spn_summergen | Lord, What Fools These Larpers Be, for Teamabodo (Reply)

Title: Lord, What Fools These Larpers Be

Author:phebemarie

Recipient: Teamabodo

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: ~3,800

Warnings: Spoilers through season 8. Language

Author's Notes: Thank you to C.

Summary:

Charlie looked at each man in turn, her expression growing more wary and suspicious with every glance. “What’s up?” she asked. “Is it monsters?”

“It’s not monsters.” Dean held up his hands to forestall a meltdown.

“It’s not monsters, but it’s something,” Charlie got up and brushed off her tunic. “I knew it had to be something. You wouldn’t just show up to hang out with me and have fun. There had to be an ulterior motive.”

Lord, What Fools These Larpers Be

“You said you were coming!” The sad little wobble in Charlie’s voice made Dean feel like warmed-over crap. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and kicked himself for trying to be a man of his word.

“Best laid plans, sweetheart.”

In the short time they’d known her, Charlie Bradbury had wormed her way into Winchester World. She’d saved their bacon and risked her life on more than one occasion. Disappointing her was a swift kick in the jewels, but dropping everything to play Middle-Earth dress-up was so not gonna happen.

“What’s the deal this time?” Charlie let out a ragged sigh, and Dean gritted his teeth as the familiar signs of a snit-fit induced migraine jack-hammered his skull. “Another apocalypse? Angels plummeting to earth? Impala throw a gasket?”

“Those Shadow Dorks are blowing smoke. You don’t need us there to protect your perimeter.”

Charlie muttered, “Flatter yourself much.”

“All right, then.” Dean had only so much patience, especially when Her Highness devolved into Buffy-Speak. “See you ‘round, Charlie.”

“Wait! I didn’t mean it!” Her voice quivered, and he paused before hanging up. “Sam not any better?”

“It’s not that.” It was that…and so much more. It was the nineteen-year-old prophet majoring in binge drinking and No-Doz on Dean’s advice; it was the “Come to Jesus” phone calls from the equal parts repentant and repellant King of Hell; it was waiting for Heaven to crap all over the Earth-bound ex-angel haunting the Batcave like a ghost. It was knowing that despite everything, the aftereffects of the trials were still slowly killing his brother.

“Believe me, Charlie, I’d like nothing better than to kick some Shadow Orc ass, but I got bigger fish to fry.”

“Oh, blerg! I thought after you guys ended the trials, Sam would be okay.” The fight had gone out of Charlie’s voice; Dean was uncomfortably aware of the sniffles on the other end of the line and fought to swallow the lump in his own throat.

“Send a picture of the war-map to Sam’s G-mail. I’ll check your battle plan… offer suggestions…if you need them.”

“Sure,” Charlie responded. “The Jubilee won’t be the same without my manly men tag team. Tell Sam the queen commands him to get well.”

“Will do, your highness.” With a weary chuckle, he stuffed the phone into his pocket and turned to the galley to make Sam a snack. Call him Suzy Homemaker, but Dean enjoyed putting his culinary skills to use trying to fatten up his much diminished little brother.

“Do not be hasty in your decision, Dean.”

“Son of a bitch!”

Despite having his grace ripped out by the Scribe of God, Castiel maintained his chronic inclination for surprise entrances. As Dean’s pulse resumed its normal rhythm, he repeated a familiar refrain. “Damn it, Cas! Personal space! We’ve gone over this how many times?”

Castiel tilted his head in a gesture that resembled a curious puppy. His dark hair had grown out in ragged cowlicks and a line of toilet paper dotted his chin, the result of a morning shave that was too close for comfort. “Unfortunately, I have lost track of the number, Dean. Do you require a written computation?”

“It was a rhetorical question. Make yourself useful and grab the lettuce and cherry tomatoes,” Dean muttered as the former angel followed after him. Teaching Cas the many and mundane chores of human existence had been job one since the distraught 100% human reconnected with the Winchesters after Metatron hurled him from the heights of Heaven.

“You should attend.”

“Attend what?” Dean grunted as he bent to grab a big bowl from the cupboard.

“The Jubilee.”

“Good to know eavesdropping on private conversations is still in your wheelhouse.” Dean nodded toward the sink. “You want to run some water over those?”

Dean wrinkled his nose as the over-ripe Castiel handed him the vegetables. There were so many things the dude still didn’t savvy. The importance of regular bathing for one. It was past time to toss the polyester blend trench coat in the wash and insist the former angel wear something other than Jimmy’s dress shirt and suit.

“Honoring commitments is an important aspect of human interactions.”

“Listen, man.” Dean ran cold water into a pot to hard-boil some eggs and fought to keep the edge from his voice, “you don’t have to be my Jiminy Cricket anymore, all right. I can’t go. End of story.”

“What’s up?”

At Sam’s sudden appearance, both men jumped like naughty children caught red-handed. Dean glared at Cas before pasting a grin on his face for his brother’s sake.

“Nothing, Sam. We were just getting some grub together.”

“If our discussion disturbed your rest, I apologize.”

“Yeah, like he said,” Dean pointed towards Cas with the knife he was using to cut up lettuce. “Sit down, Sammy. I’ll have lunch on the table in no time.”

Castiel held out a chair for Sam and turned to Dean, “How can I be of further assistance?”

“Go tell the Prophet Kevin to put down the controller and get out here for lunch.”

”But, Dean.”

“We’ll talk about it later, Cas.”

After Castiel had shuffled away, Dean glanced at his brother. Sam’s weight was scary-low. He’d lost so much muscle mass, he’d probably drown in that ugly-ass greyhound shirt he’d been so proud of the first year they’d gone out on the road together. His hair fell in unruly waves to his shoulders despite Dean’s constant offers to give him a more manageable fade. The dark circles under his eyes looked like he’d gone several years without a good night’s rest. His expression, however, was remarkably familiar: Sam Winchester Bitch-Face, version 10,001.

“What?” Dean asked.

After a glance over his shoulder, Sam hissed, “I think you hurt his feelings.”

“Yeah, well, shit happens.” Dean grabbed chicken breasts from the 50s era Frigidaire and took an iron skillet out of the cupboard.

“I just got an email from Charlie.”

Dean closed his eyes, knowing what was coming next. “Charlie, huh? Did she send her battle coordinates?”

In response, Sam opened the lap top he’d been carrying . Emblazoned across the screen was the message, ‘Talk to Dean. Love, Charlie.’ “I thought you were looking forward to the Jubilee.”

Dean threw the slices of chicken into the hot skillet and turned his back on his brother. “Doesn’t matter what I was looking forward to, Sammy.”

“If you’re not going because of me…”

“Not the point, dude.”

“Well, what is the point of locking yourself up here? Garth said you’ve been turning down some simple salt and burns he’s been sending our way.”

“If they’re so simple, maybe he should give them to Krissy and her Scoobie Gang and get off my back,” Dean’s voice rose with emotion that he could no longer contain. “Haven’t we done enough?”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Defensively, Dean turned all his energy back to cooking and hoped Sam would his ignore his outburst. By the time his brother finally spoke, Dean had pan-seared the chicken, tossed the salad, and arranged everything neatly onto the Men of Letters’ cobalt blue Fiestaware dinner plates.

“We should go to the Jubilee,” Sam said as his brother handed him a plate and sat beside him at the table.

“Eat up, Sammy,” Dean took an enormous bite, savoring it like a bacon cheeseburger. “Chicken’s getting cold.”

“This place…it’s like a prison sometimes, Dean. We need to get out…get back to making a life that matters. Believe me, I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you have to stop worrying about me. We’ve got to live in the moment, right? You’re the one who used to do that.” Sam’s impassioned speech ended in a fit of coughing which wracked his frame. Dean watched in agony, unable to do anything except offer his brother a glass of tepid water.

Movement behind him made Dean turn. Castiel stood in the doorway, a look of great sadness on his expressive face. “Sam is right, Dean. The potential benefits of attending the Midsummer Jubilee outweigh the inconveniences." Castiel held up a disconnected game controller. “I am sorry. The Prophet could not be persuaded.”

“How is hauling ass to Michigan to play dress-up with a bunch of nerds in tights going to help Sam?”

“Midsummer is the festival of St. John the Baptist,” Castiel said. “Pagans call it Litha. Regardless of its worshipers, summer solstice is a time of rebirth.”

“All that new-age hippie crap is just a bunch of made-up mumbo-jumbo.” Dean tossed his fork on the formica topped table. “Lost my appetite.”

Cas’s gaze shifted uneasily toward Sam. “Tradition holds if a supplicant is worthy, residents of the realm of the Fae will guide him to a flower whose properties heal all infirmities of body and spirit.”

Dean picked up his plate and abruptly stood. “I got one question. Where do I find this magic flower?”

~*~

“According to the Lore, the Druids called the celebration Alban Hefin, or ‘The Light of Summer’. Wiccans use the term Litha. And, of course, Shakespeare used Midsummer Night. It’s a time when the portals open and fairies enter our world. Those who welcome them are given blessings.”

“Witches and faires? Talk about a tandem team of suck.”

Sam looked up from the computer screen and wriggled in his regulation Moondoor tunic and tights. “Are you sure I have to wear this if I’m just doing research?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Dean asked. They were alone for the moment in the tech tent. Most of the denizens of Moondoor were celebrating the beginning of the Jubilee with Her Royal Highness Queen Charlie the Benevolent. The clanging of weapons was offset by the loud huzzahs of the crowd. Games such as archery, armored combat, and tent pegging, a family-friendly version of jousting, were the focus of opening ceremonies. At any other time, it would have been the focus of Dean’s exertions. As it was, their hasty trip to Michigan demanded they play beat the clock with research in order to be prepared that evening for the so-called Feast of the Faeries and a potential magical cure for Sam’s malady.

“Don’t you think it’s a little…constraining?” Sam pulled at his woolen tights. “I’d feel a lot more comfortable in my own clothes.”

“Dude, you’re the one who insisted we come to this shindig. Don’t be a party pooper.”

Sam sighed. “Do you think it was a good idea? Sending Cas out alone?”

“He’s been alive since the rocks were literally soft; I think he can handle a bunch of larpers.”

Since their arrival at the Kingdom of Moons Jubilee, Castiel had been AWOL on what he called a reconnaissance mission to find evidence of potential fairy portals. Although excited to see both Dean and Sam, Charlie had been seriously bummed that the “dreamy Castiel” had slipped away before she had the chance to do an official meet and greet.

Another cheer, even more raucous than the first, erupted from the field. When Sam glanced at Dean, he wasn’t surprised by the distracted look on brother’s face. “You know,” Sam said with a gentle nudge to Dean’s ribcage. “I’ll be fine here if you want to go join the lists. I’m sure everyone expects the hero of the Battle of Kingdoms to participate.”

Dean sighed and shook his head. “Nah. We got till twilight to get our act together. I won’t go out there without you,” Dean said with a wistful smile. “So, next step a supply run back to town to pick up a butt-load of cream to bribe the little sprites?”

“According to the lore, that’s not necessary.” Sam turned back to the screen to confirm his thoughts. “I mean, we don’t want to make a deal with them. We’re hoping they’ll give us a gift.”

“A gift? Like something for free?” Dean scoffed and pushed away from the computer. “When has that ever happened to us, Sammy?”

The fairies they were hoping to deal with gave gifts to mortals without an asking price. They rewarded humans who demonstrated virtues like faith and hope and those who loved unconditionally. Although Dean would deny it to his last breath, the one person Sam knew who embodied those virtues was his brother.

The clang of sword blades finally drew Dean to the entrance of the tent, and Sam powered down the computer and joined him. From the vantage point, they watched two knights joined in intense combat, long swords in hand. The assembly oohed and ahhed with each parry. On an elevated platform, Queen Charlie overlooked the competition, her red hair a coppery flame in the mid-day sunlight.

Sam nodded towards his brother and pulled him from the tent.

The thrilling battle continued for several minutes. As the interchanges intensified, the grace and skill of one of the combatants was evident. After an overwhelming thrust that knocked the weaker of the two to his knees, the fallen man pulled off his helmet. “I yield!” he shouted in a voice filled with equal parts exhaustion and admiration.

The crowd parted as Charlie descended from the throne and wafted toward the victor with a noble mien that rivaled Princess Leia at the end of the original Star Wars. Dean and Sam edged closer to the field to discover the identity of the mysterious swordsman who had thrilled the crowd.

“Congratulations, sir,” Charlie called out in a ringing voice. “The Queen of Moons extends her favor to the champion of the day. Reveal yourself.”

The armored victor pulled the helmet from his head in a fluid movement filled with grace and power, and Dean recognized him at once.

“Cas!” Dean and Sam shouted out in unison.

*~*

“Holy crap! That was amazing! I mean, seriously above and beyond! I’ve seen some dudes throw down with a long sword before, but that was Obi-Wan levels of badass!”

Changed from her ceremonial gown and faux-jeweled crown, Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor of her pavilion wearing a simple tunic and tights. Underneath his burnished armor, Castiel had been similarly attired. Thankfully, his trench coat and suit were nowhere to be found.

“Moondoor bards are writing rhyming couplets in your honor as we speak,” Sam teased his friend with a broad grin at his brother.

“Swoon!” Charlie’s giggle was more fan-girl than monarch, and Dean realized his place as the queen’s favorite manly man was in serious jeopardy.

Castiel inclined his head in a modest bow. “The contest was not a fair accounting of Sir Ethan’s prowess.”

“Ethan the Horrible didn’t know what hit him!” Charlie bubbled waving off Castiel’s quiet protest. “The Queen commands your presence at her table for the feasting tonight.”

Castiel glanced towards Dean. “While I appreciate the honor you have bestowed, I will not be attending the feast this evening.”

Charlie looked at each man in turn, her expression growing more wary and suspicious with every glance. “What’s up?” she asked. “Is it monsters?”

“It’s not monsters.” Dean held up his hands to forestall a meltdown.

“Hey!” Dean protested.

“She’s right,” Sam and Castiel said in unison.

“So,” Charlie folded her arms, “what’s the what?”

“The what is you three are going to the feast tonight,” Dean answered. “And I’m going to find a fairy portal.”

The simultaneous protests of the trio rivaled the exclamations of the crowd at the defeat of Ethan the Horrible. Dean held up his hands in mock surrender knowing, despite everything, that resisting them was futile.

*~*

Claiming a royal migraine, Queen Charlie opted out of the evening’s revelry. In her absence, bonfires of oak and holly danced on the fields, Catherine wheel fireworks cartwheeled into the river, and a significant amount of mead was quaffed by the subjects of Moondoor. All in the queen’s name, of course.

“When we get to the meadow, you three hold up,” Dean whispered and angrily adjusted the oak garland he wore at his temples. Each of them sported simple chaplets honoring the Antlered King who would pass his mantle to his twin the Holly King as the apex of summer passed. “Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?” Dean shook back the bracelets of flowers and herbs which encircled his wrists. “I feel like a frickin’extra in a high school production of Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

"Showing deference to a benevolent being by wearing his favors can only help the cause,” Castiel responded.

“You’ve worn more embarrassing things, Dean,” Sam chimed in with a muffled cough. Under his crown of oak and wild roses, his complexion was ashen. When he held out his hands to catch his balance, they trembled with the minor exertion. Much like malaria, Sam’s illness swept over him in waves, and it looked like the run of symptom-free days was coming to an end.

“Are you all right, Sam?” Charlie touched his cheek, and her eyes widened. “He’s burning up with fever.”

“This costume party ends right now.” Dean reached for the garland on his head and started towards his brother. As he was reaching a hand to test Sam’s temperature, he was distracted by the glow of incandescent lights. “Does anybody hear that?” he asked as a glissando of tiny bells tinkled in counterpoint.

“First born of John Winchester, welcome.”

Dean whirled in place automatically reaching for the weapons he’d left in Charlie’s pavilion. “Stay back!” He held out his arms to protect his companions, but found himself completely alone. Haloed in a ring of glimmering sunlight, isolated from his friends who were indistinct shadows around the perimeter, Dean turned to face a Hagrid-sized man. Dressed in heavy robes of velvet green, the Oak King sat on a green-wood throne with blooming wild-flowers at his feet. His head was adorned with an enormous rack of antlers, and on his face was a smile which strangely put Dean’s alarm at rest.

“Still a skeptic, I see.” The man’s booming voice was filled with good humor rather than disdain.

“Do I know you?”

“Your prowess as warrior is heralded throughout the fairy realms, Dean Winchester. Some of my kith seek to destroy you, jealous of your fortitude and unquenchable spirit. I salute you.” On his outstretched palm, the man held a luminescent flower. “This is the remedy you seek.”

In his haste to take the gift from the man, Dean tripped over the pointed toes of his leather shoes. The distraction gave him a moment’s pause, and he stopped in his tracks. “This is too easy. What do you want?”

“As you, I want your brother to be well.”

“In exchange for what?” Dean demanded, folding his arms across his chest. “There’s always a catch.”

“’If we Shadows have offended take but this,’” the Oak King held out the flower again, “’and all is mended.’”

As Dean took the flower in his hands, warmth and something like peace flooded through him. “I owe you.”

The Oak King held up his hand. “Although my brother and I abide at opposite ends of the year, I am thankful for the bonds which bind us. I honor your guardianship of Sam with this gift and ask nothing in return.”

In a breath, the Oak King dissolved in a rainbow of shimmering lights which circled Dean in a dizzying ring before shooting into the night sky in a burst of fireworks.

“Wow!” Dean exclaimed as he was grasped around the waist in a vise-like embrace.

“Dean! What happened? We were so worried!” Charlie looked up at him with weepy eyes.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked and gently pulled free. Thankfully in her exuberant welcome, Charlie hadn’t crushed the king’s gift.

“Resting beneath the oak wood,” Castiel nodded toward a large tree which sheltered his brother like a fallen knight. Dean realized that once again fairy time had played havoc with the hours. When they started into the meadow, it had been twilight. Now the tips of morning sunlight glowed on the Eastern horizon.

Dean bent at his brother’s side. Labored breathing wracked Sam’s frame, and his infuriating hair was plastered to his forehead and damp with sweat. “Why didn’t you take him back to the tent?”

“He was rather adamant about waiting for you here, Dean.” Cas knelt down and brushed his finger tips across Sam’s forehead in a gesture that was both futile and bittersweet.

“Sammy,” Dean called again and prayed he wasn’t too late.

After a too-long moment, Sam’s eyes opened. “I knew you’d come back,” he croaked as a smile crossed his pale lips.

“Like a bad penny.” Dean returned his brother’s smile and, feeling slightly ridiculous, offered him the golden flower. “Here.”

“What is it?” Sam struggled to sit up, and Dean threw his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“St. John’s wort,” Castiel responded in a thoughtful voice.

Charlie knelt at Sam’s feet. “How can that little flower help Sam?”

With trembling fingers, Sam took the gift from his brother’s hand. At his touch, it glowed as brilliantly as it had in the faerie realm, and Sam gasped aloud.

“Are you all right, Sammy?” Dean’s voice rose in anticipation of the worst.

Sam took a deep breath and another, and laughed in surprise.

*~*

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our Moondoor dead!”

Sam strapped on his long sword and tied back his flowing hair. He breathed deeply, relishing the sensation of oxygen filling his lungs. Pinned to his slightly uncomfortable tunic, Sam wore the Oak King’s token which had restored his health. Castiel had reassured him that the gifts of pagan monarchs were not temporary, but Sam insisted on keeping the golden flower close at hand as a thanksgiving for the blessings it had bestowed. Not only the return of his health, but more especially, the return of his brother. “No offense, Dean, but I don’t think Shakespeare would approve of you plagiarizing his work.”

“Ah, come on.” Dean’s grin was little-boy dazzling, and Sam couldn’t help but respond in kind. “I had to have new material for the battle of the century.”

“Dudes!” Charlie threw back the tent flap and peered inside at her three generals. “The Shadow Dorks are getting restless.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Sam said as he started outside. “What?” he laughed at Dean’s puzzled expression and strolled out of the pavilion. “You’re not the only Winchester who can quote Shakespeare.”

“Defending the Queen’s sovereignty in the Battle of the Kingdoms was meaningful to you, Dean,” Castiel said. “Fighting at your side, even in this diminished capacity, is very gratifying.”

All was right in Dean’s world. His brother was well. His friends were at his side. For once, no Big Bad was chomping at the bit to have the Winchesters for a midnight snack. There was time enough to help a fallen angel find his grace. In the meantime, there was work to do.

“Let’s go kick some Shadow Orc ass!” Dean said.

Castiel opened the tent flap and bowed. “After you, my friend.”