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FIC: Things that Go Bump in the Night (2/7)
Title: Things that Go Bump in the Night
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wizefics
Crossover: Supernatural/X-Men, written as part of the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sncross_bigbang
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners.
Type: Slash casefile, pre-series for Supernatural
Word Count: ~33,000
Characters: Dean Winchester and Remy LeBeau
Warnings: NC17 for sexual content, language and violence
Spoilers: None, if you're familiar with Supernatural. Random bits of Remy LeBeau's past and his powers. This story is not really set in any particular X story line.
Artist:la_conquistador
Link to Art: Amazing artwork and icons!
Summary: Thirty-five minutes. That's all Dean needed for this job. As long as everything went according to plan, of course.
But this is New Orleans, and nothing ever goes to plan. When Dean is interrupted mid-job by a stranger who strongly resembles a demon, the Plan is blown to hell and back. Dean eventually must join forces with the mysterious Remy LeBeau to try and undo the damage that they have done. Of course, Remy makes no secret about the fact that he has a secondary motivation that causes him to race around New Orleans to try and capture a vengeful spirit.
Author’s Notes: I owe a lot of thanks for this story. First, this story was written forwindiain. I hope you enjoy it! Secondly, this story would never have made it this far if it weren't for the help and encouragement of catwomyn5 and pdantzler2. Lastly, I must give all thanks and praise to my wonderful beta readers escritoireazul and dramady. They have made this story much better than it was.
I must also thankla_conquistador, whose artwork provided me with the inspiration I needed to get over the last few hurdles.
For those who think this looks familiar, I started posting it some months back, then realized I had a much bigger story here. I've rewritten the entire fic, and suggest that you consider starting at the beginning. Thanks to those who encouraged me!
*********************
Ch. 2
*********************
A buzzing sound pulled Dean from sleep and he rolled to his side, reaching automatically for his cell phone. Grabbing it from the nightstand, he gazed blearily at the numbers on the screen. Grimacing, he flipped it open. "Hi, Dad."
"Dean." John Winchester's voice was reserved and quiet. Dean closed his eyes and braced himself. "You were supposed to call me when the job was done."
"It's not done yet, sir." Dean flopped back on the bed and threw his free arm over his face, burying his eyes in the crook of his elbow.
There was a heartbeat of silence and Dean sighed. "Dean, if you can't handle a simple..."
"I can handle it, Dad. There was just a slight... hiccup." Remy's eyes flashed into Dean's mind and he shook his head. "Nothing I can't handle."
"What kind of hiccup?" John was using his military commander voice and Dean sat up wearily, resisting the urge to make a face.
"There was a civilian who interfered." Dean thought briefly about admitting that said civilian was a sexy bastard who stole the Impala, but thought better of it. "I couldn't finish with him there. I'll go back tonight."
"A civilian?" John had caught the slight hitch in Dean's voice. "Interfered how?"
"It's kind of funny, actually." Dean tried for levity. "He thought I was a grave robber."
"You're sure he's human?" John demanded bluntly. "Maybe I need to come down there."
"Dad, no. I've got it under control." Dean swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. "It's just a simple salt and burn, and yes, I'm positive this guy is human." Mutant. Dean corrected himself silently, but he really didn't want to have to get into the details. Explaining that the so-called civilian had kicked his ass would be hard enough on his ego without admitting that part of him had almost enjoyed it. Or would have, had they not let some evil Voodoo Hoodoo lose on the city.
And had the bastard not stolen his car.
Shit. "Dad, I've got this. I'll call you tomorrow."
"You call me as soon as you’re done. I want a full report after you go back into the cemetery. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
“Dean? Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean rolled his eyes and flipped the phone closed. Standing, he grabbed for the jeans he'd thrown on the floor the night before. Eyeing them critically, he decided the dirt stains added character and pulled them on. Besides, it’s not like he had anything else. His spare clothes were in the backseat of the Impala.
Going into the bathroom, Dean glanced in the mirror and made a face. His forehead was bruised, but not too badly. It looked more like dirt than like anything serious. Snagging his toothbrush, he made liberal use of the Crest (both purchased the night before at a convenient store down the street) and tried to erase the memory of Tabasco off his tongue.
It was no good. No matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn't forget the feel of Remy's mouth on his own. The other man was taller than he was by just a bit and they had fit together in a way that would have made Dean blush, if he were the blushing sort. Scratchy two a.m. shadow aside, Remy had been a damn good kisser - soft lips, hot mouth, skilled tongue.
Spitting, Dean turned on the faucet and rinsed his teeth. Splashing the cold water liberally into his face, and making a mental note to stop by one of the local Catholic parishes to replenish his Holy Water supply, Dean forced all thoughts of the Cajun from his mind, save the rather tantalizing thought that it would feel amazing to beat the snot out of him for stealing the Impala.
That thought made Dean happy, and didn't threaten to overwhelm him with other feelings he wasn't ready to think about yet. Not without breakfast. Not without coffee. Not without his goddamned car!
And not to mention that, thanks to Remy's interference, Dean not only had to salt and burn Kalila Keskeya, but also track down some sort of Voodoo demon thing and destroy it, before his father found out about it.
Right. First things first. Coffee.
Thankfully, the motel that had accepted his check-in at 3 a.m. without luggage or transportation but with a Visa Card in the name of one Geraldo Sayers, was located next to a diner that promised hot coffee and pie 24 hours a day. Tugging his shirt back over his head, Dean left his toothbrush and other toiletries on the sink and left the room behind without a second thought.
A few minutes later, sitting in a booth with a sticky table and tears in the red vinyl seat, Dean winked at the waitress and she promised to bring him coffee and the biggest piece of apple pie that she could sneak away from her manager. Then he turned his thoughts to what he needed to do next.
After staring at the ice that was slowly melting in his water for a few unproductive minutes, he had to admit that he had no idea. He didn't even know what he was hunting, let alone how to kill it. Research wasn't his forte, either. He was more of the "point and shoot" type. Sammy had always been the one to figure out what they were shooting at - at least he had before he'd left for college. Afterward, John had gone back to the tried and true method of tracking it down and then seeing what it was.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a newspaper article that was part of what brought him down to New Orleans in the first place. A grainy photograph of Kalila Keskeya smiled back up at him. The black and white photograph did little to hide the dark shine of her skin or the feisty spark in her eye. Even though he’d read it before, Dean skimmed the article, making mental notes of the pertinent details. Keskeya had been found murdered in her home three months ago. The local police had never come up with a suspect, reporting only that the room where the murder had occurred had been partially destroyed by the violent crime and that the doors and windows of the house had been sealed from the inside. Keskeya's husband had died two years before and she lived alone.
He flipped the article over and read a name scrawled in pen on the back. Adrien Ducet. It was followed by a phone number.
The waitress brought over the pie and coffee and Dean looked up from the newspaper clipping to give her a grateful smile. A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked to the left in time to see Remy flash him an amused grin.
“You got Remy pie,” Remy slid into the booth across from him. “Merci.”
“Touch that pie and die,” Dean threatened, picking up his spoon and stirring sugar and cream liberally into his coffee. “And my car had better be in the parking lot.”
“You worry too much, mon ami.”
“Dean.” Dean smacked the back of Remy’s hand with the spoon when the Cajun tugged the pie towards him. “Get your own piece.”
Remy’s grin widened and he pulled his sunglasses off so that Dean could see him run his eyes over what he could see of Dean’s body. “I see de piece I want. Dean.”
He scowled back and took a drink from his coffee. Belatedly, he wondered if every woman he’d ever hit on felt both a simultaneous jolt of arousal and skepticism. Then he closed his eyes and shook off that thought. “Your approach is sort of direct.”
“But effective, non?” Remy managed to snake the pie away from him and stole his fork. Taking a big bite, he chewed slowly, licking his lips and laughing at Dean’s expression. “So, what do we do now?”
Dean’s eyebrow shot up and he stared at Remy incredulously. “We do nothing. You give me my car back and then never let me see you again. I fix what I broke last night.” He stabbed the spoon into the pie, blocking Remy’s fork. “And I finish eating the pie that I bought for breakfast. You get your own.”
“Dis plan won’t work, homme.” Remy shook his head regretfully. “You weren’t de only one in de cemetery las’ night. You weren’t de only one who let dat… t’ing loose.”
“No, but I’m the only one who knows how to put it back.”
He leaned back and studied Dean curiously. “How do you plan to do dat?”
Dean’s lips tightened and he glared back for a moment before admitting with a sigh, “Dude, I have no frigging clue.”
Remy grinned. “Dat’s what I thought. You need my help.”
“Look, Remy, no offense, but…”
He reached over the table and caught Dean’s hand. Pressing it lightly, Remy shook his head. “You can’t get rid of me anyway. Might as well enjoy it, non?”
The skin on his hand burned and Dean stared at Remy’s fingers. Pulling his hand back, Dean shook his head. “Whatever. But you’re really going to have to get your own pie.”
*************************
Dean let out an audible groan of relief when he saw the Impala in the lot. “Baby, did he hurt you?” He ran his hand over the hood, fingers tracing the lines of the curves all the way to the door. He glared up at Remy, prepared to launch into a scathing verbal take down, but stopped at the pained look on his face.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Rien. It’s nothing.” Remy blew out a slow breath. “I’m just wondering if you touch everyt’ing wit dat much… care.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and smirked at the Cajun. “Depends on how much I like it.”
“You like Remy, non?”
“Non.” Dean shook his head, but he had to work to hide his amusement. “Dude, you stole my car. I spent most of the night dreaming about pounding you into the ground.”
This time it was Remy who made a noise in his throat. “We can talk about who pounds who later, mon ami.”
The implication of Remy’s words caught Dean by surprise and he ducked into the car to hide his flush. Breathing out, he cursed himself for suddenly being so damn girly. He’d never had this sort of reaction to anyone before, let alone to a man. Breathing deeply again, he waited until Remy climbed into the passenger seat. The Cajun was grinning and Dean scowled at him. “Don’t be so cocky.”
“Non, Remy would never do dat.” Dean put the car in reverse, aware that he was being studied by a pair of red on black eyes.
“Dude. Quit looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Remy was definitely laughing at him now.
“Like…” Dean glanced over, then put the car into drive and pulled out into the street. “Like… you’re imagining with my clothes off.”
“But I am.” His laugh got louder when Dean cursed under his breath. After a moment of strained silence, Remy cleared his throat. “So where are we going?”
“Don’t know yet.” Dean decided that he could ignore his advances by sheer force of will and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his cell phone. Stopping at a red light, he dialed the number and held the phone to his ear while it rang. “Hi. Can I speak with Adrien Ducet?”
He glanced over at Remy while he waited, noting with a strange mix of pleasure and discomfort that the Cajun was studying him intently. When their eyes met, Dean felt a jolt in his stomach and he was relieved when the voice on the phone recaptured his attention.
“Monsieur Ducet.”
“Mister Ducet? This is Dean Winchester.”
There was a hitched breath over the phone that made Dean suspicious and suddenly he was completely focused on the man on the phone.
“John’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You weren’t supposed to contact me.” The rebuke was harsh and Dean frowned, brows gathering darkly.
“Well, things didn’t exactly go according to plan. I need to ask you some more questions.”
“Like what?”
“Can we meet in person?”
The silence was so long this time that Dean moved the phone away from his face to double check that they were still connected. “Mister Ducet? I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Fine. There is a coffee shop on the corner of Congo Square. You meet me there.”
“I’m on my way now.” Dean promised and hung up the phone. He glanced over at Remy and noted with some approval that he seemed to be serious. “That was our contact.”
“Adrien Ducet?” The French sounding name rolled off Remy’s tongue musically and Dean nodded, refusing to be distracted. “I’ve heard his name before.”
“He’s the one who contacted my… me to come and deal with Keskeya.”
“How’d he find your… you?” Remy asked pointedly and Dean shot him a sharp look.
“There’s circles, dude. It’s not like he pulled out the yellow pages. People in my line of work operate under the table.”
“He pay you?” Remy asked skeptically and Dean nodded head.
“Some. Plus expenses.”
“Why’d he call for help?”
“That, Remy,” Dean stressed the Cajun’s name, testing it on his tongue, “is what we are going to find out.”
“You don’t know?”
“You know everything behind what you do at your job?” Dean hedged, giving Remy a curious look. “What do you do for a living anyway? Besides freelance graveyard security, I mean.”
“Family business.” He looked away for the first time and Dean sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“I can relate.”
They drove the remaining distance in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Dean wondered, briefly, if he should be alarmed at the ease with which he had gotten through his defenses, but he shrugged off the concern. Remy was right about one thing – Dean couldn’t get rid of him easily, so he might as well enjoy it.
There was a parking spot on a side street and Dean pulled into it. He gave Remy a sharp look. “Do I need to worry that you’re going to steal my car again?”
Remy grinned, his earlier reserve melting away in the sun as he climbed out. “Non. Your bébé is safe.”
“She’d better be.” Dean muttered darkly, not completely sure he believed him.
“Oui.” Remy’s smile widened. “Remy promise’ you could take it from his hide oderwise, remember?”
Dean remembered, all right; lean muscles, soft lips, and the hint of Tabasco. “I’m not sure that’s a deterrent to you. You might like it.” He looked away, keenly aware that Remy was laughing at him again. “Let’s go before our contact spooks.” His lips quirked up. “That’s a joke.”
“Oui.” Remy nodded solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling before he pushed his sunglasses into place. The coffee shop had a small outdoor patio. Ceiling fans spun lazily, even in the fall weather. Dean scanned the crowd, eyeing two college girls appreciatively, skipping over the family with small children, and the group of tourists exclaiming loudly over some voodoo trinket being sold from a bin. His gaze settled confidently on a middle aged black man, who was wearing a suit despite the fall heat, complete with a fedora type hat.
Approaching slowly, Dean gauged this man and had to hide his frown. His father had told him that their contact was a local mystic, who had become aware of a haunting and managed to find out who it was, but couldn’t handle it himself for whatever reason. This man looked more like a shyster than a holy man, and he was big enough that Dean would have hesitated to get into a fight with him if he had any options. “Mister Ducet?”
The man looked up, then stood and Dean had to resist the urge to stare. This man would have given Sam a run for tallest man alive. “You John’s boy?”
Dean ignored the look Remy shot him and stuck out his hand instead. “Yeah. Dean Winchester.” He nodded to Remy. “This is…”
“Oh, I know who he is.” Ducet’s voice was far from friendly and Remy carefully stood out of reach. Dean filed the hostility away for future exploration.
“Good, saves the need for introductions. Why don’t we sit down?”
“Remy'll get coffee for us.” Remy spoke softly, moving away before Dean could respond and Dean shrugged.
“I didn’t expect you to be keeping company with his kind.” Ducet growled and Dean frowned at him.
“With all due respect, I don’t really care what you think.” Ducet turned his full attention on Dean now and Dean leaned forward, uncowed. “I only care about one thing – Keskeya.”
Ducet blinked and leaned back, mulling something over. Finally he nodded. “You're right. Worry about on thing at a time.”
“Who was she?” Dean demanded, ignoring the last comment completely. Whatever problem this man had with Remy was Remy’s problem. At least it was until it became Dean’s problem.
Ducet smiled and Dean had to resist the urge to shiver, despite the sweat that was beading down his back in the heat. “She was a Voodoo priestess.”
“Yeah.” Dean sighed, leaning back and crossing his legs. “I figured something like that.”
“How’d you know?”
“I tried to do the job last night. It wasn’t a ghost in her coffin.” Dean leaned forward, noticing that Ducet was suddenly sweating. “What was it?”
“Kalila got mixed up in dark magics. She used to be a respected part of our community, but ever since her husband died, she’s been doing rituals for money. True vaudun doesn’t allow you to take money for your rituals.” Dean didn’t miss the way Ducet claimed to be a part of the voodoo community and he filed that away as well. “She came to me, about a year ago, wanting to do a ritual.”
“What sort of ritual?”
“A ritual to unite her with the lao – the spirits. It would give her untold power.” Ducet leaned forward, his face earnest. “She needed my help.”
“Why did she need your help?” Dean shook his head. “You said she was respected. I’m guessing that meant she was good at her job.”
“Oh, yes. Kalila was very good at her job. But to do the ritual she wanted, she needed a man – a priest – as well. The gods are sometimes fickle about their gender preferences.”
Recalling his unexpected reaction to Remy, Dean shifted uncomfortably and offered a weak smile. “Sometimes we all are.”
Ducet leaned back, studying Dean carefully. Licking his lips he shook his head. “The lao can be violent. The spirits can kill a priest or priestess who is not strong enough to be a vessel.”
“I don’t understand.” Dean shook his head. “What’s a vessel?”
“To get the power, the priest or priestess gives the lao something the spirits want – a corporeal body. They become a vessel, to be ridden by de gods. It’s an incredible amount of power.”
“You did the deal?”
“Non!” Ducet slapped his hand down on the table hard enough that it attracted attention and Dean glanced around. “Non! I do not gamble with my life.”
“Easy!” Dean ordered. He watched Ducet under furrowed brows. “So you’re saying that Keskaya did the ritual herself? And that’s how she died?”
“Yes.” Ducet leaned back, everything else forgotten. “She turned to dark magic, her spirit was stained. She can’t crossover. She’s trapped here in this plane, but not as a ghost. A cauchemar.”
“A what?” Dean racked his brain trying to remember if he’d ever heard his father talk about a cauchemar before.
“She was a witch in life. She is a witch in death.” Ducet struck the table with his fist again. “When an evil witch dies, a witch who has sinned by presuming to be more than she is, she returns as a cauchemar.” His mouth curled into a snarl, his teeth gleaming white. “A nightmare witch.”
“And that’s what we saw in the cemetery?” Dean asked carefully.
“Yes.” Ducet wiped his sweaty face with his palm. “The cauchemar is a sneaky creature. It attacks its victims when they’re asleep. She pins them down, freezing them so they can’t move. You can't scream, you can't move at all!” Again he emphasized his point by slamming the table. “Then, once she has you, she rides you. Like a horse.”
Dean snorted. “So far, this doesn’t sound too awful.”
Ducet glared at him and stood up, making Dean tense. Instead of lashing out, the other man leaned over, eyes flashing. “It’s not funny, what the cauchemar does. She beats you, whips you, and you can’t scream.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You know a lot about it.”
“Why do you think I called your father? He’s got a reputation – supposed to be good at this stuff. And he sent you instead.”
The insult made Dean stiffen and he gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit down.”
“Excuse me.”
“If you want me to help, sit down and tell me how to stop her.”
Ducet laughed, shaking his head and pushing his chair back under the table. “I don’t know how to stop her. That’s what you’re here for.” He took a few steps towards the exit, pausing long enough to glance scathingly over his shoulder. “Do you think can stop her? Or should I call your father again and tell him that you’re not the right man for the job?”
Dean grinned. “Sure I can.” He watched Ducet walk away. “I just have to figure out how.”
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
Author:
wizefics Crossover: Supernatural/X-Men, written as part of the
sncross_bigbangDisclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners.
Type: Slash casefile, pre-series for Supernatural
Word Count: ~33,000
Characters: Dean Winchester and Remy LeBeau
Warnings: NC17 for sexual content, language and violence
Spoilers: None, if you're familiar with Supernatural. Random bits of Remy LeBeau's past and his powers. This story is not really set in any particular X story line.
Artist:
la_conquistador Link to Art: Amazing artwork and icons!
Summary: Thirty-five minutes. That's all Dean needed for this job. As long as everything went according to plan, of course.
But this is New Orleans, and nothing ever goes to plan. When Dean is interrupted mid-job by a stranger who strongly resembles a demon, the Plan is blown to hell and back. Dean eventually must join forces with the mysterious Remy LeBeau to try and undo the damage that they have done. Of course, Remy makes no secret about the fact that he has a secondary motivation that causes him to race around New Orleans to try and capture a vengeful spirit.
Author’s Notes: I owe a lot of thanks for this story. First, this story was written for
windiain. I hope you enjoy it! Secondly, this story would never have made it this far if it weren't for the help and encouragement of catwomyn5 and pdantzler2. Lastly, I must give all thanks and praise to my wonderful beta readers escritoireazul and dramady. They have made this story much better than it was.I must also thank
la_conquistador, whose artwork provided me with the inspiration I needed to get over the last few hurdles. For those who think this looks familiar, I started posting it some months back, then realized I had a much bigger story here. I've rewritten the entire fic, and suggest that you consider starting at the beginning. Thanks to those who encouraged me!
*********************
Ch. 2
*********************
A buzzing sound pulled Dean from sleep and he rolled to his side, reaching automatically for his cell phone. Grabbing it from the nightstand, he gazed blearily at the numbers on the screen. Grimacing, he flipped it open. "Hi, Dad."
"Dean." John Winchester's voice was reserved and quiet. Dean closed his eyes and braced himself. "You were supposed to call me when the job was done."
"It's not done yet, sir." Dean flopped back on the bed and threw his free arm over his face, burying his eyes in the crook of his elbow.
There was a heartbeat of silence and Dean sighed. "Dean, if you can't handle a simple..."
"I can handle it, Dad. There was just a slight... hiccup." Remy's eyes flashed into Dean's mind and he shook his head. "Nothing I can't handle."
"What kind of hiccup?" John was using his military commander voice and Dean sat up wearily, resisting the urge to make a face.
"There was a civilian who interfered." Dean thought briefly about admitting that said civilian was a sexy bastard who stole the Impala, but thought better of it. "I couldn't finish with him there. I'll go back tonight."
"A civilian?" John had caught the slight hitch in Dean's voice. "Interfered how?"
"It's kind of funny, actually." Dean tried for levity. "He thought I was a grave robber."
"You're sure he's human?" John demanded bluntly. "Maybe I need to come down there."
"Dad, no. I've got it under control." Dean swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. "It's just a simple salt and burn, and yes, I'm positive this guy is human." Mutant. Dean corrected himself silently, but he really didn't want to have to get into the details. Explaining that the so-called civilian had kicked his ass would be hard enough on his ego without admitting that part of him had almost enjoyed it. Or would have, had they not let some evil Voodoo Hoodoo lose on the city.
And had the bastard not stolen his car.
Shit. "Dad, I've got this. I'll call you tomorrow."
"You call me as soon as you’re done. I want a full report after you go back into the cemetery. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
“Dean? Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean rolled his eyes and flipped the phone closed. Standing, he grabbed for the jeans he'd thrown on the floor the night before. Eyeing them critically, he decided the dirt stains added character and pulled them on. Besides, it’s not like he had anything else. His spare clothes were in the backseat of the Impala.
Going into the bathroom, Dean glanced in the mirror and made a face. His forehead was bruised, but not too badly. It looked more like dirt than like anything serious. Snagging his toothbrush, he made liberal use of the Crest (both purchased the night before at a convenient store down the street) and tried to erase the memory of Tabasco off his tongue.
It was no good. No matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn't forget the feel of Remy's mouth on his own. The other man was taller than he was by just a bit and they had fit together in a way that would have made Dean blush, if he were the blushing sort. Scratchy two a.m. shadow aside, Remy had been a damn good kisser - soft lips, hot mouth, skilled tongue.
Spitting, Dean turned on the faucet and rinsed his teeth. Splashing the cold water liberally into his face, and making a mental note to stop by one of the local Catholic parishes to replenish his Holy Water supply, Dean forced all thoughts of the Cajun from his mind, save the rather tantalizing thought that it would feel amazing to beat the snot out of him for stealing the Impala.
That thought made Dean happy, and didn't threaten to overwhelm him with other feelings he wasn't ready to think about yet. Not without breakfast. Not without coffee. Not without his goddamned car!
And not to mention that, thanks to Remy's interference, Dean not only had to salt and burn Kalila Keskeya, but also track down some sort of Voodoo demon thing and destroy it, before his father found out about it.
Right. First things first. Coffee.
Thankfully, the motel that had accepted his check-in at 3 a.m. without luggage or transportation but with a Visa Card in the name of one Geraldo Sayers, was located next to a diner that promised hot coffee and pie 24 hours a day. Tugging his shirt back over his head, Dean left his toothbrush and other toiletries on the sink and left the room behind without a second thought.
A few minutes later, sitting in a booth with a sticky table and tears in the red vinyl seat, Dean winked at the waitress and she promised to bring him coffee and the biggest piece of apple pie that she could sneak away from her manager. Then he turned his thoughts to what he needed to do next.
After staring at the ice that was slowly melting in his water for a few unproductive minutes, he had to admit that he had no idea. He didn't even know what he was hunting, let alone how to kill it. Research wasn't his forte, either. He was more of the "point and shoot" type. Sammy had always been the one to figure out what they were shooting at - at least he had before he'd left for college. Afterward, John had gone back to the tried and true method of tracking it down and then seeing what it was.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a newspaper article that was part of what brought him down to New Orleans in the first place. A grainy photograph of Kalila Keskeya smiled back up at him. The black and white photograph did little to hide the dark shine of her skin or the feisty spark in her eye. Even though he’d read it before, Dean skimmed the article, making mental notes of the pertinent details. Keskeya had been found murdered in her home three months ago. The local police had never come up with a suspect, reporting only that the room where the murder had occurred had been partially destroyed by the violent crime and that the doors and windows of the house had been sealed from the inside. Keskeya's husband had died two years before and she lived alone.
He flipped the article over and read a name scrawled in pen on the back. Adrien Ducet. It was followed by a phone number.
The waitress brought over the pie and coffee and Dean looked up from the newspaper clipping to give her a grateful smile. A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked to the left in time to see Remy flash him an amused grin.
“You got Remy pie,” Remy slid into the booth across from him. “Merci.”
“Touch that pie and die,” Dean threatened, picking up his spoon and stirring sugar and cream liberally into his coffee. “And my car had better be in the parking lot.”
“You worry too much, mon ami.”
“Dean.” Dean smacked the back of Remy’s hand with the spoon when the Cajun tugged the pie towards him. “Get your own piece.”
Remy’s grin widened and he pulled his sunglasses off so that Dean could see him run his eyes over what he could see of Dean’s body. “I see de piece I want. Dean.”
He scowled back and took a drink from his coffee. Belatedly, he wondered if every woman he’d ever hit on felt both a simultaneous jolt of arousal and skepticism. Then he closed his eyes and shook off that thought. “Your approach is sort of direct.”
“But effective, non?” Remy managed to snake the pie away from him and stole his fork. Taking a big bite, he chewed slowly, licking his lips and laughing at Dean’s expression. “So, what do we do now?”
Dean’s eyebrow shot up and he stared at Remy incredulously. “We do nothing. You give me my car back and then never let me see you again. I fix what I broke last night.” He stabbed the spoon into the pie, blocking Remy’s fork. “And I finish eating the pie that I bought for breakfast. You get your own.”
“Dis plan won’t work, homme.” Remy shook his head regretfully. “You weren’t de only one in de cemetery las’ night. You weren’t de only one who let dat… t’ing loose.”
“No, but I’m the only one who knows how to put it back.”
He leaned back and studied Dean curiously. “How do you plan to do dat?”
Dean’s lips tightened and he glared back for a moment before admitting with a sigh, “Dude, I have no frigging clue.”
Remy grinned. “Dat’s what I thought. You need my help.”
“Look, Remy, no offense, but…”
He reached over the table and caught Dean’s hand. Pressing it lightly, Remy shook his head. “You can’t get rid of me anyway. Might as well enjoy it, non?”
The skin on his hand burned and Dean stared at Remy’s fingers. Pulling his hand back, Dean shook his head. “Whatever. But you’re really going to have to get your own pie.”
Dean let out an audible groan of relief when he saw the Impala in the lot. “Baby, did he hurt you?” He ran his hand over the hood, fingers tracing the lines of the curves all the way to the door. He glared up at Remy, prepared to launch into a scathing verbal take down, but stopped at the pained look on his face.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Rien. It’s nothing.” Remy blew out a slow breath. “I’m just wondering if you touch everyt’ing wit dat much… care.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and smirked at the Cajun. “Depends on how much I like it.”
“You like Remy, non?”
“Non.” Dean shook his head, but he had to work to hide his amusement. “Dude, you stole my car. I spent most of the night dreaming about pounding you into the ground.”
This time it was Remy who made a noise in his throat. “We can talk about who pounds who later, mon ami.”
The implication of Remy’s words caught Dean by surprise and he ducked into the car to hide his flush. Breathing out, he cursed himself for suddenly being so damn girly. He’d never had this sort of reaction to anyone before, let alone to a man. Breathing deeply again, he waited until Remy climbed into the passenger seat. The Cajun was grinning and Dean scowled at him. “Don’t be so cocky.”
“Non, Remy would never do dat.” Dean put the car in reverse, aware that he was being studied by a pair of red on black eyes.
“Dude. Quit looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Remy was definitely laughing at him now.
“Like…” Dean glanced over, then put the car into drive and pulled out into the street. “Like… you’re imagining with my clothes off.”
“But I am.” His laugh got louder when Dean cursed under his breath. After a moment of strained silence, Remy cleared his throat. “So where are we going?”
“Don’t know yet.” Dean decided that he could ignore his advances by sheer force of will and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his cell phone. Stopping at a red light, he dialed the number and held the phone to his ear while it rang. “Hi. Can I speak with Adrien Ducet?”
He glanced over at Remy while he waited, noting with a strange mix of pleasure and discomfort that the Cajun was studying him intently. When their eyes met, Dean felt a jolt in his stomach and he was relieved when the voice on the phone recaptured his attention.
“Monsieur Ducet.”
“Mister Ducet? This is Dean Winchester.”
There was a hitched breath over the phone that made Dean suspicious and suddenly he was completely focused on the man on the phone.
“John’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You weren’t supposed to contact me.” The rebuke was harsh and Dean frowned, brows gathering darkly.
“Well, things didn’t exactly go according to plan. I need to ask you some more questions.”
“Like what?”
“Can we meet in person?”
The silence was so long this time that Dean moved the phone away from his face to double check that they were still connected. “Mister Ducet? I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Fine. There is a coffee shop on the corner of Congo Square. You meet me there.”
“I’m on my way now.” Dean promised and hung up the phone. He glanced over at Remy and noted with some approval that he seemed to be serious. “That was our contact.”
“Adrien Ducet?” The French sounding name rolled off Remy’s tongue musically and Dean nodded, refusing to be distracted. “I’ve heard his name before.”
“He’s the one who contacted my… me to come and deal with Keskeya.”
“How’d he find your… you?” Remy asked pointedly and Dean shot him a sharp look.
“There’s circles, dude. It’s not like he pulled out the yellow pages. People in my line of work operate under the table.”
“He pay you?” Remy asked skeptically and Dean nodded head.
“Some. Plus expenses.”
“Why’d he call for help?”
“That, Remy,” Dean stressed the Cajun’s name, testing it on his tongue, “is what we are going to find out.”
“You don’t know?”
“You know everything behind what you do at your job?” Dean hedged, giving Remy a curious look. “What do you do for a living anyway? Besides freelance graveyard security, I mean.”
“Family business.” He looked away for the first time and Dean sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“I can relate.”
They drove the remaining distance in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Dean wondered, briefly, if he should be alarmed at the ease with which he had gotten through his defenses, but he shrugged off the concern. Remy was right about one thing – Dean couldn’t get rid of him easily, so he might as well enjoy it.
There was a parking spot on a side street and Dean pulled into it. He gave Remy a sharp look. “Do I need to worry that you’re going to steal my car again?”
Remy grinned, his earlier reserve melting away in the sun as he climbed out. “Non. Your bébé is safe.”
“She’d better be.” Dean muttered darkly, not completely sure he believed him.
“Oui.” Remy’s smile widened. “Remy promise’ you could take it from his hide oderwise, remember?”
Dean remembered, all right; lean muscles, soft lips, and the hint of Tabasco. “I’m not sure that’s a deterrent to you. You might like it.” He looked away, keenly aware that Remy was laughing at him again. “Let’s go before our contact spooks.” His lips quirked up. “That’s a joke.”
“Oui.” Remy nodded solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling before he pushed his sunglasses into place. The coffee shop had a small outdoor patio. Ceiling fans spun lazily, even in the fall weather. Dean scanned the crowd, eyeing two college girls appreciatively, skipping over the family with small children, and the group of tourists exclaiming loudly over some voodoo trinket being sold from a bin. His gaze settled confidently on a middle aged black man, who was wearing a suit despite the fall heat, complete with a fedora type hat.
Approaching slowly, Dean gauged this man and had to hide his frown. His father had told him that their contact was a local mystic, who had become aware of a haunting and managed to find out who it was, but couldn’t handle it himself for whatever reason. This man looked more like a shyster than a holy man, and he was big enough that Dean would have hesitated to get into a fight with him if he had any options. “Mister Ducet?”
The man looked up, then stood and Dean had to resist the urge to stare. This man would have given Sam a run for tallest man alive. “You John’s boy?”
Dean ignored the look Remy shot him and stuck out his hand instead. “Yeah. Dean Winchester.” He nodded to Remy. “This is…”
“Oh, I know who he is.” Ducet’s voice was far from friendly and Remy carefully stood out of reach. Dean filed the hostility away for future exploration.
“Good, saves the need for introductions. Why don’t we sit down?”
“Remy'll get coffee for us.” Remy spoke softly, moving away before Dean could respond and Dean shrugged.
“I didn’t expect you to be keeping company with his kind.” Ducet growled and Dean frowned at him.
“With all due respect, I don’t really care what you think.” Ducet turned his full attention on Dean now and Dean leaned forward, uncowed. “I only care about one thing – Keskeya.”
Ducet blinked and leaned back, mulling something over. Finally he nodded. “You're right. Worry about on thing at a time.”
“Who was she?” Dean demanded, ignoring the last comment completely. Whatever problem this man had with Remy was Remy’s problem. At least it was until it became Dean’s problem.
Ducet smiled and Dean had to resist the urge to shiver, despite the sweat that was beading down his back in the heat. “She was a Voodoo priestess.”
“Yeah.” Dean sighed, leaning back and crossing his legs. “I figured something like that.”
“How’d you know?”
“I tried to do the job last night. It wasn’t a ghost in her coffin.” Dean leaned forward, noticing that Ducet was suddenly sweating. “What was it?”
“Kalila got mixed up in dark magics. She used to be a respected part of our community, but ever since her husband died, she’s been doing rituals for money. True vaudun doesn’t allow you to take money for your rituals.” Dean didn’t miss the way Ducet claimed to be a part of the voodoo community and he filed that away as well. “She came to me, about a year ago, wanting to do a ritual.”
“What sort of ritual?”
“A ritual to unite her with the lao – the spirits. It would give her untold power.” Ducet leaned forward, his face earnest. “She needed my help.”
“Why did she need your help?” Dean shook his head. “You said she was respected. I’m guessing that meant she was good at her job.”
“Oh, yes. Kalila was very good at her job. But to do the ritual she wanted, she needed a man – a priest – as well. The gods are sometimes fickle about their gender preferences.”
Recalling his unexpected reaction to Remy, Dean shifted uncomfortably and offered a weak smile. “Sometimes we all are.”
Ducet leaned back, studying Dean carefully. Licking his lips he shook his head. “The lao can be violent. The spirits can kill a priest or priestess who is not strong enough to be a vessel.”
“I don’t understand.” Dean shook his head. “What’s a vessel?”
“To get the power, the priest or priestess gives the lao something the spirits want – a corporeal body. They become a vessel, to be ridden by de gods. It’s an incredible amount of power.”
“You did the deal?”
“Non!” Ducet slapped his hand down on the table hard enough that it attracted attention and Dean glanced around. “Non! I do not gamble with my life.”
“Easy!” Dean ordered. He watched Ducet under furrowed brows. “So you’re saying that Keskaya did the ritual herself? And that’s how she died?”
“Yes.” Ducet leaned back, everything else forgotten. “She turned to dark magic, her spirit was stained. She can’t crossover. She’s trapped here in this plane, but not as a ghost. A cauchemar.”
“A what?” Dean racked his brain trying to remember if he’d ever heard his father talk about a cauchemar before.
“She was a witch in life. She is a witch in death.” Ducet struck the table with his fist again. “When an evil witch dies, a witch who has sinned by presuming to be more than she is, she returns as a cauchemar.” His mouth curled into a snarl, his teeth gleaming white. “A nightmare witch.”
“And that’s what we saw in the cemetery?” Dean asked carefully.
“Yes.” Ducet wiped his sweaty face with his palm. “The cauchemar is a sneaky creature. It attacks its victims when they’re asleep. She pins them down, freezing them so they can’t move. You can't scream, you can't move at all!” Again he emphasized his point by slamming the table. “Then, once she has you, she rides you. Like a horse.”
Dean snorted. “So far, this doesn’t sound too awful.”
Ducet glared at him and stood up, making Dean tense. Instead of lashing out, the other man leaned over, eyes flashing. “It’s not funny, what the cauchemar does. She beats you, whips you, and you can’t scream.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You know a lot about it.”
“Why do you think I called your father? He’s got a reputation – supposed to be good at this stuff. And he sent you instead.”
The insult made Dean stiffen and he gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit down.”
“Excuse me.”
“If you want me to help, sit down and tell me how to stop her.”
Ducet laughed, shaking his head and pushing his chair back under the table. “I don’t know how to stop her. That’s what you’re here for.” He took a few steps towards the exit, pausing long enough to glance scathingly over his shoulder. “Do you think can stop her? Or should I call your father again and tell him that you’re not the right man for the job?”
Dean grinned. “Sure I can.” He watched Ducet walk away. “I just have to figure out how.”
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
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Typo police again, I'll stop now, I promise - corporeal rather than corporal? +_+
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And thank you again for your comments. You have no idea how gleeful they are making me. It's nice to know that someone appreciates all the work that went into this story!
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I love this fic sooooo much!!! :D
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Things that Go Bump in the Night (2/7)