Sexual content.
2.
After the third worried message from Sam, Dean started sending him cellphone pictures. Road signs -- NEW YORK CITY 212 -- titty bar signs -- WORLD CLASS TOPLESS GIRLS -- church signs -- JESUS SAVES, BUT ONLY IF YOU PITCH STRAIGHT. That worked; Sam even sent him a couple of his own: street signs in English and Chinese, Alcatraz Island, a place that sold classic cars. It was kind of like they were saying “We’re okay” to each other, except without the part where that was a lie.
Atlanta was warm, and the ghost haunting the downtown tunnels was a one-man job, easy. The neo-Nazis dabbling in Nordic magic were slightly tougher, but in the end it was Dean goddamn Winchester standing in the synagogue, six unconscious and worse skinheads on the floor around him, and the hippie-rabbi blinking up at him with big grateful eyes.
Dean had sort of thought that rabbis would be like priests, and true, they both had scarves. But hers was tie-dyed silk, like the rest of her outfit, half a hundred shades of blue and purple. The same iridescent colors showed up in the pots and bowls scattered to all sides, half of them shattered to pieces on the floor.
The synagogue looked a lot like a church, with pews, stained glass windows, and even an organ on the back wall. Only the big wooden cabinet and the absence of crosses made it clear that these folks stopped at the Old Testament. Dean wasn’t about to disapprove.
“That thing,” Rabbi Simcha said at last, “it was real. What they called up was real.” Her voice was distant, but Dean guessed she wasn’t going into shock. Sometimes God-followers took it hardest, and sometimes they just nodded and went on, happy in the idea that demons meant angels.
Dean never argued.
“Yup,” he said, and grabbed some of the loose ropes the neo-Nazis had intended to use on her. He knelt by the one who was moaning the loudest and began to hogtie him. Because his arm was bleeding, and he could tell that the cut was deep enough to scar, he wasn’t careful about shoving his knee into the small of the guy’s back.
“How did you know what they were planning?” she asked, rubbing her wrists where they’d grabbed her. Her curls had gone to frizz in all the excitement, but she ignored them, same as she ignored the bruise rising on her cheek.
He grinned down at the trussed, semiconscious tough and moved to the next one. “That’s my job. I find mystical nasties, I hunt them, and I get rid of them.”
She said something in what he guessed was Hebrew. “And you do this alone.”
Dean kept working. “I do what’s gotta be done.”
“But you’re hurt.”
He closed his eyes for a second. There was a muscle in his right leg that didn’t ever let up now, and his back started complaining after about three hours in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t feel anything in two of his fingers, and three weeks ago he’d gotten a knock to the head that had him puking for two days. “I’m still here,” he said.
“I’m going to call the police,” she said.
“I can’t stick around for that,” he told her, looking over at where she was straightening a chair that had fallen. The paint would clean up, but he couldn’t say whether the place would ever look the same to her again.
She nodded. “Then can you come back tomorrow night?”
He was already shaking his head. “Places to go, things to kill –”
“Please,” she said, her hand going to the star pendant around her neck. He could see the red line on her soft flesh where they’d tried to tear it off.
He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, okay.”
Bonus round: identify Rabbi Simcha's denomination. Show your work. The winner receives virtual gelt. Because it is virtual, you may imagine it is tasty. Seriously, why isn't there a market in luxury gelt? Have I missed out?
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I liked this. Is it set in the college years? (I assume, since Sam is sending pictures of Alcatraz?) I love getting glimpses of Dean hunting alone.*Headdesk* Um, I think when I first read this I thought 2/8 meant the second of the various drabbles you were posting that week, or something. Anyway, I finally got to read the whole thing and will comment on part 8.
I'm only guessing, but the "hippie rabbi" and the tie-dyed tallis make me think Reconstructionist, maybe?
From:
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and female rabbi + tye-dye tallit + comfort with mysticism = Jewish Renewal, at least to me. (although I don't know of so many Renewal communities with their own buildings, so maybe that makes her Reconstuctionist after all, albeit on the more...neo-Hasidic end of the Recon spectrum.)
From:
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From:
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Hello, self-destructive Dean! I look forward to whatever happens next, not to mention finding out what really happened when Sam saved him.
From:
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She said something in what he guessed was Hebrew. “And you do this alone.”
Dean kept working. “I do what’s gotta be done.”
hate to reiterate the exclamations of others, but: oh, Dean.
From:
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The roughneck and the rabbi: together, they fight crime!