Season Three

Episode Eighteen: Caught in the Riddle

By irismay42

Part Four

St. John’s Hospital
Springfield, IL
Present day

“So that was a total waste of time.”

Dean was back to pacing his father’s hospital room, and Sam was back to wanting to throttle him.

“At least we know now that it wasn’t the thing Dad was hunting caused this,” the younger bother pointed out, gesturing at his father’s too-still form.

Dean grunted. “If we believe those friggin’ witches.”

“No reason not to believe ’em,” Bobby put in, scratching his earlobe as he considered his fallen comrade at arms. “I told you this wasn’t like ’92.”

Dean sighed, raking a hand through his hair before slumping down in the chair next to Sam. “Then what, Bobby?” For a brief instant he sounded almost lost and more than a little afraid; and then the shutters came slamming back down and he retreated to his familiar comfort zone of “pissed off at the world in general.” “He’s still in a coma,” he pointed out, clenching his teeth in an obvious attempt to rein in his anger. “And we still don’t know what put him there. What the hell do we do now?”

“Quit your bellyachin’ for one,” Bobby chided him, his quota of patience obviously used up for the day. Both Dean and Sam cast surprised looks in his direction, and he merely smiled placidly at them, as if he was the only person in the room who was in on the joke. “Don’t you boys worry, now,” he said. “I got help on the way.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What help?”

“Why me, of course.” A familiar voice emanated from the direction of the doorway. “Who else d’you think Bobby Singer would drag across three states to give your hard-headed daddy a talking to?”

“Missouri?” Sam was on his feet so fast he knocked his chair over, Dean picking it up for him as the younger brother charged over to Lawrence’s most renowned psychic and enveloped her stout frame in a heartfelt bear hug, a broad smile lighting up his face. “Oh my God, Missouri, it’s so great to see you!”

Missouri Moseley returned the hug with added interest before pulling away from him slightly and peering up at him. “Sam Winchester, did you get another foot taller since the last time I saw you?”

Sam grinned at her sheepishly, cheeks dimpling. “I think I’m maybe done growing, Missouri,” he assured her, and she patted his arm affectionately.

“I should hope so – any taller and you’d be a danger to low-flying aircraft!”

She returned his smile warmly before her gaze fell on Dean, who was hanging back a little way trying to be cool, especially after witnessing Sam making such a doofus out of himself.

Sure, Dean was as happy to see Missouri as his brother was, but it didn’t mean he had to act like an over-excited six foot four inch Labrador puppy to prove it.

“Well there’s the other one,” Missouri said, letting go of Sam and approaching his brother. “Where one goes the other’s sure to follow, huh?”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “Can’t get rid of him no matter how hard I try.”

Missouri put a hand to his cheek before wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into an embrace that threw him more than slightly off balance – both literally and figuratively.

He allowed her to hug him for a second, almost able to convince himself he wasn’t hugging her back, although that pretty much wasn’t the case. When that got to be too chick-flick for him he tried to pull away from her a little self-consciously, but she held him fast, looking up into his eyes for a moment before replacing her hand on his cheek and lowering her voice so only he could hear her. “He’s gonna be okay, sugar. You just trust me on that. You gotta quit worrying yourself, all right?”

Dean blinked at her, unsure whether she was reading the expression on his face or – reading him. He fidgeted a little under her scrutiny before nodding ever-so-slightly.

“Okay then.” Missouri released her hold on him before tilting her head to one side and squinting up at him, a frown crinkling her brow. “Boy, why you wanna go cut your hair so damn short?” she asked, only allowing Dean time to perform his best impersonation of a goldfish before adding, “Makes your ears stick out. Not that you’re not still as ridiculously handsome as you ever were, mind you.”

“Thought you said I was goofy-lookin’?”

“Baby, all snot-nosed four-year-olds are goofy-lookin’ far’s I’m concerned. You boys just lucky you got those damn fine Winchester genes workin’ for ya! Speaking of which…” She turned to the still form on the bed before glancing up at Bobby. “What the hell he done got himself into this time, Bobby?” she asked, shaking her head like some disapproving aunt.

“Good to see you too, Missouri,” Bobby returned with an arch of his eyebrow.

“Can you help him?” Dean interrupted, unconsciously making himself an anxious presence at Missouri’s shoulder. “The witches said we had to ask him what was wrong with him –”

“Witches?” Missouri looked at each of the hunters in turn.

“Long story,” Sam assured her.

“Crazy-ass pot-smoking witches,” Dean clarified, as if Missouri had asked. “Probably trying to give him monster-sized boils and wound up putting him into a coma instead.”

“Dean, they said they had nothing to do with it –” Sam began to remonstrate.

“Since when do we believe a word that comes out of a witch’s mouth, Sam?”

“You know, a couple hundred years ago, I’d have been considered as a witch and burnt at the stake,” Missouri pointed out. “You wanna go tossing me out on my ass too?”

Dean took a breath, finally lowering his eyes and shaking his head like a naughty schoolboy. Which was the effect Missouri always seemed to have on him. “No, ma’am,” he confessed meekly.

“Good,” Missouri said. “’Cause you even tried it I’d kick your scrawny little behind from here to Hollywood – where you and that pretty face of yours belong.”

Dean could feel the tips of his ears burning. “You say the nicest things.”

“And almost half of ’em are true,” Missouri agreed. “I’ll leave you to figure out which half.”

She turned her attention to John then, moving to his bedside and taking one large hand in her own. “John Winchester,” she said, shaking her head. “Why we gotta always meet under crappy circumstances?”

“You can help him though?” Dean prodded once again. “Right? Missouri?”

Missouri nodded sagely. “I believe so,” she pronounced. “Just gonna take some time is all. But don’t you worry – I may have trouble getting though your daddy’s thick skull when he’s conscious, but comatose? Not a problem…”

Vasilyeva house – basement
Griffin, GA
January 1992

“Where’d she go?” Dean asked weakly, trying to draw himself up onto one elbow but failing pretty damn spectacularly. His eyes roved around the dingy basement, looking for the glint of metal teeth, listening for the rasp of metal blade on metal blade. But all he could hear was frightened breathing – and he was pretty sure that was just his own.

He blinked, trying to get a handle on Mrs. Vasilyeva’s whereabouts, trying to remember the last thing that happened to him and why there seemed to be a big gap between then and now.

She’d been at the far end of the room, about to… About to carve up the two kids in the cages further down the row.

He sat up suddenly, energy surging from some reserve he hadn’t previously realized he had. “Those kids! What did she do to those kids? I gotta – I can’t let them – I can’t let her –”

“They’re okay.” It was Donny’s voice, the older kid in the cage next to Shannon’s. “She didn’t do anything to them. Yet.”

Dean blinked into the darkness. “What’s she waiting for?”

“The oven to warm up.”

Dean swallowed. “The – what? Did I – why don’t I – what the hell just happened to me?”

“She was just tasting you,” Donny explained matter-of-factly, barely any emotion in his voice at all. “Snacking. Believe me, when you’re the main course, you’ll know.”

“Snacking?” Dean echoed. “Seriously? Snacking? You’re kidding, right?”

“She does that,” Donny continued. “Snacks on you. Until she sucks you dry. Sucks all the life out of you. Like those two poor kids down there.”

“Like the Shtriga,” Dean muttered, trying to wrap his brain around what Donny was telling him. Mrs. Vasilyeva was a Shtriga? Somehow that didn’t fit – the iron teeth – the biting. The Shtriga Dean remembered from Fort Douglas – and the image of that freak hovering over his baby brother would forever be tattooed onto his brain – hadn’t tried to bite Sam, it had just tried to breathe the life out of him… This was different. He rubbed at his neck where her teeth had sunk in, his hand coming away bloody. Way different. He shook himself mentally. “So what happens then?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know the answer. “When you’re – when she’s finished snacking on you?”

Donny nodded toward the two unconscious kids in the cages nearest the counter and the third who looked in almost as bad shape. “She eats you,” he said flatly.

Dean blinked at him. “Huh?”

“She cooks you and eats you,” Donny repeated, eliciting a soft whimper from Shannon and the little girl in the cage next to Dean. The older boy’s voice took on a flinty edge, as if he was trying really hard to sound casual and unruffled rather than completely terrified, like a kid telling a gory ghost story to a bunch of petrified brats sitting around a campfire. “See that big wooden spoon thing over there?” Dean followed the direction of Donny’s finger to where the huge spatula he’d seen in the kitchen yesterday leaned against the wall near the door. “That’s what she uses to put you in the oven. Pushes you inside with it. Knocks you out with it if you won’t go.” He leaned his head back against the wall once more, his face once again expressionless. “We’re all destined for the oven eventually,” he pronounced with an air of morbid finality. “All of us.”

Dean tried to swallow again, but his mouth had dried up completely. “You’ve – you’ve seen this?” he asked hesitantly. “You’ve seen her do this?”

Donny nodded slowly. “Waits till the kids are asleep upstairs. Then takes the sickest ones up to the kitchen…”

Dean couldn’t help glancing toward the two kids at the end of the row. “How – how many times…?”

“Twice,” Donny said. “And I’ve only been here a couple days.”

Two kids. Two dead kids in two days. How many before that?

“How long?” Dean asked quietly. “Donny? How long until she comes back here? For them?”

“Not long,” Donny’s voice wavered a little bit. “An hour maybe?”

Dean bit his lip. “Then we have an hour to figure a way out of here,” he said shortly. “I’m not letting her kill any more sick kids…”

Donny laughed caustically. “How you gonna stop her?” His voice was laced with burgeoning hysteria and Dean knew barely-disguised panic when he heard it. “No one can stop her. The oven. That’s the only way we’re getting out of this place. That’s the only way any of us are getting out. No one’s coming to help us. No one’s coming to save us. We’re on our own here!”

“Single parents,” Dean said suddenly, nodding slowly to himself. “That’s why she goes after single parents – gets the mom or dad out of the picture and gets the kids all to herself –”

“Helpless,” Donny nodded dejectedly. “Hopeless.”

Dean squared his shoulders defiantly. “Dude, don’t talk like that,” he snapped. “It ain’t over till the fat lady’s a-wailing and she ain’t even gotten the intro down yet.” When Donny continued to stare disconsolately at the floor of his cage, Dean added, “Listen, man, I got a kid brother upstairs depending on me and I’m sure as hell not gonna let that bitch get her hands on him. No way. He’s –” he faltered a little, blinking back moisture that had unaccountably sprung into his eyes. “He’s all I’ve got right now. And I’m all he’s got. If – if something happens to me, I don’t even wanna think about what happens to him – so I gotta get us out of this. You hear me?” Donny’s eyes tracked to Dean’s slowly. “I’m not givin’ up and neither should you. I’m gettin’ outta here and I’m gettin’ my brother outta here because no way in hell I’m leaving him here on his own with that witch. I’m not. I’m just not.”

He curled his fingers around the bars and pulled himself painfully to his knees, clenching his jaw determinedly and raising his chin a little.

“I’m just not.”

St. John’s Hospital
Springfield, IL
Present day

“Whew, is it ever dark in there!”

Missouri looked up from John’s pale face, the lines of deep concentration slowly ebbing from her warm features as she blinked languidly at the three men crowded around the hospital bed.

She relaxed the tight grip she had on John’s wrist, her fingers slipping down his hand until they were curled in his own. Finally, she patted the back of his hand reassuringly and smiled.

“Is he okay?” Dean asked immediately.

“Are you okay?” Sam added.

Missouri continued to beam at them placidly, nodding her head slightly. “I’m fine thank you Sam,” she said, squinting pointedly at Dean, who lowered his eyes and shrugged.

“I was gonna ask that too,” he mumbled.

“Uh-huh,” Missouri agreed. Then, “Dean?”

Dean looked up at her.

“He’s gonna be fine, honey. You gotta start believin’ me.”

Dean swallowed. “You – you spoke to him? What – what did you see?”

A shadow seemed to pass across Missouri’s face, gone in an instant, but leaving a ghostly echo behind.

“Missouri?” Sam prodded. “Did he talk to you?”

Missouri hesitated for a second before nodding slowly.

“What did he say?” Dean asked.

“Boys,” the psychic said at length. “Your daddy’s trapped and only one person can get him out of this.”

The brothers exchanged a glance, and this time Bobby spoke for them.

“And who might that be?”

Missouri considered him thoughtfully. “Why, the person who knows him best of course.”

Vasilyeva house
Griffin, GA
January 1992

They’d eaten dinner in silence, heads bowed over their food while Fliss and April cried silently and Sam did his best not to look at Dean’s empty chair.

“Eat up, children, eat up!” Mrs. Vasilyeva had urged them as if nothing had happened; as if two of their number hadn’t disappeared into thin air since this time yesterday.

It was almost as if they’d never even been here.

No. Dean had been here. And he wasn’t gone. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be… No way Dean would just leave him here. Alone. No way. Dean wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t….

But what would happen to Sam if Dean didn’t come back? With Dad sick, Dean was all Sam had….

Sam swallowed, clearing dishes from the table as Mrs. Vasilyeva ordered the children up to their rooms to finish their homework.

“Two more children coming to stay tomorrow,” her voice tinkled merrily as she organized the dirty dishes in the kitchen, the oven a continuous monotone hum in the background even though she didn’t seem to be cooking anything in it. “Need to make the place look nice for them, so I don’t need you all under my feet.”

“Two more children?” Flora asked quietly, eyes widening as she looked up at her mother. “Won’t – won’t they be – y’know – because you said we had no more room…?”

Something dark flashed across Mrs. Vasilyeva’s face as she bent down toward the girl. “We’re always happy to help those less fortunate than ourselves, Flora,” she said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Poor children – all alone in the world… It’s such a shame when they take it into their heads to run away from the people who are trying to help them. I only hope whoever Dean and Shannon find themselves running to will be as kind to them as we were…”

Sam turned away, unable to listen anymore.

If two more children were arriving tomorrow then maybe someone else was going to disappear tonight… And if his suspicions were correct about Mrs. Vasilyeva… about what she was….

Well it wouldn’t be him. It wouldn’t be any of them. Because he was finding Dean – and Shannon – and they were getting the hell out of here. All of them. He had no idea where they’d go but Dean would think of something. He knew he would. He always did. He just had to find him. He’d find Dean and then it would be okay. Because Dean would know what to do.

So. Where to look?

If Dean was still alive, then he was in this house somewhere, Sam was sure of it. And Dean was still alive. He had to be. Sam would know if he wasn’t.

The boys hadn’t had much time to explore the house since their arrival, but Sam didn’t think there were any hidden chambers or dark, forbidden passageways anywhere around. The only place Mrs. Vasilyeva had told them expressly not to enter was the basement… The basement. Last night, that’s where she’d been coming from, when she’d turned around with those – those teeth and he and Dean had run back to their room without looking back, not once.

They’d heard Shannon scream before she disappeared and had been out in the hallway within seconds. But she was already gone. So Mrs. Vasilyeva couldn’t have taken her far. And she’d been coming up from the basement.

Sam was standing considering the basement door before he even knew how he got there.

He could hear Mrs. Vasilyeva’s low voice from the direction of the kitchen next door, and he knew that all she’d have to do was put her head through the door and she’d see him.

Still.

He had to try.

Reaching out one trembling hand, his fingers closed around the doorknob and he tugged, just once.

The door didn’t budge, which didn’t surprise him considering he’d seen the woman slipping a key into her apron when she left the basement last night.

Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes strayed to the door at the end of the hallway which led into the overgrown jungle of a garden.

He’d not been out there before and it was already dark outside, judging by the muted light slanting in through the frosted glass in the little window set high in the door. Shadows of trees and plants out in the garden were moving like living things across the wall as the wind blew softly against the house, rattling the windows and causing tree branches to scratch against the glass like fingernails.

Sam took a breath. He could do this. He could. He had to. If Dean was in trouble, then Sam had to help him. That was the way it worked. Dean had Sam’s back, and Sam had Dean’s; when he’d let him.

And he knew that this was exactly what Dean would do if it was Sam who was missing.

Casting a nervous glance back toward the kitchen, he made his way down the corridor, fingers sliding down the smooth wood of the rear door and twitching when they met the cold metal of the key jammed into the lock.

He twisted, the mechanism grinding softly, and then he pulled, the door opening smoothly onto the eerie early evening garden, birch trees whispering to each other off in the distance as the cold breeze caressed their bare branches.

He wished he’d thought to bring his coat.

Shivering a little, he closed the door behind him as quietly as he was able, stepping out into Mrs. Vasilyeva’s extensive herb garden which covered the area from the doorway to the kitchen window.

A bird rustled through the trees to his right, startling him, and he could make out a nest high up in the leafless branches, illuminated by the moonlight which bathed the garden in soft white light as the moon waxed toward full overhead.

He considered the herb garden as he skirted around the house, wondering whether that was how Mrs. Vasilyeva had managed to make Dean sick this morning. Had she put something in his oatmeal? Some of these herbs? Because Sam had no doubt Dean hadn’t been faking. She’d done something to him, he knew it. Because he wouldn’t run away without Sam….

He cursed softly as his foot caught on something sticking up out of the ground, tripping him so that he fell to one knee on the hard, compacted soil. Rubbing at his knee, his eyes scanned the ground around him, trying to pick out what he’d tripped over in the bright moonlight.

After a brief search, he spied a small pile of disturbed earth, figuring some critter had been digging in the garden as he reached out toward something hard and white half-buried in the soil.

Fingers spreading over the vaguely spherical shape, he began to pull, the thing in his hand coming free of the ground with enough force to topple him backwards onto his behind.

Frowning, he raised the object in his hand in front of his face, angling it toward the moonlight in an attempt to better identify what he was holding.

Two empty eye sockets gazed back at him.

Somehow he managed to stifle a scream as the skull abruptly dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

Oh God oh God oh God….

Sam had never wanted to see Dean – or even his Dad – as much as he did right then.

The skull was sitting on the grass looking at him.

He knew it wasn’t actually looking at him. Not having any eyes or anything. But that didn’t make Sam feel any better as he completely failed in all his efforts to tear his gaze away from it, breathing quickening as he concentrated really hard on not throwing up on his shoes.

He needed to find Dean.

Right now.

Forcing himself to his feet shakily, he tried to breathe slowly, willing the world to stop spinning for a second so he could get his bearings again.

So there was a skull buried in Mrs. Vasilyeva’s herb garden. Sam had no doubt Dad had seen far worse in his hunting career which, he reminded himself, he had been only too insistent Dad and Dean fill him in about in great detail as soon as he’d found out his dad didn’t really travel the country “selling stuff,” as Dean had always maintained.

But hearing about ghosts and black dogs and werewolves and shapeshifters hadn’t prepared him for this. This had been a person once. An actual person. Who was now dead, probably killed and buried by Mrs. Vasilyeva, considering this was her garden.

Was this Donny? Or Shannon? Or….

He swallowed. No. It couldn’t be Dean. Couldn’t be.

Fighting down his fear, he bent back down toward the skull, pushing at it with his toe as he forced himself to examine it further.

He couldn’t see any signs of trauma – no obvious gunshot wound or fracture. Just bleached white bone. Which suggested it had probably been here some time. If this was the skull of one of the kids who had disappeared recently, then there would still be flesh clinging to it.

He shuddered, wondering fleetingly who this skull had belonged to and how long ago they had died. And how many other skulls were buried in Mrs. Vasilyeva’s garden.

That thought almost paralyzed him, his eyes scanning the ground all around him for other bone fragments, imagining whole skeletons under his feet waiting to drag him down into moldy mass graves.

He needed to find Dean. He really needed to find Dean.

Trying to ignore the ground – which he was now convinced was softly undulating beneath his feet – he looked back up at the house, trying to figure out where the basement would be in relation to where he was standing.

If that was the kitchen window – and he swore he could still hear the hum of the oven even out here – then the basement must be….

Skylight.

Set low in the wall, almost hidden by the wildly out of control undergrowth, was a tiny window, and Sam scooted over toward it, ignoring the little voice in his head telling him he was walking over people’s graves.

Kneeling down next to the window, he bent his head low, trying to peer through the filthy glass and into the room beyond. But even with the moonlight at his back, he could see nothing, the window was too dirty and the room too dark.

Pulling the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand, he tried to clean away some of the grime, but only succeeded in turning his sleeve a delightful shade of moldy brown.

Glancing behind him, his eyes once again lit on the skull.

Screw it.

He tried not to think about the smoothness of the bone in his hand as he hefted the skull and launched it at the window, wincing at the crash as the glass shattered, the skull bouncing off the window frame and landing once again on the hard ground, jawbone detaching in a hideous approximation of a grin.

Careful of the broken glass, Sam crouched in front of the window, peering down into the darkened basement as his eyes tried to pick out details in the chalky moonlight.

Cages. There were rows of cages.

“Dean?”

“Sammy?”

The answer was immediate, the relief flooding through Sam’s body at the sound of his brother’s voice almost too much for him to handle as his knees threatened to buckle out from under him.

He pushed closer to the broken window, peering down into the darkness until a soft beam of moonlight picked out two green eyes looking up at him. “Dean!”

“Sammy, are you okay?”

Sam snorted softly, reaching a hand down through the window frame, fingers grazing against the cold bars of Dean’s cage before finally finding the warm solidity of his brother’s hand. “Am I okay?” he echoed incredulously. “Dean, you’re the one locked in a cage with some hag from Hell wanting to chow down on you with her iron teeth!”

Dean swallowed audibly, and Sam suddenly realized his big brother’s fingers were trembling. “Been there, done that,” he managed weakly, moonlight glinting off teeth as he tried to toss Sam a cocky smile.

“She bit you?” Sam burst out.

He saw Dean nod just a little. “I don’t know what happened – it was like she – she took something from me. But I don’t really know what.”

“Lifeforce,” Sam replied knowledgeably. “Soon as I began to figure out what was going on I did some reading –”

“Soon as you what?” Dean almost laughed.

“Research,” Sam said shortly. “You know? Reading? Dad’s been teaching me since – well, since I found out about the family business. I spent my lunch break in the school library following up on some theories –”

“You are such a geek,” Dean muttered, shaking his head but not loosening his hold on Sam’s fingers.

“That witch has metal teeth for a reason, Dean,” Sam countered. “I figured maybe that was what was happening to the kids. Maybe she was –”

“Eating them,” Dean finished for him.

When Sam realized the expression on Dean’s face was completely serious, the horrible truth slowly began to dawn on him.

He’d been right.

“Closest thing I could find,” he managed to continue, despite feeling like the world had just tipped sideways and nothing now appeared as it was supposed to, “is the legend of the Baba Yaga – the Russian witch who eats children. Dean, she has iron teeth and lives in a cottage surrounded by birch trees and –”

“Vasilyeva’s a Russian name, right?” Dean put in. “And she makes that weird Russian beet soup stuff?

“Borsht,” Sam supplied. “Yeah. Although I think she’s more a mixture of several legends actually – crones, hags, your garden variety witches.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’s how the legends got started – we’ve got no way of knowing how old she is. And if she’s stealing children’s lifeforces to prolong her life she could be ancient.”

Dean muttered a word that sound something like “Shtriga,” but Sam didn’t know what that meant. “Huh?”

Dean blinked up at him, eyes appearing huge in the moonlight. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just some legend Dad mentioned once.” He smiled lopsidedly. “You’re really getting into this whole geekboy sidekick research thing, huh, Sammy?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well if you’d told me what was going on with Dad from the beginning, instead of treating me like some dumb kid you had to keep in the dark, I might have been able to help out with this stuff ages ago!”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, whatever Baby Einstein. Right now we’ve got other things to worry about – like that witch upstairs with her metal teeth and her big oven that she just started heating up. There are a couple of pretty sick kids down here she’s planning on turning into hamburger real soon. We have to get the hell outta Dodge, Sammy!”

Sam nodded. “I know, I know, Dean. But she’s locked the door and I don’t know how –”

Suddenly a shadow fell across him and he couldn’t see Dean’s face anymore.

He looked up, and the only thing he could make out amidst the dark silhouette looming above him was the glint of iron teeth.

“What are you doing, little boy?”

St. John’s Hospital
Springfield, IL
Present day

A tiny flicker of a frown began to pulse between Dean’s eyebrows and Sam was pretty sure his brother was going to explode as soon as his mouth caught up with his brain.

“So, what does that mean exactly, Missouri?” Sam asked quickly, hoping to head Dean off at the pass before he could say something to the psychic he might later regret. “The person Dad knows best is the only one who can wake him?”

“We could do without your riddles right now, Missouri,” Bobby weighed in, obviously sensing Dean’s building irritation just as Sam was.

But Dean remained uncharacteristically silent, simply gazing at Missouri uncertainly as she gazed right on back at him.

“It’s all right, boys,” she said softly, eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Everything’s going to be fine. Just trust me. Trust your father. Everything’s going to be fine…”

Vasilyeva house - basement
Griffin, GA
January 1992

“Sam? Sammy!”

Dean screamed his brother’s name, even as moonlight began to filter back into the room through the little skylight, Sam having been forcibly dragged away from the window by that Russian hag bitch.

Dean had held on to his brother’s hand for as long as he could, but eventually Sam had slipped through his fingers and all he was left with was this dark, cold cage and six scared children all looking at him for salvation. Even the two half-dead kids Mrs. Vasilyeva had been threatening to eat seemed to have perked up when Dean had vowed to get them all out and as if on cue Sam had showered them with broken glass.

“Sammy!” He yelled for his brother one more time, knowing that he wasn’t going to get a response.

Okay, that was it.

“If that bitch lays one freakin’ hand on my brother, I’m gonna kill her!” Dean vowed.

He had to get out of here. Right now.

Patting down his pockets, he pulled out a metal hairpin, held it up to the moonlight and smiled.

Vasilyeva house
Griffin, GA
January 1992

“Get off!” Sam screamed, kicking out at Mrs. Vasilyeva as she dragged him back into the house. “Get off of me!” He clawed at the hands encircling his wrists, hoping to draw blood but succeeding only in tearing his own nails.

He continued to kick at her as she bundled him down the hallway and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her as she shoved him into the room.

He stumbled backwards, his shoulder blades hitting something hot and hard, and he felt the first stirrings of panic when he realized she had him cornered against the oven door.

“I was nice to you!” she hissed, eyes dark and beady like an angry hawk, wiry hair slipping free of the pins holding it in place as she inclined her long bony neck down toward him, nose inches from his, teeth… Sam didn’t want to look. “And this is how you repay me? This? By smashing my windows and trampling my garden and –”

“You have skulls buried in your garden!” Sam pointed out. “And my brother locked up in your basement!”

“Ingrate!” the woman snarled. “Snooping around my house after I invite you and that brother of yours into my home. Feed you. Give you a bed to sleep in –”

“My brother’s locked up in your basement!” Sam repeated, enunciating each word carefully.

“I was going to save you for a while,” Mrs. Vasilyeva continued as if he’d not spoken. “You showed promise! You could have been the one I’ve been looking for!”

Sam screwed up his face in confusion. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Stupid brother. You had to have a stupid, nosy, pig-headed brother!”

“I – What?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva drew a breath, her face still unsettlingly close to Sam’s. “Regardless of what the storybooks tell us,” she said slowly, “not all witches are female, Sam.”

Sam was no less confused by that comment. “So? What does that have to do with me and my brother?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva huffed. “It has nothing to do with your brother. I only let him stay because I thought he might taste nice. For a boy.”

Sam flinched. “If you touch him I’ll –”

“You’ll do nothing. There’s nothing you can do. You’re powerless. And that’s your tragedy, Sam.” She shook her head sadly. “You could have so much power if you only reached out and took it.”

Sam frowned at her uncertainly. “What are you –?”

“Sam, I need an heir!” Mrs. Vasilyeva burst out. “Someone to teach my craft! Someone who will absorb all my knowledge, my learning, my wisdom. Someone who will continue my work!”

“Eating defenseless kids?”

“Flora didn’t take to it the way I’d hoped,” Mrs. Vasilyeva continued, again ignoring Sam’s protests. “Doesn’t have the stomach for it. Should have left her with her real parents – I killed them for nothing. They don’t even taste good when they reach that age…”

“You –” Sam stammered. “You killed Flora’s parents? You – you’re not her mom?”

“The parents only hold on until their children are gone… as if they can sense their absence from the world. I had to be creative with Flora’s parents. Didn’t eat her so they didn’t die. But they succumbed to my herbs soon enough.” She laughed darkly. “Once I’ve eaten you and your brother, your precious father will die too, Sam.”

She grabbed a handful of his hoodie at each shoulder, flinging him back across the kitchen toward the door and baring her teeth at him. “Bet you’re even sweeter than your brother, huh, little one?”

Sam flinched. “Wait!” he burst out as Mrs. Vasilyeva yanked open the kitchen door and bundled him out toward the basement. “Wait! I know the rules – I know how this works! If I ask you, you’re supposed to give me the answer to one question!”

Mrs. Vasilyeva froze, one dark eyebrow raised above her beady bird-like eye. Her hand was on the key to the basement, turning it slowly in the door, and as it clicked open she turned back to face Sam. “What have you been reading, little one?”

Sam swallowed, Mrs. Vasilyeva’s fingers still bunched up in the front of his shirt, his feet almost pulled right off the ground. “You can learn all kinds of things in the library,” he managed to squeak. “All kinds of things. About crones. And witches. And Baba Yaga…”

For a moment, she just stared into his eyes, fingers tightening in the folds of his shirt as she pulled him even closer.

Then just like that she spluttered out a laugh, dropping him back to the floor and straightening, her face softening as it regained its more human aspect. “You see, little one?” she smirked. “So much promise. I knew you had it in you. You could be so much more if you’d only let me teach you.”

“I have a question,” Sam insisted stubbornly, balling his hands into fists at his sides and standing up as straight as he possibly could.

Mrs. Vasilyeva gazed at him levelly, as if trying to decide whether to play the game or just eat him and be done with it. “All right, little one,” she said at length. “I’ll answer your question.” Her smirk widened, her pointy metal teeth once again visible as they glinted savagely. “But you must have read the rest of the stories about my kind? Or did you just skim read?”

Sam swallowed. “I don’t skim read,” he informed her.

“I didn’t think so.” Mrs. Vasilyeva laughed coldly. “Then you know before I answer your one question you have to answer my three riddles?”

Sam had wondered whether this might come up. “I suppose,” he agreed reluctantly. “But when I answer your three riddles, you have to answer my question. That’s the deal, right?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva nodded. “Of course,” she said. “If you answer my three riddles correctly.” She inclined her head down toward him again, teeth flashing. “Get one right, maybe I won’t eat you, just because you showed me some initiative. Get two right? Maybe I won’t eat your brother either.”

Sam hesitated for a second. “And if I don’t get any right?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva’s smile became impossibly wide. “My oven should be just about up to temperature by now.”

Sam’s mouth was suddenly incredibly dry, eyes flickering beyond Mrs. Vasilyeva’s shoulder to the living room where he could see Flora peering out from behind the doorjamb.

If Sam was right about this, it might not just be Dean he was saving.

“All right,” he said finally, forcing down the slight quiver in his voice as he did his level best to sound just like his older brother. “Let’s go.”

Mrs. Vasilyeva’s fingers loosened their grip on the basement door handle as she turned to fully face her adversary, face having once again shifted into something not entirely human.

She ran her pointy red tongue over her thin lips, baring her metal teeth joyously, small black eyes sparkling with over-confident glee.

“Maybe I’ll go easy on you to begin with,” she said, grinning hideously as she launched into her first riddle.

“A spirited jig it dances bright,
Banishing all but darkest night.
Give it food and it will live;
Give it water and it will die.

“What am I?”

Sam rolled his eyes and snorted sarcastically. “Too easy,” he said, not even having to really think about it. “Fire,” he answered, returning Mrs. Vasilyeva’s grin with one of his own.

Mrs. Vasilyeva chucked softly, taking a step closer to him. “All right, little one,” she said. “Perhaps I won’t eat you after all.”

Sam swallowed. “Good to hear.”

“You could still take me up on my offer,” Mrs. Vasilyeva continued. “You’ve already shown me how smart you are –”

“And don’t forget loyal,” Sam interrupted. “Next one’s for my brother, right?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva raised a dark eyebrow. “I only said ‘maybe’ I won’t eat him.”

Sam scowled at her. “You promised,” he told her. “You have to keep your promise. Those are the rules.”

“My, you have been doing some reading haven’t you?” the woman leered at him. “So much potential. I could give you so much –”

“All I want’s my brother.”

Mrs. Vasilyeva shook her head. “So little ambition. Come, come, Sam. You could be great. You could rule the world if you only set your mind to it.”

“I’m eight,” Sam said shortly. “I don’t want to rule the world, I just want to go home.”

“To your father? You think he wants you to realize your full potential? Still treats you like a baby, doesn’t he? Not like you brother. Dean he treats like a grown-up. His good little soldier.”

Sam paled slightly. “How do you – you can’t possibly –”

“You think I choose my victims at random, boy?” Mrs. Vasilyeva sneered. “I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen the way he treats you. And the way he treats Dean. He should have more respect for you. He should have more respect for what you can be –”

“Right now I just wanna be a kid,” Sam insisted. “And I don’t wanna get eaten. So can we hurry this up, I have homework.”

Mrs. Vasilyeva continued to gaze at him appraisingly. “Such wasted potential.” She sighed heavily. “We could have done great things, you and I.”

“The riddle?” Sam all but stamped his foot.

“Patience, little one. All right, here is your second riddle.

“I am the beginning of sorrow,
and the end of sickness.
You cannot express happiness without me,
yet I am in the midst of crosses.
I am always in risk,
yet never in danger.
You may find me in the sun,
but I am never out of darkness.

“What am I?”

This one was a little trickier, and Sam had to think about it. In fact, it took him all of five seconds to come up with an answer. “The letter ‘s’,” he replied, smiling brightly at her.

Mrs. Vasilyeva pursed her narrow lips. “Hmm,” she said. “Perhaps I won’t eat your brother then.” She took another step toward him, leaning down slightly so that they were at eye level. “And he tasted so good too.”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait. “You owe me another riddle,” he reminded her.

“So I do, so I do. All right, here it is. Answer this one correctly and I’ll answer your question –”

“And let me and my brother go.”

“I said I’d answer your question, Sam. Those are the rules, remember?”

“And you said you wouldn’t eat us.”

“I never said I’d let you go.”

Sam bristled. “You’re a liar.”

“And you should read the fine print, little one. Now. I owe you a riddle. You owe me an answer.”

Sam clamped his teeth together and narrowed his eyes, face turning an angry shade of scarlet. “All right. Get on with it then.”

“The man who invented it,
Doesn't want it for himself.
The man who bought it,
Doesn't need it for himself.
The man who needs it,
Doesn't know it when he needs it.

“What am I?”

Sam had to think about this one. He was pretty sure he knew the answer but… His eyes strayed to the basement door behind Mrs. Vasilyeva which had opened a crack and he had to concentrate really hard not to yell “Dean!” the second he saw his brother’s face peering out at him.

Mrs. Vasilyeva shifted slightly, and Sam schooled his features, trying not to give anything away and resisting the urge to grin when Dean winked at him.

“You have an answer?” Mrs. Vasilyeva asked him, her impatience apparently getting the better of her.

“Coffin,” Sam replied smoothly. “It’s a coffin.”

Mrs. Vasilyeva smiled toothily at him, but said nothing.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Sam insisted. “Now you have to give me my brother back.”

Mrs. Vasilyeva’s laugh was nothing short of a cackle. “You’re a smart one, I’ll give you that,” she said. “All right. But everything in its own time. Don’t you want to ask me your question first?”

The basement door opened a little further, and Sam could see Dean’s hand clutching something large and wooden.

Sam smiled angelically. “All right,” he said slowly. “Here’s my question.”

Mrs. Vasilyeva raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“How do I kill you?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva straightened abruptly, mouth drawn into a tight white line as she took a step away from him.

“You have to answer me,” Sam insisted, closing the gap by taking a step forward. “Those are the rules.”

The woman’s cheeks paled, eyes becoming smaller and blacker, nose more hooked, teeth sharper and more metallic.

“You have to answer,” Sam repeated, his voice as full of iron as her mouth. “You have to. How do I kill you?”

Mrs. Vasilyeva drew a very slow breath. “Fire,” she said, voice low and stony. “Like most witches, I must be burnt.”

Suddenly Dean was behind her, her enormous wooden spatula held aloft. “Thanks for the info, old crone,” he said. “That’ll sure come in handy.”

He brought the spatula down onto the back of her head with a loud crack, and she crumpled to the floor as the other children crept from the basement in Dean’s wake.

Donny was carrying the small boy who Dean had initially thought a goner, while Shannon and the little girl who had been in the cage next to Dean supported the other two sicker kids.

“Shannon!”

Fliss came flying down the stairs, Mikey, Cooper and lastly April behind her as she barreled into her big sister’s arms.

“You’re not dead!” Fliss exclaimed, hanging onto Shannon for dear life as tears streamed down her face. “I knew it! I knew you weren’t dead! And I knew you wouldn’t leave me all alone here!”

Sam glanced at Dean at that, the older brother returning the look but neither of them saying a word.

“We have to finish it,” Dean said instead, inclining his head down toward the unconscious witch at his feet. “You heard what she said. We have to burn her.”

Sam paled. “But –” he stammered. “But Dean… She’s human. We can’t kill a human!”

Dean shook his head vehemently. “Sammy, she ain’t no human. We can’t just run away and leave her to carry on killing people.”

Sam bit his lip, uncertain.

“Sam. She’s not human.”

“Dean’s right. She’s not.”

Suddenly Flora was at Dean’s shoulder, her face even paler than Sam’s. Her eyes shifted to rest upon the insensible form of her “mother” as a look of intense determination flooded her features. “She’s killed dozens of kids – and their parents – over the years,” she said. “She told me so. I – I’ve seen their bones.” She looked up at Sam, unshed tears making her eyes sparkle. “She killed my parents too, Sam. She killed them and brought me here and said she’d never let me leave. She said I had to learn to become what she is and I – I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. So she said she’d find someone else – someone else to be her apprentice.”

Sam shuddered, trying not to think what could have happened had he agreed to that.

“If we don’t do as Dean says,” Flora continued, “she’ll just carry on until she finds a kid willing to become a… a monster. Like her. And then there’ll be two of them and even more children and their parents will die. This might be our only chance to get rid of her. And if we do that, the spell she cast over all of your parents will be broken.”

Sam blinked at her and Dean’s head snapped up. “They’ll wake up?” he asked hopefully, glancing briefly at Sam. “All of them?”

Flora nodded. “Yes. It’s their connection to their children that keeps them sleeping – it’s because their children are here near her that she’s able to use that connection to maintain the spell.”

Sam frowned. “So – so she puts the spell on the kids rather than on the parents?”

Flora nodded. “Open house,” she explained. “That’s when she cast her spell on you and Dean.”

“Son of a –” Dean curbed the rest of his curse, instead motioning to Donny to help him. “C’mon,” he said. “We’re ending this. Now.”

“How?” Donny asked uncertainly, settling the sick kid he still clutched in his arms into one of the chairs at the dining table.

Dean bent down and took a firm grip on Mrs. Vasilyeva’s wrist before attempting to drag her toward the kitchen. He paused, looking up at the older boy. “Oven,” he said firmly, causing Sam to suck in a surprised breath. Dean’s attention shifted to his brother. “It’s the only way, Sammy,” he explained. “We’ve gotta end her.”

Donny nodded his agreement. “It’s what she deserves.”

No one moved for a moment, all of the children’s attention drawn down to the unconscious form of Mrs. Vasilyeva.

“Dean, I don’t know –” Sam still wasn’t convinced, and it was only when the witch suddenly started to groan that Dean was further galvanized into action.

“No choice, kiddo,” he said, reaffirming his grip on the woman’s wrists and pulling.

Donny and Shannon grabbed an arm each, helping Dean drag Mrs. Vasilyeva into the kitchen as Flora opened the oven door.

Heat blasted out into the darkened room, and Dean’s eyes met Sam’s, his complexion paling considerably, but determination still painted across his face.

Finally, Sam nodded, approaching Mrs. Vasilyeva and grabbing one of her ankles.

Fliss and Mikey grabbed the other one, Cooper assisting Sam as between them the children somehow managed to manhandle Mrs. Vasilyeva first onto the giant spatula which they then used to maneuver her into the oven.

A bloodcurdling scream issued deep from within the witch’s throat as her eyes suddenly snapped open, blood red and wider than Sam had ever seen them.

Instinctively, the children all fell back a step. Except Dean and Flora, who was still hanging on to the oven door. She locked eyes with Mrs. Vasilyeva as the witch endeavored to push open the door, flames beginning to curl around her as her screams became louder and louder and her eyes brighter and redder.

Dean flew to Flora’s side, grabbing the door and shoving his shoulder against it as hard as he could.

Hot air began to sear from the oven, swirling around the room and battering the children further backwards, the scream so piercing they had to cover their ears to avoid being deafened.

But the door wouldn’t close.

“Donny!” Dean yelled, pushing with everything he had, but losing traction as his feet slid on the stone tile.

After a moment’s shocked hesitation, Donny sprang forward to help, Sam and Shannon adding their weight as the children shoved hard at the oven door.

The gap narrowed slowly, and finally it closed with an anti-climactic clunk, Mrs. Vasilyeva’s screams abruptly silenced as bright white light speared through the kitchen from the direction of oven and the floor began to tremble violently.

Dean took a breath before grabbing Sam’s arm. “Everyone out!” he yelled. “Right now!”

No one argued, the able-bodied kids grabbing up the sicker ones as the whole group headed for the front door.

The floor began to shake intensely beneath their feet as the walls shuddered, pictures and mirrors crashing to the ground as the vibration made the whole house quake all around them.

A bookshelf toppled over in the living room with a crash as Shannon reached the front door and wrenched it open, ushering the younger kids out as quickly as they could move.

“Hurry!” she urged them, virtually pushing them out into the garden as the ceiling began to rain plaster onto their heads, one of the support beams cracking ominously.

Dean glanced behind him to make sure they were all out before shoving Sam out in front of him, the door wobbling on its hinges before it abruptly broke loose, narrowly missing the older brother as it collapsed into the hallway, wood splintering in all directions.

Sam didn’t stop running until he and Dean were well away from the house, his brother’s fingers still clamped around his arm tight enough to leave bruises.

They turned back in the direction of the building, which was now rumbling and groaning, the ground trembling violently beneath them as the windows shattered and the roof began to collapse in on itself.

Then with a loud crack the entire house reared up off its foundations, brick, wood and plaster exploding outwards as the structure flew at least ten feet up into the air, spun around several times before imploding with an ear-shattering crash like nothing Sam had ever heard in his life.

Before he knew how he got there he was on the ground, Dean’s body thrown over him as debris rained down from the sky and a noise like a thousand freight trains gradually roared off into the distance.

As the ground began to stabilize and the noise to abate, Sam dared look up from under the crook of Dean’s arm, a cloud of black dust whirling around like a tornado over the place where Mrs. Vasilyeva’s house had stood before eventually coming to settle on the uneven mounds of rubble and debris that were all that was left of the structure.

“Holy crap,” Dean muttered, pulling himself up off Sam and shakily helping him to his feet. “We destroyed a building!”

Sam shook his head. “At least it didn’t have chicken legs,” he mumbled, causing Dean to look at him as if he’d completely lost his mind. “Baba Yaga’s house was on chicken legs,” Sam explained. “So it could run off into the forest.”

Dean continued to stare at him as if he’d gone completely mental. “You think us shoving a witch in her own oven and blowing up her house isn’t disturbing enough with bringing giant chicken legs into the picture, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. “I was just saying.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean glanced around them, doing a mental inventory of the kids who were in various states of shock and awe, most of them still collapsed in a heap on the ground.

“Everyone okay?” he asked, eliciting stunned nods from the few kids capable of expressing anything right then, before Cooper suddenly burst out,

“Awwwwwesome!”

“Is she gone?” Flora struggled to her feet, Dean offering her his hand as she tried to stabilize herself on her own.

He nodded. “I don’t see how she can have survived that,” he observed.

“We’ll know once we get to the hospital,” Sam pointed out. “If our parents are awake…?”

Flora’s gaze slid to the floor. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” she whispered.

“You have grandparents?” Sam asked.

She looked up at him, tears streaking down her dust-covered cheeks. “In Iowa,” she said. “I think. She – she told them I was dead.”

“Then I think they’ll be really happy to see you,” Dean said, putting an arm around her shoulders and squeezing slightly. “Right?”

She turned her gaze up in his direction, nodding. “I – I guess.”

Dean nodded. “Okay then. What d’you say we blow this popsicle stand huh?”

“Yeah, before the cops show up and arrest us for destroying someone’s house,” Sam agreed.

“Always lookin’ at the downside, Sammy,” Dean told him, shaking his head.

“Every cloud has a silver lining?” Sam offered.

Dean pulled him in to his side and held on. “You bet your ass, little brother,” he said. “Now let’s go find Dad.”

It was going to be a long walk to the hospital, and as the children turned away from the remains of Mrs. Vasilyeva’s house, a single black crow fluttered down, landing cautiously atop the pile of debris, watching them leave with beady black eyes.

Spalding Regional Medical Center
Griffin, GA
January 1992

John Winchester opened his eyes very slowly.

“Dad?” Dean tightened his grip on his dad’s wrist, pulling Sam closer to the bed with his free hand. “You alive?”

His dad lifted his hand shakily, cupping the side of Dean’s face and tracing his thumb through the dirt and grime smeared across the boy’s cheekbone.

Blinking languidly, his attention shifted to Sam, motioning his boy forward with a wave of his hand.

Sam moved further up the bed, Dean pushing him slightly in front of him so that Dad could rest his hand on the back of his youngest boy’s neck, pulling him forward and planting a rough kiss on the top of his head.

“You boys look like hell,” Dad commented, releasing his grip on Sam, but dropping his fingers to the boy’s hand.

“Back at ya,” Dean returned, mouth turning up into a bright, relieved smile.

“You were in a coma, Dad,” Sam told him.

“We saved your ass,” Dean added.

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh you did, huh?”

Sam nodded eagerly. “We got rid of the witch and that released you from her spell.”

John blinked, rubbing a hand over his forehead as if trying to remember the events of the last few days but not really succeeding. “Your teacher, right?” he offered. “Ms. Curtis? She was the witch?”

Dean snorted and Sam drew back, affronted. “You thought Ms. Curtis was the witch?” he burst out, scandalized.

“Why d’you think I was so eager to come to your open house, son?” he asked. “You know how I hate those things.”

Sam’s expression altered to something approaching crestfallen. “Oh,” he said, bottom lip sticking out slightly. “I thought –”

“Sam, I’m kidding,” John said, smirking slightly. “You know I love to hear what a brainiac my kid is, right?”

Sam relaxed a little. “Oh.” He blinked. “Okay.”

Dean elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re such a dork,” he said. “Seriously.”

“So who was the witch?” John asked. “Figured she was going after single parents – but not much else –”

“So you were using yourself as bait,” Dean said. “Dad, d’you know how stupid that was? She could have killed you!”

“And she nearly ate us!” Sam added.

John’s attention skidded to a halt on Sam’s face. “She – what?”

“Nearly ate us,” Sam repeated. “That’s what she was up to. Put the parents in a coma, fostered the kids and ate them.”

“After snacking on them first,” Dean added. “Like – y’know –” he lowered his eyes. “Fort Douglas.”

John made no response to that, almost as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “You boys are okay though?” When both of his sons nodded in the affirmative, he continued, “You know I’d never knowingly put you guys in danger, right? I – I thought the witch was feeding on the parents somehow. Never even occurred to me something might be going on with the kids –”

“It was Mrs. Vasilyeva,” Dean explained. “You met her at Sam’s open house. Flora’s mom?” He shrugged. “Actually, she wasn’t Flora’s mom. Killed both her parents and took Flora to – to be her apprentice I guess.”

“Flora wouldn’t do it,” Sam added. “So Mrs. Vasilyeva – she came after me.”

“’Cause he’s such a ‘brainiac,’” Dean added.

John’s fingers tightened around Sam’s hand. “Did she hurt you? Sammy? What happened?”

“I’m okay,” Sam assured him. “Just say ‘no’ right?”

“How did she get anywhere near you? I mean – what happened to you guys after – after I got sick?”

“CPS came and got us,” Dean explained, eyes shifting to study the blanket draped across his dad’s legs. “Took us to stay with her.” He looked back up then, pride written across his face despite the teasing lilt to his voice. “‘Brainiac’ here figured out what she was up to and played this riddle game with her – got her to tell him how to kill her.”

“And you –” John swallowed. “You killed her?”

Dean nodded solemnly.

“We put her in the oven and her house exploded,” Sam added matter-of-factly.

John’s mouth fell open but no words came out.

“And then you woke up,” Dean finished his brother’s explanation. “And we all lived happily ever after.”

“Except for Mrs. Vasilyeva,” Sam pointed out.

“Good,” Dean said. “She bit me, dude!”

“She what?” John put in.

“Yeah, how did you get out of that cage?” Sam asked, ignoring his father completely.

“Cage?” John interjected.

“Hairpin,” Dean grinned at his brother. “Stole it off her when she was – snacking – on me. Used it to pick the lock.”

“You stole her hairpin? You mean you touched her hair? Eww, gross.”

“Dude, it was that or let her shove me in the oven. Besides, she had her teeth in my neck at the time.”

“Wait, wait!” John held up his hands, finally silencing his boys. “I can see I’m gonna need a full debriefing here, boys.”

“After you figure out how to ditch the CPS, dude,” Dean added.

John glanced over to the doorway where a black woman in a smart suit and a skinny white guy with a notebook were talking to a couple of doctors.

His mouth ticked up ever-so-slightly. “What d’you boys say we get the hell outta here?”

St. John’s Hospital
Springfield, IL
Present day

John Winchester opened his eyes very slowly.

“I told you,” a familiar voice drifted across John’s consciousness. “Only the person who knows your daddy best could convince him to wake up.”

He blinked languidly, his boys’ worried faces coming slowly into focus, followed by Bobby’s grizzled visage and lastly –

“Missouri?”

“’Bout time you woke your lazy ass up, John Winchester,” the psychic smiled broadly at him. “Guess you just needed a good talking with yourself.”

“He’s the one who knows him best?” Dean burst out. “What the hell kind of riddle is that, Missouri?”

“Boy, ‘cryptic’ is part of the job. I gotta keep some mystery. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“You could have just said Dad was the only one who could kick himself out of his coma!”

“Wait – I was in a coma?”

Sam put a hand on his foot and squeezed. “They found you collapsed by the side of the road,” he explained sympathetically. “It was touch and go there for a while.”

“Docs found my card in your jacket,” Bobby explained. “I brought reinforcements.”

“So what the hell happened to you, Dad?” Dean demanded suddenly, the fear obvious in his eyes, and for a second John flashed back to another time he’d woken from a coma to find his eldest squeezing his hand and doing his best not to appear absolutely terrified, despite looking like he’d been dragged to Hell and back. Repeatedly.

Sam wasn’t standing quite as close to Dean as he had been all those years ago back in – Georgia, was it? – but there was still only a couple of inches separating them, and when Dean moved around toward the head of the bed, Sam went with him.

“Did something get you?” Dean continued his interrogation. “Hex you? Whammy you? Was it Mia?”

“Dad?” Sam added. “Was it? Was it Mia?”

John opened his mouth to attempt a reply, but was interrupted by a young doctor walking into the room.

“Ah, Mr. Clapton, you’re awake!” she burst out breezily, pushing the boys aside as she made her way to their father. “I’m Dr. Dawson. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for the past couple of days.”

She produced a penlight, forcing open John’s eyes and shining in the tiny beam until he was pulling his head back into his pillows in an attempt to escape her ministrations.

Examining the various machines positioned around John’s bed, the doctor made her way down to his chart, snatching it up and examining it carefully before beginning to scratch out barely legible notes.

“You had us pretty flummoxed there for a while, Mr. Clapton,” she said, smiling up at him as she pushed her glasses back up her nose with one long finger. “Damnedest thing. Don’t get too many cases around here, so it wasn’t until we saw the mosquito bite on your neck that we figured it out.”

“Mosquito bite?” Sam echoed, glancing from the doctor to his father. “You got bitten by a mosquito?”

John shrugged. “Not that I remember…”

“Not everyone knows when they’ve been bitten,” the cheery doctor said, and for some reason Dean’s fingers drifted up to his neck where John remembered it had taken weeks for those bite marks to heal – the ones left by that witch back in – yeah, Georgia. It was definitely Georgia. ’91? ’92? “We did a couple of blood tests, and after that it was pretty straightforward.”

“It was?” Dean said. “Then how come no one told us that?”

The doctor blinked at him. “We only diagnosed him this morning Mr. Clapton,” she said, and John in his confused state wondered why she was calling everyone by the name of one of his favorite guitarists.

“So what’s wrong with him?” Sam asked, attempting to diffuse the situation.

“West Nile Virus,” the doctor said breezily. “There are always a few cases in the Illinois area every year.” She inclined her head and shrugged. “Only takes one infected mosquito. Usually the infected person heals by themselves, but occasionally, if the strain is strong enough, they can fall comatose for a while. As long as they’re kept hydrated, in most cases their body repairs itself and they come out of it in their own time.”

“After they’ve had a good talkin’ to,” Missouri added under her breath.

Dean squinted at his dad incredulously. “Dude!” he burst out. “You got taken down by a mosquito?”

Sam snorted. “I told you it was a virus.”

“All right, Dr. House,” Dean returned, slapping his little brother across the back of his head. “Such a goddamn brainiac.”

“So when can I get out of here, Doc?” John asked, returning the young doctor’s bright smile.

“You’ll probably be okay to leave in a couple of days,” she told him. “I want to keep an eye on you a while longer, just until I’m satisfied the virus has completely left your system.”

“Thanks, Doc,” John said as the doctor spun on her heel and headed for the door.

“I’ll check back in on you in a couple of hours,” she said, again smiling brightly as she nodded at each of the people gathered in John’s room. “Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Clapton!”

Once the door had closed behind her, John’s lips twitched up at the corners. “Oh, you can count on it, Doc,” he said, motioning Dean to help him up. “Boys, what d’you say you get me the hell outta here?”

The End

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The Winchester Chronicles