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ficwizeTitle: 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!
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Ch. 3
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Remy was nowhere to be found when Dean went back into the shop. Not totally surprised, he went outside and walked to the car, pausing long enough to push his sunglasses up his nose. Glancing around, he sighed.
“A cauchemar.” He shook his head. He had no idea what one of those was capable of. Sliding into the Impala, he pulled the door shut and sat thinking silently. He could either go to the library, which he hated doing, or he could call his father and ask for help.
His father who already sounded doubtful about his skills and who would undoubtedly get a less than enthusiastic report from Ducet. With a muttered curse, Dean turned the ignition and put the car in drive. Rummaging in the glove box, he pulled out a map and flipped through it until he found Tulane University. Then, with a pained sigh, he pulled into traffic. The library it was.
Outside, the autumn sky was crisp blue and the sun burned with enough intensity that he rolled down his window and turned the radio up. AC/DC's “Highway to Hell” blasted through the Impala's speakers. The roads were fairly crowded, even in the middle of the week, and Dean briefly wondered where everyone was out and about to. He left the tourist district behind, driving through a mostly business area before turning the car onto the highway.
New Orleans was different than any other city he had been in. Some cities were soaked in their history and even before he woke up in the morning, he would know where they were. New Orleans wasn't like that. It wasn't a product of its history; it was its history. The heartbeat of New Orleans beat against him; it almost grated. All of his senses were overwhelmed by it, and at night, when humanity slept, his other senses vibrated in warning. Ghosts, poltergeists, spirits, demons, magic – the city breathed it and every breeze down the streets promised a dark, sensual danger.
He shivered, then frowned, annoyed with himself. It was just a job. A job. Like any other. Shaking off his nerves, Dean stepped on the gas. The sooner he finished, the sooner he'd be on his way out of this city – away from its ghosts and its annoying mutant car thieves.
He pulled into the college campus an hour later. Smiling charmingly at a co-ed, he got directions to the library. With a reluctant sigh, he climbed the steps and turned left into an institutional looking building with a sign that welcomed visitors to the Howard-Tilton Memorial Library. Going through the sliding glass doors, Dean looked around until he spotted a reference desk. With a resigned smile, he went to ply his wiles on the hapless librarian behind the counter.
Forty minutes later, he was left to his own devices, with a stack of books on social anthropology and religion, and a sheet of paper telling him how to use the microfiche machines. Grabbing the first book on top, he flipped to the index and found the term cauchemar. He flipped to page 192 and began reading.
In brief--although it is difficult to be brief about cauchemar experiences because they are so multi-faceted--it is an experience during which someone who is sleeping is visited by a presence which is called cauchemar (also called the devil, an evil spirit, a ghost, and a witch). The person awakens and senses, or sometimes actually sees, cauchemar in the room. Often cauchemar is on top of his or her body. The person feels frightened but is unable to move or cry out for protection.
Dean groaned and slammed the book shut. Witch. Spirit. Ghost. The Devil. Clearly, no one had any real clue what a cauchemar was. He grabbed another book and kept reading.
Some cultures called it the Old Hag. Despite himself, Dean smirked. As he read, he came across articles referencing sleep paralysis, but very little in ways of suggestions to keep the spirit at bay. Finally, eyes aching and stomach growling, Dean picked up the last book.
The cauchemar can be confused by placing stones underneath the bed in a circular pattern. The spirit witch will be unable to resist the urge to count the stones, but will be unable to do so, due to the circle.
Dean frowned. He wasn’t sure if he believed that an intelligent woman would be reduced to idiocy, but he made a note of it. Skimming the article, he wrote a few other notes. Holy water. Crosses. Prayer.
Well, that was terribly unhelpful. He closed the book and sat back with a sigh. Glancing at his phone, he frowned. It was nearly five o'clock. He was starving. He was also no where closer to being able to stop the cauchemar and a great deal more curious as to what Keskaya could have done to become one.
It was time to abandon the books and go to the streets. He left the research materials on a cart and smiled at the librarian on his way out. Opening his phone, he paused. If he called his father, he would think Dean wasn't capable of a simple job and he'd be on his way down to New Orleans to take over. If Dean could solve this without involving his dad, maybe he would trust him to take more solo hunts. Sighing, he closed the phone and stuck it back in the pocket of his leather jacket.
He took the stairs at an easy trot and jogged back to his car, mind whirling. This wasn't his first time in New Orleans. He could handle this. Opening the car, he climbed behind the wheel making a decision. He'd go to Keskaya's house and see if he could learn anything from that. Nightfall was roughly three hours away. He had some time.
He wondered what Remy was doing.
The thought slipped through his brain almost without realization and he flipped the radio on in irritation. He had better things to do than wonder what had happened to the car thief. The admittedly good looking car thief. The admittedly good looking car thief who hadn’t hidden his interest in Dean.
He shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t like he was unaware that men could be good looking. He’d just always thought himself immune to their charms. Plus, he was used to doing the pursuing and Remy had decidedly turned the tables on that. It was almost rude.
He was thinking about Remy again. He growled under his breath in irritation and forced his thoughts back to the case. He started going over his supplies. He wanted to enter quietly and stay unnoticed, which meant the shot gun was staying in the trunk. Remembering at the last minute, he pulled over in front of a small Catholic Church and ran inside.
The bigger churches often had gift shops, which Dean never managed to find not funny, but for one this size, he was going to have to pilfer from the reservoir inside the door. He took two small bottles from the trunk and jogged inside. Pausing to look around and make sure no one was watching him, he plunged first one bottle and then the second inside the cistern.
"Thank you." He whispered to no one in particular. Then he was back on his way. Walking outside, he paused and glanced at the sky. It was a dark gray, the clouds rolling in slowly, casting shadows down the street and making the trees dance in the breeze. He needed to hurry, before the storm rolled in.
Twenty minutes later, Dean found Keskaya's house. He drove past slowly. It was an old house, hidden amongst other old houses. This was not a neighborhood that had seen much in the way of urban reclaiming, though the number of for sale signs in the yards suggested that was about to change. Glancing down the street, he saw most of the quaint two story homes needed to be painted, most of the lawns needed to be mown, and most of the cars in the driveways needed to be overhauled.
He parked the Impala in the shade of an oak tree three blocks away from Keskaya's house. The house in front of him looked deserted and he figured this was as good as it was going to get. Climbing out of the car, he squinted down the street, but it was empty. There were no old men on porches, no kids in front yards. Hell, he didn't even hear any dogs barking or birds squawking. It was quiet, way too quiet. It made his hackles rise, even as he opened the trunk and took out the weapons he wanted. A cross went around his neck, a small air gun in his waistband and two vials of holy water went into his jacket pocket. He tucked the crucifix under his shirt, out of sight. He slipped a second one into his jeans pocket. He grabbed a small paper bag and dumped in a container of salt, and a small jar of fire accelerant. He didn't know what he might need it for, and he hoped he wouldn't, but he felt safer knowing he had it.
Dean took his time walking back to Keskaya's house. The sun was low on the horizon, but there were several hours before true dark. Storm clouds were rolling in from the south west, and he could smell the hint of rain even as he heard a distant peal of thunder.
"Perfect," he muttered to himself, with a grimace. Nothing better than doing a little B&E at a house or a little arson in a cemetery unless you were doing it in the middle of a storm. Keskaya's house stood on a lot at a cross section of two streets. Old trees lined both of them, the bows swaying in the winds. He stared at the house thoughtfully as he walked towards it. He couldn't tell if it was his imagination, or if the darkened windows upstairs really did glare down at him. There was a For Sale sign staked haphazardly in the front lawn. He wasn't surprised it hadn’t sold.
Not for the first time, Dean wondered if he should call his father. Going into this house with back up seemed smarter than the alternative. He hesitated on the edge of the driveway, then shrugged. He was here. John wasn't. Besides, he knew he could take care of himself. If it looked to be more than he could handle, he'd bow out and call his dad then.
With another glance down the still deserted street, he went up a few stairs onto the verandah that led to the front door. There was a padlock and chain on it. He eyed the windows next to the door, but decided it was too close to the street to risk. Going to the edge of the porch, he vaulted the railing and dropped down behind some bushes. They were overgrown and he slapped the branches aside irritably as he made his way to the side of the house.
A high wooden fence blocked the back of the house from his view, but it only took him a moment to climb over it. He dropped down behind it and stayed crouched for a second, looking around. The backyard was run riot with plants that at one point had been kept in neatly tended gardens. Dean glanced down and thought he should probably recognize some of them on sight, though he didn’t. Whatever they were, he had no doubt that Keskaya had used them in her rituals.
An ominous peal of thunder rumbled through the air, shaking deep in his bones and he had to force himself to shrug off the resulting unease. This was not a horror movie and he was not going to let anything distract him. He went around to the back door, eyeing several other small gardens, and several small stone statutes hidden amongst the greenery. With the single exception of the creepy feelings coming from the house itself, this did not seem like it had been an unhappy home.
He grabbed his knife from his back pocket and flipped it open. It took him only a few seconds to jimmy open the lock and get inside. There was still enough sunshine coming through the windows that he didn't bother to turn on any lights – if the electricity was still working – and looked around.
He was standing in a kitchen. He frowned. He was standing in a fully furnished kitchen. Two quick steps to the door showed him that the living room was also fully furnished. An old sofa with wooden legs stood dejectedly in the corner, covered in plastic. The two chairs in the room were also covered in plastic, but the coffee table and the side table had been left alone.
Dean's footsteps echoed as he walked down the hall, the wooden planks under his feet creaking slightly under his weight. He glanced inside the other rooms as he passed them with interest. There was a quarter bath off to the right. A small den, the furniture all covered in plastic, lay through the next door to the right.
The house looked untouched, except for the plastic covers on the furniture. No one had cleaned anything out, no grandchildren or children claiming trinkets or keepsakes. It looked the house was exactly the same as it had been before Keskaya died – only with no Keskaya.
He circled the foot of the stairs that spilled to a halt just before the front door. Even without knowing what was up there, he knew that Keskaya had been killed there. There was a pulsing pressure that radiated down the stairs. His fingers itched and he dropped his hand to the vial of holy water inside his jacket pocket.
Trailing his left hand up the banister, Dean began climbing the stairs. His tennis shoes made soft noises on the wooden planks that echoed disturbingly and he forced himself to go slower until he was soundless. As soon as he crested the stairs, he felt the pressure intensify, trying to force him to the left. He went right instead and began checking all the rooms. There were only three.
The room at the end of the hallway had undoubtedly been Keskaya's bedroom. Yellow bed linens still graced the mattress. There was no plastic covering here. An oak dresser stood against the left wall, the drawers firmly shut. Bottles of what he assumed were perfume littered the top of the dresser. The closet door on the far side of the bed was shut. A clock on the bedside table ticked loudly in the darkness and Dean felt his heartbeat thud in time with the movement of the second hand.
Backtracking into the hallway, he checked the middle door. It was a bathroom, with an old fashioned claw tub standing proudly to one side. The mirror over the sink was shattered, but the glass was gone, cleaned up probably by a well meaning real estate agent. There was a rust stain marring the white porcelain of the basin. A tiny closet was open, revealing neatly folded towels and clothes and bottles of lotions and soap.
Outside, thunder cracked sharply and he jumped. "Shit, son, get a grip." He ordered himself aloud, then wished he hadn't as his voice seemed to echo back at him, intensifying the feeling of dread that was coursing through him. He uncorked the holy water and pulled it out, holding it in front of him like a talisman as he turned back into the hallway and went towards the last room.
Quietly, he pushed the door open and then he froze. The room was a disaster. It had clearly been some sort of study. There was a desk pushed against the wall, but the drawers had been opened and the contents were spilled around the floor with abandon. Papers covered the stain on the floor that Dean instinctively recognized as blood. Taking a deep breath, he pushed further into the room.
The storm clouds were closer now and little sunlight made it through the windows. Even so, he had no trouble seeing that the books had been thrown from the shelves that lined one entire wall. Some of the books had been ripped into pieces, pages scattered on the floor. Pieces of what looked like a ceremonial bowl had been kicked around, and Dean thought he saw several other holy items thrown about without a care for their value or use.
The room had been ransacked and recently. There was no way a real estate agent would have left this mess.
A bright flash of lightening lit the entire room brightly, before it was plunged into almost total darkness. Dean stepped back, the menacing feeling of the room more pronounced now than it had been. A hand grabbed his shoulder and Dean shouted, moving before thought. He grabbed the stranger by the wrist, twisting and throwing the other intruder against the wall. Then he flung the holy water in its face, without waiting to see if it would do any good. If it was a demon, it'd be melting. If it was a human, Dean hoped it would at least be distracted.
There was a coughing sputter, but the stranger was already pushing back and Dean staggered into the hallway. He made a dash for the stairs, but the thing lunged for him, grabbing his foot and tripping him. They rolled for a moment, a whirlwind of violently thrown fists and kicks before they hit the wall hard enough that the whole house shook.
"Dean!" The intruder shouted his name and he froze.
"Remy?"
"Oui." The Cajun had rolled on top of him and he shook his head so that drops of water spilled onto Dean's face. "We need to stop meetin' like dis, you and me."
Dean shook his head, gasping slightly for breath, as he felt relief course through him. Then he threw Remy to the side. "What the hell are you doing here? You ditched me this morning at the coffee shop."
"I didn' ditch you, mon ami. I went to do some investigatin' of my own."
"You didn't tell me what you were doing." Dean sat up, scooching back so that he was sitting against the wall. "That's not investigating. That's ditching." He looked at the other man pointedly. "And where the hell is the coffee you promised me?"
Remy grinned. "Remy buy you coffee tomorrow. An' maybe breakfast. How's dat?"
He narrowed his eyes. "If that's a line, it sucks."
"Admit it, you thought about it for a second." Remy climbed to his feet and held out his hand. Dean hesitated for a second, but then he took the offered hand grudgingly.
"How did you know where I was?"
"Kalila Keskaya was de name on de grave maker." Remy shrugged. "I hoped I’d find you here."
Dean grunted. "If you're idea of checking a place out is to trash it like that, you're lousy at it."
"Remy didn' trash de place." The Cajun seemed genuinely insulted. "I jus' got here." He went back to the study and pushed the door open with a grimace. "Dis is somebody else's mess."
"Yeah?" Dean went to stand next to him. "Who's?"
"Remy has an idea." The other man shifted his weight and turned to look at Dean closely. "Remy t'inks it might be Adrien Ducet."
Dean sucked in a breath. “What makes you say that?”
“I followed him.” Remy shrugged, but he was watching Dean carefully. “After de coffee shop. He wen’ to de cemetery. Keskaya’s tomb is broken, de lid?”
Dean nodded, remembering that it cracked when the spirit came out.
“Ducet left somet’ing inside de tomb, by de coffin. Den he put de lid back on and tried to make it look normal. He left flowers on top.” Remy flipped open his cell phone and showed Dean pictures.
Sure enough Ducet was crawling over Keskaya’s grave, his face a mass of sweat and conniving. “What did he leave inside?” Dean looked at Remy, who shrugged.
“Dunno. Couldn’t get close enough to see. Besides, I wouldn’t know what it was anyway, mos’ likely. T’ought you should look.”
Dean made a face. "Great, just what I wanted to do. Wonder around that graveyard again. With a cauchemar on the loose. I spent the afternoon researching cauchemars. They're punishing spirits. So the question is who is she punishing? And why?"
"Oui." Remy eyed the room thoughtfully. "I don' t'ink your t’ief found what he was looking for in here."
"How can you tell?"
"Too much anger." He shrugged. "If he found what he wanted, dere's no need to trash de place."
"Good point." Dean looked at him sharply. "You seem like you know a lot about it."
Remy raised a lazy eyebrow. "I'm not de only one in dis house uninvited."
For a moment, Dean just stared at him, lips pursed. Then he grinned. "No, you're not." He pointedly did not ask any further questions.
"I t'ink it best if we look in other rooms." Remy said after a moment, a rumble of thunder punctuating his statement. "Dis one don’t feel safe." He turned and went back to Keskaya's bedroom, his trench coat flaring out around his calves. Dean followed, reluctantly.
"What do you think he was looking for?"
Remy hesitated. "Somet'ing valuable."
"Maybe."
"Somet'ing dat made Ducet come into the house of the ghost of de murdered woman who's ghost he asked you to destroy."
"Good point. If it was Ducet." Dean wandered over to the dresser. "It's probably also going to be something that stands out. The only room in the house that is trashed is the only room that had obvious voodoo equipment in it."
"Vaudun." Remy corrected, peering under the bed. "Keskeya was a Vaudun priestess."
"What's the difference?" Dean asked, sniffing one of the bottles. It smelled like something flowery and he put it down in disgust and pulled open the top drawer. "And dude, I don't care how good of a hiding place it is, I'm not rifling through some old lady's underwear looking for voodoo crap." He glanced up. "Or Vaudun crap either."
Remy smirked at him. "Afraid of de granny panties?"
"Yes." Dean shoved the drawer shut with a shudder. "Anyone in their right mind would be."
"You prefer t'ongs?"
He shrugged, glancing through a drawer that appeared to be mostly socks and something that looked suspiciously like slips. Slips weren't underwear, but he didn't want to touch those either. "Anything that looks good is fine by me." He glanced up with a smirk. "And most things look good hanging off a lamp shade."
Remy laughed and climbed to his feet to come and search the other half of the dresser. "Dere's a problem, den."
"What's that?" Dean opened the bottom drawer to find various frilly blouses and set to work pulling them out to look for hidden artifacts.
"Remy don' wear underwear."
It took a minute for that to sink in and then Dean's head snapped up. "That is… way too much information." Remy tilted his head, that same slow sexy smile spreading over his lips.
"You prefer to find out on your own?"
"That isn't what I said!" Dean pushed the drawer shut and stood up. "Don't put words in my mouth."
"Somet'ing else, den." Remy suggested.
"Dude." Dean shook his head, firmly. "I'm not interested." It tasted like a lie even as he said it, and he licked his lips.
Remy stood up, and he made the motion look fluid and boneless, and yet so graceful that Dean could only stare in surprise as the other man approached him. "You sure, homme?"
"Sure?" Dean repeated stupidly and Remy grinned. He stepped closer slowly and Dean backed away, keeping a minimal distance between them.
"Oui." Remy kept smiling, moving slowly and steadily, like someone trying not to frighten an animal. "Are you sure dat you're not interested?"
"Yeah, I’m sure." Dean's back hit the wall, his elbow glanced off the closet door, opening it slightly. He held his hands out like he was warding off an attack, but Remy stepped into it easily. His fingers brushed over Remy's chest, but he didn't push him away.
"You sure you're sure?" Remy asked, pressing nearer. Dean didn't answer and Remy leaned closer, lifting his arms to press his hands against the wall on either side of Dean's head. "Because you don' look too sure."
"I like girls,” Dean managed to croak.
"So do I." Remy met his eyes. "But dat don' mean dat I'm oblivious to what's right in fron' of me, either." He moved forward until his mouth was only inches away from Dean's. "Nothin' wrong wit appreciatin’ what you got."
Dean licked his lips and tried to figure out why he hadn't slugged Remy in the face yet. He also wondered what soap the other man used to make him smell so damn good. Then he forgot all about it, when Remy closed the last tiny gap, his lips brushing over Dean's lightly. It tickled and he sighed when Remy stopped, his lips moving slightly away.
"Tell me to stop." Remy challenged.
"I should,” Dean agreed, his voice low.
"Why?" Remy asked, voice rumbling through Dean who couldn’t think of a single reason why he should tell Remy to stop.
Instead of saying anything, he leaned forward. His hands slid along Remy's chest until they moved down to rest lightly on his hips. Remy pressed the advantage, catching Dean's mouth with his own. He kept the kiss light and teasing, moving his lips slightly so that he caught Dean's bottom lip between them. He sucked lightly, his teeth coming out to nip the tender flesh.
Dean responded by tilting his head slightly, slanting his lips and licking slowly along Remy's bottom lip. Remy made an appreciative noise, before he shifted, taking back control and coaxing Dean's mouth to open. Slowly, slowly, he slid his tongue into Dean's mouth, running it along the inside of his bottom lip.
Dean groaned and Remy backed away and chuckled. "Interested now?"
"Arrogant asshole," he muttered, before he fisted Remy's shirt in his hands and hauled him back into a more aggressive kiss. Dean opened his lips immediately and Remy dropped his hands to the sides of Dean's face, holding him still as he explored Dean's mouth. Dean's hands slid around Remy, inside the trench coat, pulling him closer, until they were pressed together. Remy forced one knee between Dean's legs, shifting their weight so that Dean was pressed against the wall and Remy was fitted against Dean from thigh up.
From there, Remy was able to judge just how interested Dean actually was and he encouraged it by pressing his hips forward lightly. Dean's hands ran up Remy's back, digging in lightly. He shifted his face slightly and groaned when Remy ran his tongue lightly over Dean's. Pushing forward, Dean sucked lightly and Remy made an encouraging noise. They broke apart for a moment and Dean nipped at Remy's bottom lip sharply.
Remy shifted his head, running his chin lightly over Dean's jaw line, scraping against five o'clock shadow. The prickly feeling gave Dean goose bumps and he turned his head to gasp. Remy pushed forward, his lips instinctively finding the spot just behind Dean's jaw and under his ear. He licked it slowly and then sucked lightly.
Dean groaned, pulling away slightly. "Don't leave marks."
"Remy likes marks,” Remy protested, before biting. Dean's hands spasmed, digging almost painfully into Remy's back and he growled in the back of his throat. Remy licked again, soothing away the sting from his teeth, even as he moved his thigh, brushing against Dean's growing erection.
Dean's hands dropped from Remy's back to his ass, squeezing lightly and pulling him forward more firmly. This time, Remy gasped and Dean grinned, turning to push his lips back to Remy's mouth. This kiss was harder, more demanding, and Remy moved his thigh again, slowly, dragging it back and forth until Dean's hips thrust forward of their own accord. Remy ran his hands down to Dean's shoulders, and then grabbed the lapels of the leather jacket to push it away. Dean moved his arms agreeably, his elbow knocking against the closet door again, pushing it entirely open. Remy glanced into the closet and froze.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, tensing, and dropping his right hand back to the gun in his jeans waistband.
"I t'ink I know why Ducet didn' find what he wanted."
"Why?" Dean turned, looking into the closet. It looked normal to him.
Reluctantly, Remy moved away from Dean and stepped towards the closet. He reached out and knocked lightly against the back of it. It echoed hollowly. "False back."
"How did you know that?" Dean asked, immediately beginning to move the clothes hanging on the bar to the bed.
"Seen one before," Remy admitted. He stayed where he was, taking a few deep breaths and trying to relieve the pressure in his groin.
Dean glanced over at him, from where he was laying an armful of clothes on the bed. "What kind of business is your family in?"
Remy shrugged. "The kind it's best not to talk about much."
Dean lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Gotcha."
Remy sighed. “Clearly, de moment has been lost.” He grabbed the remaining clothes on the rack and tossed them carelessly on the bed before Dean could respond. Going into the closet, he knelt and felt along the baseboard until he found the trigger. Dean saw him push against something and then he heard a click and a large panel beginning two feet off the ground and going up two and a half feet swung slowly open. Climbing to his feet, Remy pushed the panel all the way open and pulled out a flashlight from his pocket. It was too dark to see otherwise. Flipping the switch, he shone the light onto two small shelves. Dean crowded in next to him to see for himself.
The top one was cluttered with small bottles, each neatly labeled, but there was only a small velvet sack on the bottom shelf. Remy reached for it, but Dean grabbed his wrist firmly. "Don't touch it."
"What is it?"
"I have no idea." Dean took the flashlight and angled it until he could see the lip of the bag. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crucifix and used the end of it to open the sack. After a moment, it fell open, revealing a small statue of a snake. It was crafted out of black metal, but its eyes glowed green. "Dude, are those emeralds?"
"Oui." Remy rubbed his hand over his jeans, like his palm itched, but his eyes stayed fixed on the small statue. "It's a serpent. Keskaya was a priestess, non? D'is is her Li Grand Zombi."
"Her what?"
"During her ceremonies, she focus herself on dis. It is her guide through the mists between dis world and de next."
Dean's face was twisted into an unhappy expression. "Just tell me that a Zombi isn't a zombie."
"Non." Remy hesitated. "Not usually."
"Kalila's body is still in the cemetery." Dean paused. "Isn't it? We saw the chauchemar last night. And you saw the coffin this afternoon?"
"De light and de spirit? And oui, dere was a coffin, but Remy didn’ see inside. Didn’ even know I was supposed to." He looked lost. "Dat's your area of expertise, oui?"
Dean groaned. "I hate zombies."
Remy just stared at him. "Until now, I thought they were just a Hollywood monster."
"No. They're real." Dean grumbled. He reached out and closed the sack with his hand, pulling it out of the closet. "Real nasty."
Remy watched as Dean carefully stuck it in his pocket. "What are you going to do wit dat?"
"I don’t know. But hanging onto it seems like a good idea for now."
"What next?"
"Dunno." Dean pulled his cell phone free and glanced at the time. "But it's going to be officially dark in an hour and I need to find Ducet. I need to know what it is he isn’t telling me."
"You know where he lives?" Remy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No."
Remy grinned. "I do."
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!
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Ch. 3
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Remy was nowhere to be found when Dean went back into the shop. Not totally surprised, he went outside and walked to the car, pausing long enough to push his sunglasses up his nose. Glancing around, he sighed.
“A cauchemar.” He shook his head. He had no idea what one of those was capable of. Sliding into the Impala, he pulled the door shut and sat thinking silently. He could either go to the library, which he hated doing, or he could call his father and ask for help.
His father who already sounded doubtful about his skills and who would undoubtedly get a less than enthusiastic report from Ducet. With a muttered curse, Dean turned the ignition and put the car in drive. Rummaging in the glove box, he pulled out a map and flipped through it until he found Tulane University. Then, with a pained sigh, he pulled into traffic. The library it was.
Outside, the autumn sky was crisp blue and the sun burned with enough intensity that he rolled down his window and turned the radio up. AC/DC's “Highway to Hell” blasted through the Impala's speakers. The roads were fairly crowded, even in the middle of the week, and Dean briefly wondered where everyone was out and about to. He left the tourist district behind, driving through a mostly business area before turning the car onto the highway.
New Orleans was different than any other city he had been in. Some cities were soaked in their history and even before he woke up in the morning, he would know where they were. New Orleans wasn't like that. It wasn't a product of its history; it was its history. The heartbeat of New Orleans beat against him; it almost grated. All of his senses were overwhelmed by it, and at night, when humanity slept, his other senses vibrated in warning. Ghosts, poltergeists, spirits, demons, magic – the city breathed it and every breeze down the streets promised a dark, sensual danger.
He shivered, then frowned, annoyed with himself. It was just a job. A job. Like any other. Shaking off his nerves, Dean stepped on the gas. The sooner he finished, the sooner he'd be on his way out of this city – away from its ghosts and its annoying mutant car thieves.
He pulled into the college campus an hour later. Smiling charmingly at a co-ed, he got directions to the library. With a reluctant sigh, he climbed the steps and turned left into an institutional looking building with a sign that welcomed visitors to the Howard-Tilton Memorial Library. Going through the sliding glass doors, Dean looked around until he spotted a reference desk. With a resigned smile, he went to ply his wiles on the hapless librarian behind the counter.
Forty minutes later, he was left to his own devices, with a stack of books on social anthropology and religion, and a sheet of paper telling him how to use the microfiche machines. Grabbing the first book on top, he flipped to the index and found the term cauchemar. He flipped to page 192 and began reading.
In brief--although it is difficult to be brief about cauchemar experiences because they are so multi-faceted--it is an experience during which someone who is sleeping is visited by a presence which is called cauchemar (also called the devil, an evil spirit, a ghost, and a witch). The person awakens and senses, or sometimes actually sees, cauchemar in the room. Often cauchemar is on top of his or her body. The person feels frightened but is unable to move or cry out for protection.
Dean groaned and slammed the book shut. Witch. Spirit. Ghost. The Devil. Clearly, no one had any real clue what a cauchemar was. He grabbed another book and kept reading.
Some cultures called it the Old Hag. Despite himself, Dean smirked. As he read, he came across articles referencing sleep paralysis, but very little in ways of suggestions to keep the spirit at bay. Finally, eyes aching and stomach growling, Dean picked up the last book.
The cauchemar can be confused by placing stones underneath the bed in a circular pattern. The spirit witch will be unable to resist the urge to count the stones, but will be unable to do so, due to the circle.
Dean frowned. He wasn’t sure if he believed that an intelligent woman would be reduced to idiocy, but he made a note of it. Skimming the article, he wrote a few other notes. Holy water. Crosses. Prayer.
Well, that was terribly unhelpful. He closed the book and sat back with a sigh. Glancing at his phone, he frowned. It was nearly five o'clock. He was starving. He was also no where closer to being able to stop the cauchemar and a great deal more curious as to what Keskaya could have done to become one.
It was time to abandon the books and go to the streets. He left the research materials on a cart and smiled at the librarian on his way out. Opening his phone, he paused. If he called his father, he would think Dean wasn't capable of a simple job and he'd be on his way down to New Orleans to take over. If Dean could solve this without involving his dad, maybe he would trust him to take more solo hunts. Sighing, he closed the phone and stuck it back in the pocket of his leather jacket.
He took the stairs at an easy trot and jogged back to his car, mind whirling. This wasn't his first time in New Orleans. He could handle this. Opening the car, he climbed behind the wheel making a decision. He'd go to Keskaya's house and see if he could learn anything from that. Nightfall was roughly three hours away. He had some time.
He wondered what Remy was doing.
The thought slipped through his brain almost without realization and he flipped the radio on in irritation. He had better things to do than wonder what had happened to the car thief. The admittedly good looking car thief. The admittedly good looking car thief who hadn’t hidden his interest in Dean.
He shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t like he was unaware that men could be good looking. He’d just always thought himself immune to their charms. Plus, he was used to doing the pursuing and Remy had decidedly turned the tables on that. It was almost rude.
He was thinking about Remy again. He growled under his breath in irritation and forced his thoughts back to the case. He started going over his supplies. He wanted to enter quietly and stay unnoticed, which meant the shot gun was staying in the trunk. Remembering at the last minute, he pulled over in front of a small Catholic Church and ran inside.
The bigger churches often had gift shops, which Dean never managed to find not funny, but for one this size, he was going to have to pilfer from the reservoir inside the door. He took two small bottles from the trunk and jogged inside. Pausing to look around and make sure no one was watching him, he plunged first one bottle and then the second inside the cistern.
"Thank you." He whispered to no one in particular. Then he was back on his way. Walking outside, he paused and glanced at the sky. It was a dark gray, the clouds rolling in slowly, casting shadows down the street and making the trees dance in the breeze. He needed to hurry, before the storm rolled in.
Twenty minutes later, Dean found Keskaya's house. He drove past slowly. It was an old house, hidden amongst other old houses. This was not a neighborhood that had seen much in the way of urban reclaiming, though the number of for sale signs in the yards suggested that was about to change. Glancing down the street, he saw most of the quaint two story homes needed to be painted, most of the lawns needed to be mown, and most of the cars in the driveways needed to be overhauled.
He parked the Impala in the shade of an oak tree three blocks away from Keskaya's house. The house in front of him looked deserted and he figured this was as good as it was going to get. Climbing out of the car, he squinted down the street, but it was empty. There were no old men on porches, no kids in front yards. Hell, he didn't even hear any dogs barking or birds squawking. It was quiet, way too quiet. It made his hackles rise, even as he opened the trunk and took out the weapons he wanted. A cross went around his neck, a small air gun in his waistband and two vials of holy water went into his jacket pocket. He tucked the crucifix under his shirt, out of sight. He slipped a second one into his jeans pocket. He grabbed a small paper bag and dumped in a container of salt, and a small jar of fire accelerant. He didn't know what he might need it for, and he hoped he wouldn't, but he felt safer knowing he had it.
Dean took his time walking back to Keskaya's house. The sun was low on the horizon, but there were several hours before true dark. Storm clouds were rolling in from the south west, and he could smell the hint of rain even as he heard a distant peal of thunder.
"Perfect," he muttered to himself, with a grimace. Nothing better than doing a little B&E at a house or a little arson in a cemetery unless you were doing it in the middle of a storm. Keskaya's house stood on a lot at a cross section of two streets. Old trees lined both of them, the bows swaying in the winds. He stared at the house thoughtfully as he walked towards it. He couldn't tell if it was his imagination, or if the darkened windows upstairs really did glare down at him. There was a For Sale sign staked haphazardly in the front lawn. He wasn't surprised it hadn’t sold.
Not for the first time, Dean wondered if he should call his father. Going into this house with back up seemed smarter than the alternative. He hesitated on the edge of the driveway, then shrugged. He was here. John wasn't. Besides, he knew he could take care of himself. If it looked to be more than he could handle, he'd bow out and call his dad then.
With another glance down the still deserted street, he went up a few stairs onto the verandah that led to the front door. There was a padlock and chain on it. He eyed the windows next to the door, but decided it was too close to the street to risk. Going to the edge of the porch, he vaulted the railing and dropped down behind some bushes. They were overgrown and he slapped the branches aside irritably as he made his way to the side of the house.
A high wooden fence blocked the back of the house from his view, but it only took him a moment to climb over it. He dropped down behind it and stayed crouched for a second, looking around. The backyard was run riot with plants that at one point had been kept in neatly tended gardens. Dean glanced down and thought he should probably recognize some of them on sight, though he didn’t. Whatever they were, he had no doubt that Keskaya had used them in her rituals.
An ominous peal of thunder rumbled through the air, shaking deep in his bones and he had to force himself to shrug off the resulting unease. This was not a horror movie and he was not going to let anything distract him. He went around to the back door, eyeing several other small gardens, and several small stone statutes hidden amongst the greenery. With the single exception of the creepy feelings coming from the house itself, this did not seem like it had been an unhappy home.
He grabbed his knife from his back pocket and flipped it open. It took him only a few seconds to jimmy open the lock and get inside. There was still enough sunshine coming through the windows that he didn't bother to turn on any lights – if the electricity was still working – and looked around.
He was standing in a kitchen. He frowned. He was standing in a fully furnished kitchen. Two quick steps to the door showed him that the living room was also fully furnished. An old sofa with wooden legs stood dejectedly in the corner, covered in plastic. The two chairs in the room were also covered in plastic, but the coffee table and the side table had been left alone.
Dean's footsteps echoed as he walked down the hall, the wooden planks under his feet creaking slightly under his weight. He glanced inside the other rooms as he passed them with interest. There was a quarter bath off to the right. A small den, the furniture all covered in plastic, lay through the next door to the right.
The house looked untouched, except for the plastic covers on the furniture. No one had cleaned anything out, no grandchildren or children claiming trinkets or keepsakes. It looked the house was exactly the same as it had been before Keskaya died – only with no Keskaya.
He circled the foot of the stairs that spilled to a halt just before the front door. Even without knowing what was up there, he knew that Keskaya had been killed there. There was a pulsing pressure that radiated down the stairs. His fingers itched and he dropped his hand to the vial of holy water inside his jacket pocket.
Trailing his left hand up the banister, Dean began climbing the stairs. His tennis shoes made soft noises on the wooden planks that echoed disturbingly and he forced himself to go slower until he was soundless. As soon as he crested the stairs, he felt the pressure intensify, trying to force him to the left. He went right instead and began checking all the rooms. There were only three.
The room at the end of the hallway had undoubtedly been Keskaya's bedroom. Yellow bed linens still graced the mattress. There was no plastic covering here. An oak dresser stood against the left wall, the drawers firmly shut. Bottles of what he assumed were perfume littered the top of the dresser. The closet door on the far side of the bed was shut. A clock on the bedside table ticked loudly in the darkness and Dean felt his heartbeat thud in time with the movement of the second hand.
Backtracking into the hallway, he checked the middle door. It was a bathroom, with an old fashioned claw tub standing proudly to one side. The mirror over the sink was shattered, but the glass was gone, cleaned up probably by a well meaning real estate agent. There was a rust stain marring the white porcelain of the basin. A tiny closet was open, revealing neatly folded towels and clothes and bottles of lotions and soap.
Outside, thunder cracked sharply and he jumped. "Shit, son, get a grip." He ordered himself aloud, then wished he hadn't as his voice seemed to echo back at him, intensifying the feeling of dread that was coursing through him. He uncorked the holy water and pulled it out, holding it in front of him like a talisman as he turned back into the hallway and went towards the last room.
Quietly, he pushed the door open and then he froze. The room was a disaster. It had clearly been some sort of study. There was a desk pushed against the wall, but the drawers had been opened and the contents were spilled around the floor with abandon. Papers covered the stain on the floor that Dean instinctively recognized as blood. Taking a deep breath, he pushed further into the room.
The storm clouds were closer now and little sunlight made it through the windows. Even so, he had no trouble seeing that the books had been thrown from the shelves that lined one entire wall. Some of the books had been ripped into pieces, pages scattered on the floor. Pieces of what looked like a ceremonial bowl had been kicked around, and Dean thought he saw several other holy items thrown about without a care for their value or use.
The room had been ransacked and recently. There was no way a real estate agent would have left this mess.
A bright flash of lightening lit the entire room brightly, before it was plunged into almost total darkness. Dean stepped back, the menacing feeling of the room more pronounced now than it had been. A hand grabbed his shoulder and Dean shouted, moving before thought. He grabbed the stranger by the wrist, twisting and throwing the other intruder against the wall. Then he flung the holy water in its face, without waiting to see if it would do any good. If it was a demon, it'd be melting. If it was a human, Dean hoped it would at least be distracted.
There was a coughing sputter, but the stranger was already pushing back and Dean staggered into the hallway. He made a dash for the stairs, but the thing lunged for him, grabbing his foot and tripping him. They rolled for a moment, a whirlwind of violently thrown fists and kicks before they hit the wall hard enough that the whole house shook.
"Dean!" The intruder shouted his name and he froze.
"Remy?"
"Oui." The Cajun had rolled on top of him and he shook his head so that drops of water spilled onto Dean's face. "We need to stop meetin' like dis, you and me."
Dean shook his head, gasping slightly for breath, as he felt relief course through him. Then he threw Remy to the side. "What the hell are you doing here? You ditched me this morning at the coffee shop."
"I didn' ditch you, mon ami. I went to do some investigatin' of my own."
"You didn't tell me what you were doing." Dean sat up, scooching back so that he was sitting against the wall. "That's not investigating. That's ditching." He looked at the other man pointedly. "And where the hell is the coffee you promised me?"
Remy grinned. "Remy buy you coffee tomorrow. An' maybe breakfast. How's dat?"
He narrowed his eyes. "If that's a line, it sucks."
"Admit it, you thought about it for a second." Remy climbed to his feet and held out his hand. Dean hesitated for a second, but then he took the offered hand grudgingly.
"How did you know where I was?"
"Kalila Keskaya was de name on de grave maker." Remy shrugged. "I hoped I’d find you here."
Dean grunted. "If you're idea of checking a place out is to trash it like that, you're lousy at it."
"Remy didn' trash de place." The Cajun seemed genuinely insulted. "I jus' got here." He went back to the study and pushed the door open with a grimace. "Dis is somebody else's mess."
"Yeah?" Dean went to stand next to him. "Who's?"
"Remy has an idea." The other man shifted his weight and turned to look at Dean closely. "Remy t'inks it might be Adrien Ducet."
Dean sucked in a breath. “What makes you say that?”
“I followed him.” Remy shrugged, but he was watching Dean carefully. “After de coffee shop. He wen’ to de cemetery. Keskaya’s tomb is broken, de lid?”
Dean nodded, remembering that it cracked when the spirit came out.
“Ducet left somet’ing inside de tomb, by de coffin. Den he put de lid back on and tried to make it look normal. He left flowers on top.” Remy flipped open his cell phone and showed Dean pictures.
Sure enough Ducet was crawling over Keskaya’s grave, his face a mass of sweat and conniving. “What did he leave inside?” Dean looked at Remy, who shrugged.
“Dunno. Couldn’t get close enough to see. Besides, I wouldn’t know what it was anyway, mos’ likely. T’ought you should look.”
Dean made a face. "Great, just what I wanted to do. Wonder around that graveyard again. With a cauchemar on the loose. I spent the afternoon researching cauchemars. They're punishing spirits. So the question is who is she punishing? And why?"
"Oui." Remy eyed the room thoughtfully. "I don' t'ink your t’ief found what he was looking for in here."
"How can you tell?"
"Too much anger." He shrugged. "If he found what he wanted, dere's no need to trash de place."
"Good point." Dean looked at him sharply. "You seem like you know a lot about it."
Remy raised a lazy eyebrow. "I'm not de only one in dis house uninvited."
For a moment, Dean just stared at him, lips pursed. Then he grinned. "No, you're not." He pointedly did not ask any further questions.
"I t'ink it best if we look in other rooms." Remy said after a moment, a rumble of thunder punctuating his statement. "Dis one don’t feel safe." He turned and went back to Keskaya's bedroom, his trench coat flaring out around his calves. Dean followed, reluctantly.
"What do you think he was looking for?"
Remy hesitated. "Somet'ing valuable."
"Maybe."
"Somet'ing dat made Ducet come into the house of the ghost of de murdered woman who's ghost he asked you to destroy."
"Good point. If it was Ducet." Dean wandered over to the dresser. "It's probably also going to be something that stands out. The only room in the house that is trashed is the only room that had obvious voodoo equipment in it."
"Vaudun." Remy corrected, peering under the bed. "Keskeya was a Vaudun priestess."
"What's the difference?" Dean asked, sniffing one of the bottles. It smelled like something flowery and he put it down in disgust and pulled open the top drawer. "And dude, I don't care how good of a hiding place it is, I'm not rifling through some old lady's underwear looking for voodoo crap." He glanced up. "Or Vaudun crap either."
Remy smirked at him. "Afraid of de granny panties?"
"Yes." Dean shoved the drawer shut with a shudder. "Anyone in their right mind would be."
"You prefer t'ongs?"
He shrugged, glancing through a drawer that appeared to be mostly socks and something that looked suspiciously like slips. Slips weren't underwear, but he didn't want to touch those either. "Anything that looks good is fine by me." He glanced up with a smirk. "And most things look good hanging off a lamp shade."
Remy laughed and climbed to his feet to come and search the other half of the dresser. "Dere's a problem, den."
"What's that?" Dean opened the bottom drawer to find various frilly blouses and set to work pulling them out to look for hidden artifacts.
"Remy don' wear underwear."
It took a minute for that to sink in and then Dean's head snapped up. "That is… way too much information." Remy tilted his head, that same slow sexy smile spreading over his lips.
"You prefer to find out on your own?"
"That isn't what I said!" Dean pushed the drawer shut and stood up. "Don't put words in my mouth."
"Somet'ing else, den." Remy suggested.
"Dude." Dean shook his head, firmly. "I'm not interested." It tasted like a lie even as he said it, and he licked his lips.
Remy stood up, and he made the motion look fluid and boneless, and yet so graceful that Dean could only stare in surprise as the other man approached him. "You sure, homme?"
"Sure?" Dean repeated stupidly and Remy grinned. He stepped closer slowly and Dean backed away, keeping a minimal distance between them.
"Oui." Remy kept smiling, moving slowly and steadily, like someone trying not to frighten an animal. "Are you sure dat you're not interested?"
"Yeah, I’m sure." Dean's back hit the wall, his elbow glanced off the closet door, opening it slightly. He held his hands out like he was warding off an attack, but Remy stepped into it easily. His fingers brushed over Remy's chest, but he didn't push him away.
"You sure you're sure?" Remy asked, pressing nearer. Dean didn't answer and Remy leaned closer, lifting his arms to press his hands against the wall on either side of Dean's head. "Because you don' look too sure."
"I like girls,” Dean managed to croak.
"So do I." Remy met his eyes. "But dat don' mean dat I'm oblivious to what's right in fron' of me, either." He moved forward until his mouth was only inches away from Dean's. "Nothin' wrong wit appreciatin’ what you got."
Dean licked his lips and tried to figure out why he hadn't slugged Remy in the face yet. He also wondered what soap the other man used to make him smell so damn good. Then he forgot all about it, when Remy closed the last tiny gap, his lips brushing over Dean's lightly. It tickled and he sighed when Remy stopped, his lips moving slightly away.
"Tell me to stop." Remy challenged.
"I should,” Dean agreed, his voice low.
"Why?" Remy asked, voice rumbling through Dean who couldn’t think of a single reason why he should tell Remy to stop.
Instead of saying anything, he leaned forward. His hands slid along Remy's chest until they moved down to rest lightly on his hips. Remy pressed the advantage, catching Dean's mouth with his own. He kept the kiss light and teasing, moving his lips slightly so that he caught Dean's bottom lip between them. He sucked lightly, his teeth coming out to nip the tender flesh.
Dean responded by tilting his head slightly, slanting his lips and licking slowly along Remy's bottom lip. Remy made an appreciative noise, before he shifted, taking back control and coaxing Dean's mouth to open. Slowly, slowly, he slid his tongue into Dean's mouth, running it along the inside of his bottom lip.
Dean groaned and Remy backed away and chuckled. "Interested now?"
"Arrogant asshole," he muttered, before he fisted Remy's shirt in his hands and hauled him back into a more aggressive kiss. Dean opened his lips immediately and Remy dropped his hands to the sides of Dean's face, holding him still as he explored Dean's mouth. Dean's hands slid around Remy, inside the trench coat, pulling him closer, until they were pressed together. Remy forced one knee between Dean's legs, shifting their weight so that Dean was pressed against the wall and Remy was fitted against Dean from thigh up.
From there, Remy was able to judge just how interested Dean actually was and he encouraged it by pressing his hips forward lightly. Dean's hands ran up Remy's back, digging in lightly. He shifted his face slightly and groaned when Remy ran his tongue lightly over Dean's. Pushing forward, Dean sucked lightly and Remy made an encouraging noise. They broke apart for a moment and Dean nipped at Remy's bottom lip sharply.
Remy shifted his head, running his chin lightly over Dean's jaw line, scraping against five o'clock shadow. The prickly feeling gave Dean goose bumps and he turned his head to gasp. Remy pushed forward, his lips instinctively finding the spot just behind Dean's jaw and under his ear. He licked it slowly and then sucked lightly.
Dean groaned, pulling away slightly. "Don't leave marks."
"Remy likes marks,” Remy protested, before biting. Dean's hands spasmed, digging almost painfully into Remy's back and he growled in the back of his throat. Remy licked again, soothing away the sting from his teeth, even as he moved his thigh, brushing against Dean's growing erection.
Dean's hands dropped from Remy's back to his ass, squeezing lightly and pulling him forward more firmly. This time, Remy gasped and Dean grinned, turning to push his lips back to Remy's mouth. This kiss was harder, more demanding, and Remy moved his thigh again, slowly, dragging it back and forth until Dean's hips thrust forward of their own accord. Remy ran his hands down to Dean's shoulders, and then grabbed the lapels of the leather jacket to push it away. Dean moved his arms agreeably, his elbow knocking against the closet door again, pushing it entirely open. Remy glanced into the closet and froze.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, tensing, and dropping his right hand back to the gun in his jeans waistband.
"I t'ink I know why Ducet didn' find what he wanted."
"Why?" Dean turned, looking into the closet. It looked normal to him.
Reluctantly, Remy moved away from Dean and stepped towards the closet. He reached out and knocked lightly against the back of it. It echoed hollowly. "False back."
"How did you know that?" Dean asked, immediately beginning to move the clothes hanging on the bar to the bed.
"Seen one before," Remy admitted. He stayed where he was, taking a few deep breaths and trying to relieve the pressure in his groin.
Dean glanced over at him, from where he was laying an armful of clothes on the bed. "What kind of business is your family in?"
Remy shrugged. "The kind it's best not to talk about much."
Dean lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Gotcha."
Remy sighed. “Clearly, de moment has been lost.” He grabbed the remaining clothes on the rack and tossed them carelessly on the bed before Dean could respond. Going into the closet, he knelt and felt along the baseboard until he found the trigger. Dean saw him push against something and then he heard a click and a large panel beginning two feet off the ground and going up two and a half feet swung slowly open. Climbing to his feet, Remy pushed the panel all the way open and pulled out a flashlight from his pocket. It was too dark to see otherwise. Flipping the switch, he shone the light onto two small shelves. Dean crowded in next to him to see for himself.
The top one was cluttered with small bottles, each neatly labeled, but there was only a small velvet sack on the bottom shelf. Remy reached for it, but Dean grabbed his wrist firmly. "Don't touch it."
"What is it?"
"I have no idea." Dean took the flashlight and angled it until he could see the lip of the bag. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crucifix and used the end of it to open the sack. After a moment, it fell open, revealing a small statue of a snake. It was crafted out of black metal, but its eyes glowed green. "Dude, are those emeralds?"
"Oui." Remy rubbed his hand over his jeans, like his palm itched, but his eyes stayed fixed on the small statue. "It's a serpent. Keskaya was a priestess, non? D'is is her Li Grand Zombi."
"Her what?"
"During her ceremonies, she focus herself on dis. It is her guide through the mists between dis world and de next."
Dean's face was twisted into an unhappy expression. "Just tell me that a Zombi isn't a zombie."
"Non." Remy hesitated. "Not usually."
"Kalila's body is still in the cemetery." Dean paused. "Isn't it? We saw the chauchemar last night. And you saw the coffin this afternoon?"
"De light and de spirit? And oui, dere was a coffin, but Remy didn’ see inside. Didn’ even know I was supposed to." He looked lost. "Dat's your area of expertise, oui?"
Dean groaned. "I hate zombies."
Remy just stared at him. "Until now, I thought they were just a Hollywood monster."
"No. They're real." Dean grumbled. He reached out and closed the sack with his hand, pulling it out of the closet. "Real nasty."
Remy watched as Dean carefully stuck it in his pocket. "What are you going to do wit dat?"
"I don’t know. But hanging onto it seems like a good idea for now."
"What next?"
"Dunno." Dean pulled his cell phone free and glanced at the time. "But it's going to be officially dark in an hour and I need to find Ducet. I need to know what it is he isn’t telling me."
"You know where he lives?" Remy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No."
Remy grinned. "I do."
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
