The Roman Hunt
Part 1: Pull my silver strings, Baby
by Danny (a.k.a. Mashiro)

Supernatural fandom, series, SPOILERS for season 4
EVENTUALLY SLASH: Dean/Castiel

Posted: 2013-07-23

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And this will be the last chapter of part 1 of the Roman Hunt. Part 1 is now considered finished. Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you have enjoyed yourself as much as I enjoyed myself writing. Thank you raptorkind for being a wonderful beta and helping me with the details. You're awesome!

As for the other parts, I am fairly sure that part 2, the first part set in season 5 will happen, because I really want to write something with more action, as in the bedroom kind, haha. Unfortunately I don't know when I'll be able to start working on it. We'll see! When it comes however, it will be posted here, so if you follow this story, you won't miss a thing.

Now, enjoy the last chapter and thank you again! Take care of yourself and I wish you many happy days.

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DISCLAIMER: I don't own the rights to the Supernatural series or characters and I make no money writing this. I'm just a fan. This is fan fiction. All OC characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Chapter 12

The Brook Horse

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"Sam! Hey, we've got a problem. Get the stuff and meet me outside, I'll explain later. We need to go now!"

A few minutes later, the motel comes into view and Dean turns with more speed than he should, the tires losing their grip, the car skidding into the parking lot. He gets control back just in time to break as Sam runs up, gets the door open and jumps in.

"What's going on?" he asks, throwing the bag into the backseat, but keeping the green bottle with him.

"There's a girl missing." Dean says, focusing his eyes forward as he turns back out onto the road.

"Since when? You think it's the brook horse?"

"Less than an hour ago. She was out near the river with her mom. Mom blacked out, says she got hit over the head, and when she came to the kid was missing. I... ran into the mom's sister and she told me. Julia. The stable manager?"

"Oh. Right." From his tone, Sam needs no more details to connect the dots. But he's frowning. "That's not like the previous victims at all though."

"Well, maybe it's pissed off! Maybe it knows that we're planning to kill it and it wants to do as much damage as it can before we do. Sam, we need to get this son of a bitch now. Is there any way we can do the spell before midnight?"

"Not... as it is, no. We'd need to adjust the other components and that will take time and probably resources we don't have. And even with that, we can't be sure that it will work."

"We're not sure it works now! There's a kid's life at stake here."

"There will be more lives at stake if we get the spell wrong, Dean. For all we know, that's exactly what it wants. Besides..."

"Besides what?"

Sam sighs.

"If this is the brook horse and it's out to do damage, isn't it more likely that girl is... already dead?"

"She's not dead," Dean says. "It wants us to have a chance to save her."

Sam looks at him.

"It's not like that." Dean snaps, understanding the look; shifting in his seat. "I can't sense it or anything like that. I told you, I'm fine. I just... know what kind of monster this is. It screws with your head, that's what it does. That's what it... likes."

"But you're fine?"

"I'm fine!"

Sam shakes his head. Dean ignores it; says:

"We do what we did when we caught it. I patrol and you stay hidden. It's our best chance."

"And what if that's what it wants? What it's waiting for?"

"That's a risk we have to take."

"Look, I care about this girl as much as you do, but..."

"Really?"

"I care! I'm being realistic, Dean. That spell is our way to stop this thing for good. If it knows that, then we have to assume that it will try to keep us from casting it. We need to look at the bigger picture."

It's Dean who shakes his head this time.

"You know, sometimes I think you should have been buddies with the angels instead of me," he says with a bitter smile. "You'd fit right in."

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He's standing on the edge where snow becomes snow-covered ice. Before him the river lays quiet, running secretly under its frozen cover. He can imagine it, deep and dark and cold; not quite black, but almost; a deep, deep darkness blue.

Above the sky is still covered with clouds, but they are thinning. Stray stars and the moon sending signs of a clear, cold night. The temperature is dropping. Oh, how he wants to be rid of this place; the cold is seeping into his bones and further inside, into his soul, his heart. And oh, how he wants to stay; forever if he could, in the numbing, distracting cold. Just come in, come in and freeze this heart and let me leave it behind. I've had enough of it now, enough. But that would be mercy, would it not? Reprieve, and he can never ask for that.

The snow is bright white against the shadows. The river lays quiet and still.

Dean doesn't know if he expected someone to come; if, as he stands there, he is not only standing, watching and listening, but waiting. Who knows? He only contemplates it very briefly, before stepping out onto the ice and starting to walk.

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It's November the 24th, 2008, and Dean Winchester is following the Rum River upstream, north of the State Highway 95 bridge. The snow creaks under his boots and his breath comes in puffs. He is not walking to reach a certain destination, but to patrol the area, to look for signs of the brook horse that has made this river its home or the girl that he believes it has stolen. The girl is called Jenny, Dean has been told by her aunt. She's only five years old and can be so stubborn, but she's such a sweet kid. Please, is there anything, anything that you can do? If Dean had been a bird, he would have been able to search the river in no time at all and do it without drawing any attention. Unfortunately, he is not and Jenny could be anywhere.

The clouds thin out and scatter as night grows older. Above the white winter landscape, a million stars twinkle in bright contrast to the deep darkness of the sky. They almost challenge the moon, they are so bright. And the snow mirrors their brilliance, sparkling all around him. It never gets really dark when the world is covered in snow.

Dean would not compare this place to Heaven, this white winter avenue that he walks, but that is because Dean is Dean and not a twelve year old girl. Dean has actually met angels, who they say will greet you in Heaven. If, of course, you have been good enough to end up there instead of in Hell, which Dean has also actually seen. So no, he does not compare, no matter how brilliantly the snow and the stars sparkle. The brilliance doesn't even register. Dean sees other things; a nightmare memory in misshapen white shrubs, a deathly pale girl in snow drifts, a silver mane spilling from the covered branches of the trees.

He walks fast. The snow creaks.

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The beginning of the end starts during the last hour of that day; a Monday, as it happens. Dean has seen nothing and heard nothing of the brook horse or the missing girl. He went as far north as they had agreed to, then turned back, knowing full well that him seeing or hearing nothing the first time, didn't mean that there actually was nothing. The brook horse only manifested physically when it wanted to; and stayed spirit when that was more convenient. The girl could be... hidden; put under a spell and hidden somewhere. Or she could be dead. Dean grips the steel-loaded tranquilizer rifle harder. She could be dead.

He looks at his watch, then ahead, towards town and the bridge. Midnight is approaching.

Then he hears a sound and he sees something moving in the corner of his eye. Raising the rifle, he turns fast, seeing a gathering of snow flumping down from a branch. He looks around, scanning the area where the snow had fallen.

"Hey!" he shouts. "Come out here, you son of a bitch!"

That was the snort of a horse he had heard, he is sure, and he can feel the brook horse's presence, it is here. But where? The snow lies white and still, only that branch is waving slowly, a bared limb, beckoning. Narrowing his eyes, he looks further to the left, to the right. He turns. Nothing.

Then he turns again and he sees the little girl. There had been nothing there before, only snow, but now she's lying there, in the middle of the river, flat on her back.

"Jenny!"

Dean makes his way to her, watching the sides for movement or flashes of silver or sounds, knowing, feeling, that the brook horse is there as well. He expects it to charge at him at any moment, but nothing comes.

He calls her name again and kneels at her side, touching his hand to her shoulder, then his fingers to her neck. Her skin is pale and cold, but there is a pulse. He looks around again, scanning the eastern bank, the western bank, upstream and downstream.

"Jenny?"

He grips her shoulder and gives a gentle shake, but the girl is not moving. Jenny wears winter clothing, a thick coat, a big cap, woolly mittens. Red, but the night is making the colors vague. She had been out walking with her mother, Julia had said. Just taking a walk after dinner. Jenny had wanted to see the stars.

Golden curls frame the girl's face. There is a soft whisper of a smile on her lips.

Dean gets up, gripping the rifle hard and turning.

"Let her go!" he calls. "Come out here and let her go!"

Mist forms a way downstream, appearing as if from the air. Dean raises the rifle and aims at the white, the slow, menacing swirling.

Foolish man. Foolish, tormented man-thing.

The "m" in "man-thing" vibrates through Dean and his eyes are tearing, the voice scraping the inside of his mind. The mist takes shape, loosely, then bleeds out of it again, before forming... Dean fires. There is a shudder through the presence, but no damage done, Dean can feel it, can feel amusement. Gritting his teeth, he grabs another dart and reloads. The mist swirls.

"What have you done with her?"

I gave her peace.

"Then you're gonna take it back!" Dean raises the rifle again and there is a rumble of amusement, laughter.

I see into you, man-thing. I see that thing they call a soul. That broken, empty shell you drag in the dirt behind you. Do you know why it hurts so much? Do you know why it torments you so? Because this is not what you are. You are trying to press pitiful concern and foolish care into a place where there is no room for such things. You have been remade, man-thing. It hurts because you deny it.

It takes all his strength of will not to pull the trigger. He squeezes it, feeling the smooth cold, struggling with his own muscles. A ragged breath comes as white. There is cold trailing down his cheeks, his stinging eyes.

"Let her go, you son of a bitch." he presses out through clenched teeth.

The rumbling amusement again, vibrating, blurring his eyes; he blinks. Then what little form there was dissolves. The mist fades out into the air, and is gone. Silence. Crispy cold air and absolute silence.

Rifle raised, Dean spins, looking in all directions, the eastern bank, the western bank, upstream, downstream. He stays close to the girl, right next to her, can sense her form in the vague red coat. His heart is pounding and he struggles to calm his breath. The creature is here, he can feel it. It's so cold, was it this cold before? He dares not look at his watch.

What happens happens fast. Dean feels the presence of the brook horse spike, like a shudder up his spine, but where is it? He moves to turn, and sees the charging swirl of mist, pouring into form and coming straight for them. He fires and then the mist barrels into him, the world a blur of starry heaven and white snow as he is knocked to the ice.

There is a creaky, deep moaning sound, then something sloshes, then a wave of icy cold water comes pouring.

His hand still gripping the rifle, Dean pushes up off the ice in a whirl of snow. The legs of his pants and his shoes are wet, as if he has stepped through a stream. Where the girl had been lying, a body of water is pooling.

"No!"

He falls to his knees where she had lain, wiping at the water and the snow with his hands. The ice is clear, solid; the water soaks his jacket.

The brook horse is there; its presence is returned and it is so pleased, so joyously delighted and Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

But almost immediately after comes the shudder. A cold, deathly shudder through its being and its joy turns to fury, then to horror and a wail of pain pierces the cold, cold night. Dean opens his eyes again and he sees a swirl of mist almost spasm above the ice further downstream. Flames come licking up from inside of it and then, in smoke and wailing... it dissolves. As it vanishes into the air, he can feel the presence of the brook horse go with it.

Lifting his wet arm, cold water dripping from his sleeve, Dean looks at his watch and it is midnight. Midnight.

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Silence. Dead silence. Dean blinks. He looks at the pooling water and the dark ice that hides under it. In the light of the moon, he thinks he can see; on the other side, below, the swirling red of a coat.

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It's odd, he can't really feel the cold, even though his wet clothes are freezing around him. Sam calls and with numb fingers Dean answers.

"Dean! Did it work? Is it gone?"

Dean nods, then realizes and says:

"Yeah. Yeah, it worked. It's gone."

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They get Dean out of the frozen clothes and Sam sits him in the passenger seat, wrapping him in blankets, rubbing Dean's cold hands in his own.

"What did you do?" he says and something in his tone reminds of their mother. "You should have told me you went swimming."

"I'm fine," Dean grimaces and pulls his hands free, rubbing them himself. "Just drive already."

Sam sighs and starts the car.

"There was no sign of the girl?"

"No."

Outside, a world of night and moon and snow flies past them, still, without apologies.

"You were right," Dean says. "She was already dead."

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His feet feel like he's walking on needles as he makes his way to the shower.

"Go easy on the hot water," Sam calls after him.

Dean turns it on scalding and grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut as the water runs down his back, down his useless arms and fingers, over his eyes, over his cheeks. His skin burns, or so it seems to him. He blinks. He breathes.

On the wall, a plastic bear head holds an almost empty roll of toilet paper in its jaws. It's black, with angry yellow eyes. Staring at him.

When he comes out of the bathroom he is wrapped in both steam and towel, hobbling through the room on numb feet, to the fridge, grabbing a beer with stiff fingers. Sam gives him a worried look and a nod, but he's on the phone with Bobby from the sound of it.

Dean sits on the bed and pours the cold down his throat. He breathes. He closes his eyes and opens them again.

He reaches for his pants and a shirt, dressing. Pulling on his jacket, he makes his way to the door.

"I need some air." he says and leaves, ignoring Sam's call after him.

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He's standing on the edge where snow becomes ice. Before him the frozen, snow-covered pond lays quiet, its water pooling secretly under cover. He can imagine it, deep and dark and cold; not quite black, but almost; a deep, deep darkness blue.

Morning is coming; it's like he can feel it, a silent rumbling pushing closer and closer. The day that follows me will be glorious, it promises. Not a cloud in the sky and the sun burning more brightly than you have ever seen it, just you wait. The children will play, basking in the light with red wooly mittens and throw sparkling snow at their laughing friends or brothers. Can you see it? Can you see them?

But for a moment still, the darkness has claim. The pond lays frozen, quiet and unmoving.

Dean doesn't know if he really expected someone to come; if, as he stands there, he is not only standing, watching and listening, but waiting. Who knows? He only contemplates it very briefly, as he becomes aware of the presence of the other. He doesn't turn around.

"This was another test, wasn't it?" he says.

The snow creaks behind him; footsteps, coming closer.

"Were there even any demons in Glacier?"

"There were." Cas says and stops, right in the corner of Dean's eye. "This was not a test."

"But this was a seal. This job here, right? Demons freed that brook horse."

"Dean, it's not what you think. This seal... it had already been broken when you came here."

Dean turns to him then, frowning; Cas is looking out over the river, pain in his eyes.

"We lost here when the first child drowned and wept in death. We... tried. But we were too late."

"So... you just left? You knew that that thing was still out here, hunting these kids, and you left?"

"I was not here. I was not..."

Cas' hands are tightened to fists.

"We are to stop the seals from breaking. That is our work, our 'job'." He says it in a way that has Dean thinking of Sam and hunting ghosts, the family business. "And when we can't... When we fail... There are other battles, so many... other battles, I... We..." He slowly uncurls his fingers, mechanically, as if willing the tension to release.

Dean looks out over the river and he thinks about Cas' confession that time in the playground. He thinks about doubt. He thinks about what Anna had told him about orders and faith and obedience.

"Did you know how I could stop it?" he asks.

"No. I told you everything I knew."

Dean nods. Cas turns to him and looks at him, in that way he looks, with the fullest attention. He says:

"It was not my decision to ask you for assistance, to ask you to leave this place. I was... I am... relieved, that you chose to stay."

And Dean looks back at him and for a long time, they look at each other.

Then Dean looks away, up, at the sky that will soon slowly color and grow less dark, and he knows. He knows that when he comes back down, the angel will be gone.

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