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The prompt, from astolat: Sam/Dean, with kabbalah!
Dean gets a new hunting partner. Dean/OC, Sam/Dean. Sexual content.
3.
A few tabs of codeine ensured that he went and stayed down. He spent the next day sleeping, stretching, and relaxing. With Sam gone, he could admit that burgers and grease got a little heavy after a while, so he stopped at a deli after a long, rambling walk and had a decent sandwich. There was a ghost up to Athens, scaring the college kids, but it wasn’t hurting anybody (yet) and he figured he could go back to see the rabbi, if she wanted to talk to him so badly.
Not like he had a schedule, or anyone to explain himself to.
This was his job now, paying off the debt he’d incurred, every evil thing he smoked going on to Sam’s tally. He didn’t expect to die in the clear, but he figured he ought to try.
When Dean arrived at the synagogue, he was able to go right in. The broken lock hadn’t been fixed yet, and he frowned at it, wondering if she had any tools on hand. She wasn’t in the public spaces, but he poked around and saw light coming out of a room at the end of a hall of administrative offices.
“Rabbi?” he called out.
“In here,” she said, her voice much less strained than it had been last night.
‘Here’ turned out to be a full-blown potter’s studio. Cousins and grandkids of the pots from last night covered every flat surface, and not a few surfaces that looked uneven. Against the back wall, there were clay sculptures, mostly of people. The nearest, and crudest, was of a guy’s head and torso; his arms were holding something up to his mouth that looked like a loaf of french bread, or at least Dean hoped that was what it was supposed to be. The biggest statue was a life-size, full-bodied person, and almost perfect. It could have been sculpted out of marble, except that it was a dull red-brown.
Rabbi Simcha was standing beside the big one, looking down at something in her hand. “The stories are pretty clear about the inadvisability of using magic to intervene in human affairs,” she said, just as if they’d been having a conversation. “But you deal in magic all the time, you said.”
He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Kind of – the family business.”
She looked at him. Her eyes were clear and brown. “And what happened to the rest of your family?”
He suppressed the flash of none of your goddamn concern, smiled and tilted his head flirtatiously. “What, I didn’t do a good enough job on my own?”
“What’s your name?” she asked. “Your real name,” she said, before he could open his mouth.
She didn’t seem likely to go running to the cops. “Winchester. Dean Winchester.”
The rabbi picked up a pen from a nearby shelf and scratched something onto the scrap of paper in her palm.
“Hey, wait, is that my name?” he asked, concerned, moving forward quickly. He didn’t recognize the symbols on the paper, or on the statue, though now that he was close enough he could see that the statue was covered with them. He wasn’t fast enough to stop her from licking her thumb and then pressing the paper into the statue’s forehead.
He could hear wind howling in his ears, even though the air in the studio wasn’t moving.
“It was just an exercise,” she said. The statue was starting to shake on its base now. Dean could see that the feet weren’t as detailed as the rest of it; they sloped gently into the base, so that the body seemed to be growing out of the red earth. “Or maybe I knew, somehow.”
“Listen, lady –” he said, and then the statue jerked so hard that the clay cracked. Dean grabbed her and pulled her away from it, because even if she was doing crazy magic he still didn’t want her getting killed in front of him.
He stared, his hands going slack on her arms, as the cracks widened and chunks of clay spewed onto the floor, piling up like earthworm casts, revealing – revealing –
A man, shaking his hands free, rolling his shoulders, pawing with clay-thick hands at his unseeing clay eyes until the living flesh came clear.
Dean pulled his gun, wishing like hell he’d brought the shotgun in. The man bent his knees and shuffled a little, until his feet came free of the base with a smacking sound. He was still rubbing at his eyes, which were thick with wet clay, the lashes clumped together, but as soon as he saw Dean, he smiled and held up his hands.
“Dean,” he said.
Dean raised the gun.
“Who the hell are you?”
end part 3
for reference, the first statue
Dean gets a new hunting partner. Dean/OC, Sam/Dean. Sexual content.
3.
A few tabs of codeine ensured that he went and stayed down. He spent the next day sleeping, stretching, and relaxing. With Sam gone, he could admit that burgers and grease got a little heavy after a while, so he stopped at a deli after a long, rambling walk and had a decent sandwich. There was a ghost up to Athens, scaring the college kids, but it wasn’t hurting anybody (yet) and he figured he could go back to see the rabbi, if she wanted to talk to him so badly.
Not like he had a schedule, or anyone to explain himself to.
This was his job now, paying off the debt he’d incurred, every evil thing he smoked going on to Sam’s tally. He didn’t expect to die in the clear, but he figured he ought to try.
When Dean arrived at the synagogue, he was able to go right in. The broken lock hadn’t been fixed yet, and he frowned at it, wondering if she had any tools on hand. She wasn’t in the public spaces, but he poked around and saw light coming out of a room at the end of a hall of administrative offices.
“Rabbi?” he called out.
“In here,” she said, her voice much less strained than it had been last night.
‘Here’ turned out to be a full-blown potter’s studio. Cousins and grandkids of the pots from last night covered every flat surface, and not a few surfaces that looked uneven. Against the back wall, there were clay sculptures, mostly of people. The nearest, and crudest, was of a guy’s head and torso; his arms were holding something up to his mouth that looked like a loaf of french bread, or at least Dean hoped that was what it was supposed to be. The biggest statue was a life-size, full-bodied person, and almost perfect. It could have been sculpted out of marble, except that it was a dull red-brown.
Rabbi Simcha was standing beside the big one, looking down at something in her hand. “The stories are pretty clear about the inadvisability of using magic to intervene in human affairs,” she said, just as if they’d been having a conversation. “But you deal in magic all the time, you said.”
He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Kind of – the family business.”
She looked at him. Her eyes were clear and brown. “And what happened to the rest of your family?”
He suppressed the flash of none of your goddamn concern, smiled and tilted his head flirtatiously. “What, I didn’t do a good enough job on my own?”
“What’s your name?” she asked. “Your real name,” she said, before he could open his mouth.
She didn’t seem likely to go running to the cops. “Winchester. Dean Winchester.”
The rabbi picked up a pen from a nearby shelf and scratched something onto the scrap of paper in her palm.
“Hey, wait, is that my name?” he asked, concerned, moving forward quickly. He didn’t recognize the symbols on the paper, or on the statue, though now that he was close enough he could see that the statue was covered with them. He wasn’t fast enough to stop her from licking her thumb and then pressing the paper into the statue’s forehead.
He could hear wind howling in his ears, even though the air in the studio wasn’t moving.
“It was just an exercise,” she said. The statue was starting to shake on its base now. Dean could see that the feet weren’t as detailed as the rest of it; they sloped gently into the base, so that the body seemed to be growing out of the red earth. “Or maybe I knew, somehow.”
“Listen, lady –” he said, and then the statue jerked so hard that the clay cracked. Dean grabbed her and pulled her away from it, because even if she was doing crazy magic he still didn’t want her getting killed in front of him.
He stared, his hands going slack on her arms, as the cracks widened and chunks of clay spewed onto the floor, piling up like earthworm casts, revealing – revealing –
A man, shaking his hands free, rolling his shoulders, pawing with clay-thick hands at his unseeing clay eyes until the living flesh came clear.
Dean pulled his gun, wishing like hell he’d brought the shotgun in. The man bent his knees and shuffled a little, until his feet came free of the base with a smacking sound. He was still rubbing at his eyes, which were thick with wet clay, the lashes clumped together, but as soon as he saw Dean, he smiled and held up his hands.
“Dean,” he said.
Dean raised the gun.
“Who the hell are you?”
end part 3
for reference, the first statue
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