Episode Four: Swamped

By BurstynOut

Part Two

Chalmers farmyard, outskirts of Honey Island Swamp

The incessant buzzing of cicadas in the cypress groves that surrounded the area couldn't drown out the agitated squeals of hungry hogs that emanated from the dilapidated barn. Nor was there a wildflower blossom sweet enough to cover the ungodly stench. The graying, ramshackle farmhouse that had been erected nearby was safely upwind of the barn, although it was hardly airtight and probably smelled just as bad, what with the pig farmers themselves living in it.

Those two buildings, along with a lean-to type shed that was slanted against the barn, pretty much constituted all of what constituted home for Bo and Cyrus Chalmers. The only vehicle in the yard was an ancient International brand truck that looked suspiciously like the monster's toy from that movie, Jeepers Creepers. Painted on the side of the vehicle, in John Deere green, were the words: Chalmers Prize Tracking Hogs—Swump Recuvvery and Retreevull.

Thirty odd hogs, mostly of the wild variety with varying degrees of domestic markings, tussled at the trough as buckets of slop were poured in over their hungry snouts. If it were possible, the slop smelled worse than the hogs themselves.

Fish entrails, rotten eggs, and ham bones were only some of the recognizable atrocities mixed into the sludge. Some smaller bones still had tufts of hair and gristle dangling from them and looked suspiciously like road kill. Pigs are omnivorous and will eat just about anything, and the Chalmers boys were apparently more concerned about feed costs than about the quality of the feedstuffs they presented their animals.

Of course, the unorthodox diet made it impossible to ever butcher and eat their own hogs. The meat was sour and rancid.

Bo Chalmers, the younger of the two thirty-something-year-old brothers, leaned sadly against the pipe rail fence, scratching absently at the head of one familiar black-and-white pig. His bib overalls, identical to those worn by his brother, were grungy above the waist and completely filthy, coated in pig manure and mud, below the knee. Neither brother wore a shirt beneath the overalls, and the stark white tan lines beneath the straps suggested they probably did not even own shirts.

The Chalmers boys were remarkably similar in appearance beneath their matching ensembles as well. Bo was only a couple of inches shorter than Cyrus who also had a small scar on his forehead, but otherwise, they could probably have passed for twins.

Years of trudging through the swamps had made both men lean and strong with well-defined muscles in their backs and shoulders. Each also wore thick, dark hair in a long ponytail down his back which was stringy and sweat-encrusted, but they apparently held some vanity between them, as both were clean-shaven. If it were not for the context in which they were found, and if they didn't smile, revealing the effects of far too many years of poor dental hygiene, the brothers would probably be considered good looking.

Bo gazed forlornly into an empty pen in the corner as he scratched the head of his porcine pet. "We shoulda never used Petunia as bait, Cyrus," he sighed.

"We had to," the brother stated. "It was part of the deal. Sissy gave us twice our asking price to use Petunia. Apparently them boys we was after don't go after small game."

"But they killed her!" Bo cried, his voice cracking with emotion. "We raised her from a piglet. Hell, she was the closest thing to family you and me had left. There won't ever be another one like her."

"You're right, which is why I ain't givin' that necklace up 'til that girl comes up with an extra five thousand dollars. We need to be compensated for our losses, I think," the older brother grumbled.

"What good'll that do? Petunia's still dead. . ."

The sentiment was cut short as both men cocked their heads toward the sound of a small engine buzzing up the dirt road. They both recognized the pitch of the dirt bike's whine, and despite their grief, couldn't help but smile in anticipation.

They made their way out of the barn just in time to see the tricked out Yamaha dirt bike squeal into the yard. It bore down on them with little indication of slowing, but they didn't move out of the way. Several yards in front of the brothers, the bike's rider goosed the front brake enough to lift the back end slightly and swung the rear tire toward the waiting Chalmers boys, spraying them with dust as the motorcycle slid to a stop.

Both boys grinned maniacally, catching dirt in their rotted teeth, as the bike's rider kicked the stand down and pulled off her helmet to reveal loose, dark curls that hung to just above her shoulder blades. She shook the strands loose, the sun glinting off them like glitter dust.

The girl, a twenty-something beauty with full lips and olive toned skin, swung her leg easily over the back of the bike and set her heavy boots into the dust with enough force to raise small plumes beneath them. She obviously took her bike obsession seriously as she was clad from head to toe in leather racing skins, which must have been extremely warm in the Louisiana humidity. If she was too hot, though, she only hinted at the fact by lowering the front zipper from beneath her chin to that place between her breasts that revealed just enough cleavage to border on obscenity without crossing the line.

"Hey, Sissy," the boys drooled in unison.

The girl huffed audibly. "I told you morons, it's Sister or Wren, not Sissy." Her pretty face grimaced into an unflattering scowl as she spat the names. Just how many times did she have to tell these idiots? "So, did you get the item?"

Cyrus, being the older brother, took control of the situation and stepped closer to the girl with mock authority that was apparent in the downward slant of his gaze. "That depends," he teased, unconvincingly. "Did you get our money?"

Wren patted a zippered pocket on her hip so that the crinkle of paper could be heard beneath the leather. "A girl always keeps her word," she stated flatly.

"Well, we run up on some complications," Cyrus said. "We're gonna have to ask for more money."

The girl kicked one foot out to the side, jutted her hip and folded her arms crossly as she leaned back and glared at the boys from under her thick eyelashes. "Complications? What kind of complications?"

Cyrus was apparently unnerved by her 'in your face' attitude. He wasn't used to strong, confident women, which was probably why he and his brother couldn't keep from salivating every time they heard a dirt bike in the distance these days. Nothing like forbidden fruit to inspire hunger pangs.

"Well, uh, first off," he stuttered uncertainly, "them boys you sent us after slaughtered our prize pig. Petunia was like one of the family, and we're gonna require some compensation for our loss."

"Compensation, huh?" Wren smirked. "I didn't know you had that many syllables in your vocabulary."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," she waved in exasperation, shaking her head. The man was obviously just repeating something he'd heard someone else say. She at least gave him credit for getting it in the right context. "I can probably swing a couple grand extra for your girlfriend."

Cyrus grinned in surprised satisfaction. He hadn't really expected her to agree. "Yeah, that sounds fair, I think."

"And I need to hang out here for a couple of days, until I clear up some unfinished business. My partners and I agree that it's best for the necklace to remain secluded until the ritual is complete." She nodded her head toward the house. "So, you got a spare room in that Hilton? I'll pay extra, of course, for your trouble, but it'll take me a few days to come up with the additional funds."

The brothers looked at each other like they'd just been given twenty dollars and an amusement park pass. "Sure, sure, no problem, Sissy, uh, Wren," Cyrus agreed quickly as Bo nodded his consent.

"Great. Now where's the necklace? You did get it right?"

The boys' smiles faded quickly, and they looked to the ground uncertainly.

"Right?" Wren persisted. "I mean, we marked the charm just the way you instructed us to, and you swore those hogs of yours could find it anywhere in the swamp."

"Oh, they can," Bo agreed, his face beaming with pride as he stepped up beside his brother. "We trained them pigs ourselves. They can find anything once it's been marked. And them boys you sent us after didn't even miss that thingy."

Wren widened her eyes and opened her lips partially in a classic 'duh' expression. "So, where the hell is it?"

"Well, you see, that's another one of them there complications we mentioned," Cyrus explained. "We usually reward the hogs with food when they done good, so we don't feed them before we send them out. That makes 'em hunt better. Well, old Blossom got a little over-excited, I guess, and she kinda swallowed that necklace, string and all."

Wren's eyes narrowed in barely concealed rage. "A pig ate the necklace? You morons! I'm working on a time frame here. I need that necklace."

"Well, not to worry," Bo suggested, trying to soothe the angry girl, "it'll pass in two or three days. I'm gonna watch Blossom real close, and you'll get it as soon as. . ."

"Blossom, eh?" The girl asked. She strode past the brothers, brushing Cyrus' shoulder hard enough to make him stumble backwards, and walked into the barn, the brothers close on her heels. She leaned over the feed trough with a grimace on her face. "Which one is Blossom? Can you separate her out from the rest?"

"Uh, sure thing, Sissy," Cyrus said, barely keeping the groveling tone from his voice. "We were gonna do that anyway as soon as they finished eating."

"Do it now," she insisted, her voice cold.

"I'll do it," Bo offered. He grabbed a piece of plywood that leaned against the fence and entered the pig pen. Luckily, the hogs had finished eating and were just lounging about in the cool mud. He located the black and white pig and expertly herded her toward a gate with the plywood. When the pig reached the exit, Cyrus swung the latch and let it into an adjoining pen.

Wren approached the pen guardedly. She had no desire to go inside, but she sighed in resignation and stepped in anyway. She forced a fake smile across her face, trying to appear pleasant. "Is she friendly?" The girl asked, as though she were talking about a dog.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," Bo beamed. "She's a regular pet, Blossom is." He knelt down beside the pig and scratched it under its chin, cooing to it gently as the gilt stretched its neck out in satisfaction. "She just loves when you scratch her like this," he explained.

"May I?" Wren asked, kneeling beside him in the straw. She didn't wait for an answer, just scratched the pig lightly, her other hand slipping unnoticed into the front of her leather suit. "Sorry, girl," Wren spat.

In the blink of an eye, sunlight reflected off the blade of an eight-inch dagger. The pig's blood sprayed out onto the ground, gushing from the cut that opened in its throat. Blossom never even had the chance to squeal. Her knees buckled, and she slumped over onto her side with a thud.

Bo cried in anguish but stepped back quickly as the blade flashed before his eyes. He scurried back, crab-walking to the fence until he felt his brother's strong hands reach around his arms and heave him to his feet. The boys gaped at the bloody scene in horror, speechless in their surprise.

"I don't have two or three days to spare," Wren explained as she slit the pig's warm belly and pulled the entrails out in a steaming heap. Rolling her eyes and wrinkling her chin against a gag, she felt around in the innards until she felt something hard pressing into her fingertips. Within seconds she produced the necklace and dangled it before the brothers. "Mission accomplished," she grinned sadistically. She glowered at the cowering brothers and the corpse of the hog at her feet. "Just add two sides of pork to my tab."

Looking at her treasure with satisfaction, she pulled a cell phone from her jumpsuit with her clean hand. She flicked it open and dialed without taking her eyes off the blood-smeared amulet. "Brother Burns, I've got the necklace. I'm commencing as we discussed." She paused momentarily as the voice on the other end of the line responded. "Yes. Three days from now it will be destroyed. Everything's falling into place. . . "

Motel Room

Dean's fingers twisted nervously in the dangling cord of the standard beige-colored, touch tone motel telephone. The television was on with the news blaring loudly enough for Sam to hear it in the bathroom where he was just finishing up his shower.

The older brother wasn't happy at all about their delayed response to the issue of his missing necklace, but he had to admit that he did feel better after his own shower. He hadn't realized how much of that swamp muck he'd brought back with him until he'd watched it run down the cheap motel tub in black rivers. He had to admit that he'd take rivulets of mud and gunk over trails of dried blood any day.

Sam had been right to convince him to at least get cleaned up and give their Dad a chance to answer his voice mail before they went traipsing off into the swamp for the second time that day. Still, Dean had the nagging feeling that every second that passed was a second they couldn't afford to lose. A sense of urgency and dread had been spreading through the very fiber of his being since the moment he'd looked at himself in the mirror and realized with horror that his everpresent necklace was missing.

Now, as much as he preferred the tight-dry feel of skin cleaned with motel soap to the feel of mud-encrusted body armor, he couldn't stop thinking that he should be doing something other than just staring at the cell phone on the nightstand and waiting for his brother to get with the program.

At least there was some satisfaction to be found in the fact that twining his fingers in the phone cord not only vented some of his nervous energy but managed to calm some of the trembling he'd begun to detect in his fingertips. Dean knew that Sam would have a regular belly laugh at his expense if the younger brother found out that his hands were actually shaking over the situation. God, he felt like such a girl. He probably deserved to have his baby brother tease him about the whole fiasco, but damn, he'd feel so much better if his phone would just friggin' ring already.

Sam emerged fully clothed from the bathroom, a cloud of steam rolling out behind him. He'd taken to bringing his clothes into the restroom with him during his showers after that unfortunate incident with the itching powder. It was probably a wasted effort on this occasion, Sam noted, since Dean appeared not to have moved an inch since the younger brother had closed the door behind himself. Sam would have laughed at the pathetic, lost way his brother was staring at the cell if it hadn't been so damned out of character that it worried the hell out of him.

"You know, staring at it isn't going to make it ring," Sam pointed out, trying to draw Dean out of his stupor.

The older brother didn't look up, but responded anyway. "Then maybe you should try, Psychic Wonder, 'cuz I can't sit here another minute and just do nothing."

"Well," Sam speculated, "maybe it's a good sign that he hasn't called back, yet. I mean, if it was really important, then he would've called by now right? You're, uh, we're probably just overreacting."

Dean seemed to consider that for a moment, turning his head toward Sam and letting it tilt sideways as his eyes stayed unfocused and contemplative. "Maybe. . ." he muttered under his breath, completely unconvinced but hopeful at the same time.

Perhaps it was Sam's presence that did the trick. After all, he and his father had never really gotten past the point of arguing with each other over every little thing. Quite possibly, John heard his youngest suggest there was no need for him to call and called just to spite him. The phone rang before Sam could speak another word.

Dean reached for the cell, rather grabbed for it with lightning speed, but ended up just pulling the motel phone onto the floor with a clatter as his fingers remained twined in the cord. He managed to get at least his left hand free in time to answer the call before it switched over to voice mail and pressed it to his ear urgently.

"Dad. . .Dad, I'm glad you called back. . ." Dean cradled the handset between his ear and his shoulder as he worked at untangling his fingers from the dangling telephone and listened to his father on the other end. "Yeah, it's true. I lost it, Dad. I screwed up, but I'm gonna get it back if I gotta go over ever inch of that swamp myself. . . "

Sam moved closer so that he could clearly hear at least one side of the conversation, though John's voice was so loud and urgent as it came through the receiver that he could almost hear the whole thing. The frantic tone his father was using nearly matched his brother's, and Sam couldn't help but worry that things were more serious than he'd allowed himself to believe.

"Louisiana,. . ." Dean answered, "Honey Island area. It's about an hour out of New Orleans. . .Yeah, we're not too far from there. . . Isn't that where. . .? Okay let me get a pen and paper."

Dean looked up at his brother, his hand mimicking a pen writing in the air, but Sam was already a step ahead of him, picking the motel pen off the floor where it had fallen along with the phone. Finding no paper handy, he ripped a page out of the notes section of the phone book and handed it to Dean.

"Shadrack Mann," Dean confirmed as he wrote. "And that's the same place we went to before, right? Right off the main road and through the cypress grove. . .Uh-huh. Yeah. I know the place. And he knows how to find it?. . ." Dean rubbed a hand over his brow where a slight bead of nervous perspiration had begun to form at his hairline and rested an elbow on his right knee. "Look, Dad, I'm sorry about this. I know you told me never to take it off, and. . ." He looked up at Sam with a surprised expression on his face. "Yeah, he's right here. . ."

Sam couldn't help but feel the anger boil up inside him as his brother tossed him the phone. He hadn't missed the way John had cut Dean off, and there were already enough open wounds between those two without Dad rubbing salt in by asking to speak to Sam. The younger brother's jaw clenched as he prepared to go off on Daddy, dearest, but when he put the phone to his ear, his expression changed to one of shocked apprehension.

"Yeah, sure I will," he said, his brow furrowing. "You know this would probably not even be an issue if you'd given us some idea what that thing is in the first place. For one thing, why is it so damned important that he not take it off? And why the urgency to get it back? He's lost it before. That skin walker in St. Louis wore it for like half a day before. . ." A worried glance at Dean didn't go without notice, and the older brother returned a questioning glare of his own.

"All right. All right. Yes, sir," Sam said, and the submissive tone of his voice only gave Dean more reason for concern. Finally, the younger brother clicked the phone shut and handed it back. "You about ready?" He asked, his voice suddenly more urgent than it had been all afternoon. Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and began pulling on his socks and shoes, not even bothering to sit down to do so.

That was a stupid question. Dean had been ready since before Sam had gone into the shower, but the older brother gathered Sam was just trying to prevent him from asking about the rest of the conversation. Dean wasn't naïve enough to try and convince himself that he hadn’t been hurt that his father had asked to talk to Sam instead of talking to him. Nor was he crazy enough to believe that John would say anything to his brother that would make Dean feel any better about the snub, but damnit, if they were gonna talk about him behind his back right in front of his face then he wanted to know what the hell had been said.

"So?" Dean asked.

"So what?" Sam returned, feigning ignorance as he hopped on one foot while tying the opposite shoe laces.

"Don't give me that innocent, crap," Dean insisted, "you know so what. What did Dad have to say to you that he couldn't say to me?"

"Nothing, Dean," Sam said, not looking at his brother. "He just wanted to make sure we were both on the same page about going to find this Mann guy, that's all."

"Yeah, and I'm Betty Crocker," Dean snapped. He stood abruptly and grabbed his brother's shoulder, forcing the youngest to stop avoiding the conversation. "Look, I know you two think I got shorted in the brainiac department, but even I, idiot that I apparently am, got that there was more to that conversation than just ditto, dude."

Sam hated that his father put him in these situations, but he realized voicing any negative feelings to that effect would do nothing to heal the rift in their broken family. Instead, he studied his brother's face in an attempt to assess just how to choose his words. Finally, he slumped submissively, indicating that whatever he said next would most likely be the truth, and Dean released his hold on his shoulder.

"First of all, you are not an idiot," Sam said sincerely, "but that's a whole other can of worms. If you must know, Dad said that I'd have to take charge on this one, because you were too emotionally involved. There, are you happy, now?"

"Great," Dean exclaimed as he sat back onto the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. "Now I'm not only the idiot son, but also the sensitive, girlie one. When the hell did that happen?"

"Dean!" Sam reprimanded sharply.

"Whatever, dude. Just wish I'd gotten the memo."

Sam sighed loudly. They really didn't need to be having this good son/ bad son debate right now. "There was something else."

The statement seemed to draw Dean out of his doldrums momentarily. "What?" He asked, almost hopefully.

Sam ran his hand through his still damp hair. "He said we have to hurry. He didn't say why, just that we have to get that necklace back as soon as possible. I might have been imagining it, but I kinda got the impression that failure was not an option. All I know is, if he says we need to go see this Shadrack Mann guy, then that's exactly what we're going to do."

Home of Shadrack Mann

Despite the fact that Shadrack Mann's less than humble abode was well off the beaten path, John's directions coupled with the fact that Dean remembered having been there once before when they'd been in the New Orleans area, found the boys pulling into the old man's drive early the next morning. Still, they were already both sticky with perspiration, being that the Impala had no air conditioning. For that reason, Sam didn't question the sheen of his older brother's skin, but it didn't escape his notice that Dean looked flushed and that he kept both hands wrapped tightly enough around the steering wheel to make the knuckles turn white.

The older brother was obviously more upset about losing the amulet than even he was willing to admit. At least, that's what Sam hoped was causing the physical distress that was becoming apparent in his brother's features.

"This is it?" Sam asked, nodding toward the wooden shack that reminded him of the Ingalls home from "Little House on the Prairie." Not that he'd ever admit to watching that show.

"Of course not," Dean said, glowering at his brother through lowered eyelashes, "I just thought we'd stop for tea and crumpets, Alice. Would you like to ring the bell for the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, or shall I just send a note with the dormouse?"

Dean flung the door open a little more abruptly than was usual, and Sam couldn't help but smirk. Ah, a pissed off Dean was such a literary genius. An under control Dean would never have let out that he'd read Alice In Wonderland, let alone remembered enough of it to actually reference it in conversation. Sam made a mental note to call him on it when they resolved this whole necklace issue.

Dean stepped out of the car and slammed the door as abruptly as he'd opened it. Sam didn't miss the fact that he wiped his hands roughly down his denim-clad thighs in an effort to dry them. Sweaty palms, too, he noted. He just hoped they had gotten hot from gripping the steering wheel.

Dean approached the shack with marked apprehension, remembering the last time he'd been there. He looked over it to ascertain that it was just as he remembered it all those months ago when his father had brought him there and given him the necklace. He shuddered involuntarily as he recalled the jolt of electricity that had shot through him the first time he'd touched the amulet. Shaking off his anxiety, the older brother knocked gingerly on the thin door that hung lopsidedly on sprung hinges.

"Come in, Firstborn," a rickety voice called from within. "I've been expecting you."

Sam looked at his brother in confusion at the title by which he'd been addressed.

"Don't ask," Dean dismissed as he opened the door, fearing that it might actually come off in his hands.

The interior of the hut was in as great a state of disrepair as the exterior, but it still held a certain hominess to it that did not go without notice. It might have been due to the rich perfume of incense that wafted through the single room abode. Might also have had something to do with the dozens of wind chimes that hung from the exposed rafters, they supposed. There was a definite air of reverence for nature and simplicity that the boys recognized as tribal in origin; probably South or Central American, they guessed.

At first they did not see their host, but a tinkling of glass beads drew their attention to a curtain made of what looked like pieces of tree amber. From behind the beads, a crooked little man rose stiffly from his hidden cot and stepped out.

"Ah, Firstborn," the man rasped. "You've come about the amulet, have you not?"

"Yeah, uh, yes," Dean answered, uncertainly. "With all due respect, how did you know it was me?"

Sam understood the question. The man before them was obviously completely blind. Both eyes were white with scars or cataracts, and they were barely visible from behind the strands of snow white hair that hung over the opaque orbs.

"The same way I know why you're here," the old man answered, "the necklace told me."

Sam laughed, more in awe than disbelief. Far be it for him to question the mental powers of another human being, but communing with inanimate objects was an ability he'd never heard of before. "Really?" He asked.

"Hell, no," Mann dismissed with a wave of one gnarled, arthritic hand. "I recognized the sound of the car. It's not like I get a lot of visitors out here, you know."

Sam laughed out loud, then. He couldn’t help but like the old guy's spunkiness. Shadrack looked to be at least a hundred years old, and to still be that sharp mentally and able to live on his own was no small feat. "Shadrack Mann, I presume," Sam said, introducing himself. He held out his hand to shake but realized in embarrassment that the old man couldn't return the gesture, and pulled it back uncertainly.

"In the wrinkled flesh," Mann said with a nod. "And don't bother telling me who you are, because I won't remember anyway." Turning to Dean, Shadrack seemed to glare up at him accusingly through his clouded eyes. "And you, Firstborn, you've been separated from the amulet, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Dean admitted, scratching the back of his head apprehensively. "I don't. . ."

"How long?"

"Sir?" Dean asked.

"How long since you were separated from the amulet?" Mann reiterated with enough bite to his words to indicate that he despised having to repeat himself.

"Uh, I don't know for sure," Dean answered honestly, "Probably eighteen, twenty hours at most," he guessed.

"That is unfortunate, Firstborn. Here," the old man put his hand on Dean's elbow and guided him over to a hard wooden stool, "you should probably be sitting."

"No, that's all right. . ." Dean began, protesting the attention.

"Nonsense!" Mann snapped, and despite being completely blind, the man slapped Dean's objecting hands down with remarkable accuracy. "Foolish boy. When an old man offers you his only seat, you just shut up and take it or you'll hurt his geriatric feelings. Now sit, before you fall down."

Sam picked up on Mann's concern and noticed that his brother's color had paled markedly since they'd gotten out of the car. "Dean, maybe you should listen to him," he suggested, moving to his brother's side protectively.

"But I don't. . ." Dean's mouth snapped shut mid-sentence, and he inhaled sharply.

"Dean?" Sam asked.

The older brother's face went ghostly white, and he sat down hard despite his prior protests. He braced his hands on both sides of the stool as the room spun around him. A sound like grease sizzling in a skillet seemed to fill his head, and black spots danced before his eyes. He felt Sam's strong hands latch onto his shoulders and heard his brother speaking urgently, but couldn't tell what he was saying. "What the hell. . .?"

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