conjure bag

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:04:02 GMT

stashing it here while i work, again. this skips ahead in the timeline a couple of hours, but there are no spoilers, if such a thing can be said to exist.

They leave Dean sleeping there on the couch, the dog laying on the floor close to hand. Annalee takes a lamp in hand and beckons Sam up the stairs after her; he follows the sway of her hips through the dim, listens for creaking stairs but the floor is silent.

"I've never seen him sleep at six in the evening, ever," Sam says; she stops in front of a door and hands him the lamp. It's a linen closet. She loads her arms with sheets and cocks her head.

"He's tired," she answers, and pushes the closet door closed with her foot. "You know how tired."

It's true, Sam does know, but Dean chooses not to show it most of the time. Dean chooses his faces and his tongues with care. Sam shrugs, trailing after Annalee into a large bedroom. The ceilings are high, the windows are close to the floor. She has already put the sheets down on the dresser, has already found matches and is lighting more lamps, the lamp on the bedside table, on either side of the mirror above the dresser. There is a high wide bed with four tall posts; the mattress is bare and when Sam thumps it no dust rises.

"I'm a good housekeeper," she says, her smile crooked. "Here, help me."

They spread the sheet out between them, she starts to instruct him on how to do the corners but he leans down and folds and tucks without help. When he straightens, she is smiling at him, not crooked at all. He looks away.

Two pillows and another sheet, and a coverlet laid across the foot of the bed; she plumps the pillows and then picks up the rest of the linens. "This will be Dean's room," she says, "and you'll be over here." She doesn't wait for him to follow with the lamp, just goes across the hall. Her bare feet whisper on the boards.

This room is a reflection of the one across the hall; the same dark wood for the furniture, the same tall four-poster, the same ticked mattress, the same tarnished mirror above the dresser.

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 15:56:33 GMT

this is combining several days efforts... there is more in my head but not yet on the page. I spent several hours outlining yesterday even though I didn't do proper writing, and I also revised some of the earlier stuff -- I am a ruthless self-editor, and so when the finished product is posted, you'll surely see some differences. this bit doesn't have the 'closure' that the earlier bits do, but I'm calling it an installment anyway... mainly because I am desperate need of pom-poms right now. I'm at that point in an ambitious project where I usually say fuck it. also, if you have questions? ask them. you may not get straightforward answers, but people's questions can often help spark things.

The coffee is strong enough to make Sam’s hair curl, bittersweet, served with what appears to be fresh cream. After the first sip he can’t put it down, it warms and soothes. He wonders if he should be more suspicious, if her just promising answers and solutions is too good to be true. In his experience, nothing’s as good as it looks.

"There’s always a price," Dean blurts out, reading his mind, or maybe just echoing the thoughts that are banging around in Sam’s head like deaf bats.

Annalee nods and sits finally, you can’t sit at the head of a square table but it feels that way when she settles across from them. The dog wuffs softly, and shifts, moving closer his mistress. "That’s true," she says, "except when it isn't. Nobody’s ever done anything for you with no expectation of payment? I don’t believe that."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Beside the point. Listen, I'm here because my brother wore me down, okay? Six months of this one nagging, I'm half tempted to die just to get away from it." He doesn’t cut his eyes at Sam, but he may as well have. The joke is a good sign, maybe.

"How did you hear about the tree?" Annalee asks, and takes a bite of bread, takes a sip of coffee. The rain is more of a hum now, constant, sounds like a laundromat.

"I saw it," Sam says.

She cocks her head. "Where?"

"South Dakota," Dean answers.

"I dreamed it," Sam says, defensive. It wasn't like the old dreams, the disorienting horror and certainty, the sick hollow feeling that something was happening that he probably couldn't stop. He hadn't woken up feeling dirty, but instead like he'd read a particularly good book, and had learned something he hadn't known before: There was a tree in Louisiana. The tree could help.

"There were two trees, in the beginning," she says; sadly, Sam thinks. Her eyes flicker around the room for a moment. "This house is built from the wood of the other, the foundation raised over its stump. It was a thousand years old when it was cut for this house."

Annalee sits back in her chair; whatever was in her eyes a moment ago is gone. Dean is sitting forward, elbows on the table, hands cupped around his mug. For all he plays it off, Dean loves a good story, and Sam loves to watch him listen.

"They used to build battleships, you know, from the wood of live oaks. The wood is so hard that it would repel cannon fire." She's rocking a little, fingers spider-stepping back and forth over the tabletop, like she's going to reach for something but hasn't made up her mind yet. "The only reason the house leans is the ground under it, not the frame, not the foundation, either: there is blood between the bricks. This house might sink into the bayou one day, but if it does, it'll go in one piece."

Wings, Sam realizes when her arm is stretched out in front of him for a moment, his eyes now adjusted to the lamplight. The pattern is feathers, it's wings, the tips gently curling to stop just behind the little bone in her wrist. He wants to touch. He picks up his coffee.

"How long have you been out here?" he asks.

"Years." She shrugs, gestures; her gold rings wink in the lights, one on the first finger of each hand, two on the middle finger of the left, slender bands with no other ornament.

"Alone?" Dean asks, turning his mug in his hands, first left then right.

"Sometimes." She shrugs again. "I was telling a story? Wasn't I?" The dog lifts his head and wuffs again; Annalee reaches down and pats his head. "Right, the tree. So the first tree was cut for this house, its twin remains."

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 05:05:09 GMT

Sam doesn't think that the house was lit before, but maybe it was, maybe there was just enough light outside that they couldn't see the lamps and candles through the shutters. There is a faint smell of kerosene from the lamps, trailing after them down the hall along with the dog.

"Tonnerre mes chiens," she is explaining to Dean, Dean who is now walking at her elbow, his earlier reserve withdrawn. "It's a Cajun expression, thunder my dogs. You'd say it like, like Jesus Christ, only it's nicer to say than that. More polite."

Annalee shrugs, and her tattoos shine for a moment, like the blue-black sheen of feathers. The ink on the backs of her arms extends up onto her shoulder blades, then drops down her spine, a different pattern that's almost words. Sam wants to get close, wants to examine the symbols on her back, to see if he turned her this way and that in the lamplight, would he be able to read.

His cheeks flame up in a blush, and he looks away, looks around to take it in.

"So it's a pun," she finishes, her voice floating back to him.

From the outside the house looked like it was rotting, but the inside is spotless. The floorboards are wide and level, they barely even creak under his weight. Standing on the porch he'd expected cobwebs, mouse droppings, dust, stink of mold and mildew. Sure, the rose patterned wallpaper's faded and the staircase they'd passed is missing a couple of slats from the railing, but the house is clean, lived in. There are pictures on the walls, faces shrouded in shadow.

"And your name?" Dean is asking, his head dipping low, toward her shoulder. "Parents were big fans of The Band?"

She laughs, and pushes open the door at the end of the hall. "My name is coincidence," she says, and turns back toward Sam, wiggling her fingers. "C'mon in."

The kitchen has a gas stove; the flames leap up a soothing shade of blue when she sticks a match in the hole. She apologizes that it'll take a while for the coffee to perc, and Sam finds himself smiling, remembering the percolator Dad had always carried with them, the only decent way to make coffee in a campfire, he said. Annalee smiles back.

Dean settles at the square wooden table, the dog flopping at his feet. This room is lit by lamps with silver backplates, reflecting the flames out into the space; they make it feel both bigger and smaller than it really is. A brick fireplace at the far end waits with the wood already laid, and Annalee points to it.

"It's going to rain, and it'll get cool… would you mind getting that going? We'll talk when the coffee's ready. Soon."

Sam nods, and hears Dean's chair groan when he moves. "What can I do?" he asks, his voice a rumble through the room.

"Nothing at all," Annalee answers, busy slicing bread. "Rest your bones, that's what you can do."

The tinder is fine and dry and the fire starts easily; when Sam gets up Annalee is spreading butter on the bread and she points to the sink. He's almost surprised that there's hot water, then figures if there's gas for the stove, there's probably gas for the water heater, too. The refrigerator is a bit of a shock, though, humming away next to the sink. Maybe there's a generator, or maybe he shouldn't think so much.

Raindrops suddenly hammer the roof, spatter the kitchen window.

"So," she says, putting the buttered bread on the table. "You didn't come looking for ghosts, Mess'rs Winchester, that's right?"

Sam sees Dean's Adam's apple bob. "That's right," Dean says.

"Mm hmm." She crosses back to the stove. "Your names are on your faces," she says, picking up a potholder and jiggling the glass knob on top of the coffee pot. "I just had to get you into the light."

The way she talks, that half-tired wisdom, reminds Sam of Missouri. She shakes her head and her hair comes down out of its messy knot, covering the tattoos on her back. "What you need is protection, that's what you said. You came to offer to the tree? Get your wish?" Annalee turns, and in the firelight her brown eyes look yellow for a moment: Sam feels his brother recoil at the same time he does.

"Easy," she soothes, makes it three sing-song syllables. "I put salt on my tongue, and dress my hair with holy water." She puts her hands up, palms out, offering parole. "Listen to me, you don't want to offer anything to that tree, it's not worth it."

"His life is worth it," Sam says, the words cracking their way through his teeth.

"Sam." Dean's voice is sharp with warning.

"It's not worth it," she repeats, and brings her hands together. Sam thinks he sees light there between them, just a flash. "Stay a few days. Stay a few days, and I might have a better way."

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 04:13:04 GMT

They walk along the path at the edge of the swampland, past where the dark muddy road ends: the gas station attendant's directions, for all his suspicion, had been specific. The late afternoon sun dapples through the heavy hanging branches, cypress and oak; the air smells of thunder and blood. This is a place where earth and air, fire and water all meet; the hair stands up on the back of Sam's neck, bristling, shivering in the humid cool. A movement, off to the left, makes him pause: the gator rolls one eye like a bored gyroscope before sliding into the water with soft swish.

The path turns and the ground gets drier, turns from black to brown. Leaves have been falling here, the only real sign aside from the slipping sun that it's November, that winter has already come in most of the country and that here it isn't far behind. Another turn and the path widens, the trees open up on the house. They stop.

Look like it's goin' to slide right into the swamp, that's what the guy at the gas station said. The house is wide and high, the porch running the full width, but the steps are crooked and the porch pillars lean. The shutters are dirty white, the paint is faded and moldy blue. A crow lights on the peak of the roof and caws at them, makes Sam jump a little and Dean laughs. The air tightens around them as they watch the bird pick its way along the ridgepole, then it bursts into flight, leaving its ungainly balancing behind. Dean thumps Sam in the chest and points.

There.

The tree, a live oak, hung with ribbons and bells and tin can lids, jewelery, metal and glass, just like Sam said it would be. It should be making an awful racket, even in this light breeze, but there's no sound except the distant noises of the bayou. Sam steps up to the tree, closer to the house now, and deliberately bangs a dangling sparkling ring into a nearby bit of porcelain. It makes a faint tink.

"I think that's a real diamond," he says.

"Think we could hock it?"

"You wanna take it?" Sam turns, eyebrow cocked. Dean smirks.

"You take it."

"Like I thought." He takes another step toward the house, hands in his pockets. "It's abandoned," he says, trying for certainty.

"Looks that way," Dean agrees, passing him on the right to bound up the sagging steps. He leans down, peers between the slats of the shutters. "I can't see inside, it's getting too dark. You think the door's locked?"

Since when has that stopped them, Sam thinks, following Dean up on the porch. The wood creaks under his weight but it doesn't feel soft, it feels solid. He stamps his foot, and this time, Dean startles.

"Jesus," he swears, straightening up, and Sam grins.

"Not even a little bit," he answers, and tries the door. The handle turns but the door doesn't give. Stuck, then, not locked. He puts his shoulder against it, prelude to throwing himself against the wood, lining up.

A dog begins to bark from inside, a really fucking big one by the sound of it, and footsteps follow the clattering claws, light but definitely headed toward the door. Sam and Dean pull back together, shoulder to shoulder, the last light behind them. The door swings open and the dog rushes out, a black hulk with dripping jaws, and Sam steps instinctively in front of his brother when the woman in the black dress follows the dog out.

"Tonnerre!" she shouts, and claps her hands, it takes a minute before Sam realizes that she's speaking to the dog. "Tonnerre, tais toi." She claps her hands again, and the dog settles back, it's still glaring but quiet for the moment.

It's not a hellhound. And this girl's probably not a demon. Probably.

"Jesus Christ," Dean says with feeling.

In the shadowy doorway Sam can just make out tattoos on her arms when she crosses them, what would you call them, sleeves, half-sleeves? The ink flows down the backs of her arms, nearly to the wrists, and the rest of her skin is a clear soft golden color, untouched. He can see more of it than he strictly intends to, and he shakes his head before meeting her eyes.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am," he fumbles.

"Come to stare at the haunted house, huh?" she says. Her tone is a mockery of patience. "You wan' spend the night under the tree, too, so you can say you're brave?"

"Listen, lady," Dean says, stepping forward around Sam, and Sam resists the urge to grab his brother's arm. "We heard the place was empty, from like. Six different people. So we're sorry for bothering you, Sam, c'mon."

It's not like Dean to walk away from a pretty girl with all the right curves, it's not like Dean to offer the apologies while Sam wants to overstay. There's just so little time, and. He gives in to the urge, and puts his hand on Dean's elbow. Stop, stop. Patience.

"Ma'am," Sam repeats. "It just."

It just what? What can he say? Her dark eyes are assessing, waiting; Sam feels like he's being studied, a bug under a lens, something big and maybe dangerous scanning for useful information. It's a ridiculous feeling, and he shrugs it away.

"It's a long walk back to our car," he says lamely. "I don't suppose you have a flashlight?"

Her face softens and she lowers her arms, letting one gold-ringed hand fall on the dog's head. "You're not walking the bayou path in the dark," she says, shaking her head. "Not even with a light. You're not from around here."

The dog comes forward and noses at Dean's hand, licks his fingers. "Hey," Dean says, grudging. "Good mutt."

The woman lifts one shoulder. "Tonnerre likes you, that's good enough, I guess." She smiles, and Sam takes it all in like cool water.

"I'm Sam," he says, offering his hand. "This is my brother, Dean."

"Annalee," she says, gives his hand a squeeze instead of a shake and doesn't let go. "You can stay until morning light, just remember that this one here can tear out your throat if you step wrong." She says it like a joke, but Sam imagines it all too clearly, and their bodies slipping into the swamp in the dark, like that alligator, no splash at all.

"Maybe we're the ones that need protecting," Sam says, it comes out too bald, too honest, and at that her face grows still again, solemn. She nods, and takes Dean's hand, too. Sam sees his brother's eyelids flutter.

"I know," Annalee says, soft and gentle. "I think you better come inside."

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 15:48:09 GMT

(previously written, doesn't count toward nano total)

All the little girls whisper, there's a witch in the woods, a witch in the woods. Little girls grow up; their daughters hear whispers from their mothers, from their friends. There's a witch in the woods. And if you don't want her to get you, you have to take her something pretty, something shiny, something sparkly. You take it and you hang it from her tree in the woods and you'll be safe.

Cross your heart and spit.

The old women know better, or think they do, even if they once tied a ribbon to the witch's tree; they grow out of their curiosity but keep their fear. Don't you go into those woods, child, no, not even in the daylight, don't go by that tree and that old house. You don't know what's out there. They warn, but they don't know either, and those that once remembered are long since dust.

A whisper carries in the dark, carries through the generations.

Witch.

The truth is something more, something less. The truth is.

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 01:10:49 GMT

First the candles, lighting them with blue-tipped wooden matches that she strikes against the ring on her middle finger. They illuminate the chipped and streaked faces of the plaster saints, the ragged smiles and shiny button eyes of the soft stitched dollies, they glint off the glass jars in a half dozen colors. Then the music, rubbing her thumb over the diamond before putting the arm down on the record. A hiss, a crackle, and the flames sway with her hips; she raises her hands and starts to hum along.

Mm mm hhm mm.

Mm mm hhm mm.

The floorboards creak under her feet, her damp soles picking up dust and color as she traces and turns, steps and spins. One two three, little bit of a waltz now, little bit of a tango, little bit of a thing without a name, a dance before names, even though it’s names that she whispers as she moves.

Her voice begins to rise and so do the flames, up higher and higher until the room is ringed with fire and song, her chant louder than the record, its drumbeats lost under the rhythm of her feet. Higher. Higher. Her arms reach higher, her feet pound faster, the floor's rocking, no, the house is rocking, the whole world is tilting and spinning and she spreads her hands wide, she brings her hands together: crack.

The candles puff out.

The record stops and clicks off.

She opens her hands like a book and stares into the golden gap there, the light steady like a small sun in the room. That's the one, she sees him, he's the one.

"Come," she says to him. "Come. Come."

She closes her hands. A single candle flares back to life as she walks from the room without a backward glance.

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 04:11:15 GMT

day one word count: absolutely zero. I offer neither explanations nor excuses, but maybe I'll throw out some brainstorming if I can't get to sleep right away. or I'll just double down tomorrow. six of one.