Slainte Mhath

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Title: Slainte Mhath
Author: shay_renoylds
Recipient: nativestar
Rating: PG, Gen (Obvs)
Notes: Never mine, but always fun to play. Extra thanks to mgbutterfly who made sure I wasn't completely incoherent. And nativestar... I hope this works for your request.
Summary: In response to nativestar's prompt: The boys take a break from hunting due to injury/illness/stopping to smell the roses/*insert own idea*. Bonus points if they're not living in a motel. The boys do, indeed, take some time to find their health after a spirit attacks them.

She looked porcelain-pale in the half-light of the moon. Sam tried to calm her, tried to cajole her when she appeared.

She reacted to nothing. She didn't look anything like the spirits that were supposed to be haunting in the gigantic Victorian-era house he and Dean were hunting -- at least according to the family that currently lived there.

Sam grimaced as he edged forward, catching sight of the Edwardian-style dress. The slight see-through-ness of her made it difficult for him to tell, but the spirit (or whatever she was) didn't seem right to him. Faint outlines covered her skin, and Sam strained his eyes trying to track her as she flitted in and out of rooms crazily.

The hunt hadn't been for anything dangerous -- supposedly. The family hadn't had any real problems, so it should have been an in-and-out deal. It had taken them far longer to even figure out what displacements were actually happening there. It wasn't uncommon for houses to be this cluttered with spirits, but it wasn't out of the question either.

When research turned up more than a few tortured women it could have been, but things got a bit dicey. But there hadn't been any indication of murder. A couple suicides, a few more women who had disappeared without a word in the Rhode Island home, but really nothing that should have been suspect enough to cause a spirit to be acting this crazed.

So the two dealt with it the way they'd always dealt with things. They got the family out, figured they'd flambŽ the spirit and be done with it.

When she bit him, Sam realized that there might be a bit more to it than that.

- -

After the hunt turned sour, they drove randomly, winter dulling the roads and making the highway too slick and too much even for Dean's patience. Sam's fever developed over the few hours after the hunt and never left him. Sam tried to hide it from Dean in the process, but nothing seemed to work. The fact that Sam was stumbling a bit wasn't really the top of Dean's priority list.

The bite wouldn't heal. Dean had stitched it tightly a few times since they'd left the house, but nothing felt right to Sam. It took him a few more miles to realize that it wasn't the bite that was bothering him -- it was his newfound-changed tattoo.
- -

The tattoo that used to be a protection sigil was now a shifting, swirling mark. A myriad of colours spread up and over Sam's back. But Sam was used to things - people, demons, broken minds, shattered psyches - appearing on him...or in him. Too much had happened to them over the years. After both of them had been sent to Hell and returned, there was little left that could... touch them.

They were all they had left.

The hellish war, and the long decent, were part of a memory that refused to ever come back to him. Sam knew that there were things that he'd done down there, things that he'd done to save Dean, but he didn't want to know about them. Sam's mind, happily, agreed with him. Dean might have known some of them, but Sam figured the trauma of Dean finding himself suddenly alive, suddenly not dead, really was the only important part.

At least, that's what Sam told himself when Dean's eyes got too knowing too fast, too battle worn.

"It wouldn't be so gross if it didn't keep... shifting on you." Dean hadn't been impressed to find the mark there. Had been a bit more vocal about it than Sam had expected when he'd finally found that the mark they'd had tattooed on them for protection had gone AWOL on Sam.

"It's not exactly like I planned this, Dean."

"Well you should have figured out what happened by now, genius." Three days, and the protective note had left his brother's voice for a more pissy quality. One that more or less meant get your ass in gear.

They were all they had left now afterall.

Other hunters certainly didn't want to deal with the Winchesters anymore. After all, - they were tainted. They'd done what even myths said wasn't possible; they came back. And they didn't know how they'd did it.

Sam sighed, massaging the back of his neck.

"It's always gotta be you, doesn't it." Dean said, a note of aggravation in his voice.

"It's not like there's much out there on 'psychic-shifting-tattoo', Dean."

"So why aren't you looking into it?"

"Why aren't you?" Sam huffed.

"I've got stuff to do, Sammy. Things that don't involve my freakish younger brother and his ugly-ass -- for the love of God Sam, can't you control what it changes into?"

They paused before the entrance to the log 'cabin'. It was hardly the ideal place for them to be - less than rustic and more suburban than anything they'd lived near in the last ten years - but it would suit itself as a place to figure out what was happening to Sam. The building, an A-frame with snow liberally splattered everywhere, but was well off the beaten path.

Dean whistled low in his throat. His legs were aching from the hike as they'd, grudgingly on his part, left the Impala about a mile away, hidden in the bushes.

The inside was almost worth the walk as Sam jimmied the lock and punched a code in on the alarm system.

Dean struggled out of his parka; snow falling liberally to the floor as he all but shouldered Sam out of the way., Sam, for his part, didn't fall over when Dean punched the bite.

Dean dropped his duffel on the ground with a dull thud, and Sam finally had a chance to check out the inside.

It was all wood, from the slightly enclosed upper bedrooms, down to the ground. The kitchen was part of the open concept design of the lower floor, and a gas fireplace covered the middle of the A-Frame's ample ground level. Sam trudged up and flicked a switch, and the cabin lit up prettily. Low leather sofas littered the wall, and a formal dinning set had been dressed down... sort of... with colourful placemats.

The place was palatial in contrast to their usual 'dives'.

"You know, maybe stuff like this should keep happening to you. Then we'd have a great place to crash already made. Just break in whenever we feel like it."

"I hate you." Sam felt the mark burn up his back, twisting and curling around his neck.

Dean sighed, and muttered under his breath for a moment, before heading up the circular wooden stairs that made up most of one corner of the 'cottage'. Sam struggled with grabbing his duffel, his arm itching irritably, but followed Dean up carefully.

- -

"C'mon Sammy. You gotta have a clue." Dean threw himself on the bed and sneezed when the dust floated out of the covers. "Man, maybe we really need to find a better flop house. One that comes with a maid in an awesome outfit."

"Dean, this isn't a flop house."

"What else could it be? It's a house. We're flopping in it."

"It's someone's cottage. They air it out in the summer. They probably leave it locked up in the winter."

"Well, no reason to lock anything up. This ain't no cottage, college boy. What kind of people were you hanging out with there anyway?"

" Just take all the blankets off the bed. We're set here for a while. There's even food." The dumbass was implied in the comment.

"Which I have to get because you got screwed over by that stupid -" Dean hefted the quilt off the bed, sneezing again as the dust floated in the air

Sam grunted, but managed to pull the floral-patterned comforter down from the top shelf of the closet, "Here. This one suits you just -"

Dean looked up at him abruptly, a glower in his eyes.

"I mean, really Sam. It's not like you're ten anymore. You'd think you could learn to dodge spirits when they come after you or something."

"You know, next time some weird creature is about to gouge your face in, I'm not going to get in the way."

Dean got up, slapping Sam on the back - thankfully nowhere that ached -- after throwing the dirty quilt in the corner.

"C'mon Sammy. Let's break into the liquor cabinet and see what they've got. Marvel at another year spent alive." The Winchester ability to deflect and drink never ceased to amaze Sam.

- -

It had been a while since Sam had gotten shit faced, and it was always something that boosted his camaraderie with Dean. Or maybe that was just the alcohol. Sam had never been sure, and wasn't sure he really cared to ever find out once he was half-way to drunk anyway.

Sam listed sideways, laying his head against the floor, spilling liquor over his shirt. He hissed a bit in reaction to the wetness, but the fire was crackling by his head and he was sleepy-satiated for the first time since he'd gotten the wound from the ghost. His mind was spinning-clear, blank and unconcerned while his body floated.

"It's calm..."

Sam started at the voice, looked guiltily at Dean for a moment.

The tattoo wasn't noticeable on his neck, thankfully, but it had wound itself like a snake around his arm.

- -

The house wasn't much cleaner by the time Dean figured out that alcohol really couldn't keep them going as long as Dean could drink. Most of the rum that had been left over was completely gone before they'd reached that point, Sam winced a bit, headache already starting to make its presence known.

"What's the good word, Sam?" The voice boomed through the house as Dean shouted up to him.

Sam winced at Dean's overly loud voice and ran his hands through his hair. Dean booked up the stairs, grinning maniacally.

"Nothing yet. Figured out how to get the Internet running again here. A lot of it had to do with getting the generator going -" Dean steadfastly did not look at Sam's face. "-So I started getting some stuff up on the access portal."

"You know that place 's just filled with hacks, right?" Dean's voice, slightly slurred, lisped behind him.

"Not always."

Dean just stared at him.

"Okay, yeah it's pretty much just filled with tree-pagans, but some of the old guys still show up now and again. I might get Bobby's attention if he ever gets off that stupid -"

Dean glared again.

"I'll go get the books out of the car." Sam tried to get up, before Dean slammed him back to the couch.

"If you rip your stitches you're going to be the one stuck getting it taped back up." Concern tinged Dean's voice, but irritation covered his face.

Sam leaned in, motioning Dean toward him. "Eat me." Sam whispered, pushing his brother away as if to prove just how ready and willing he was to take on the world.

"You tell me the nicest secrets, Sammy."

Sam glared at him.

"Fine, I'll go get your freaking books." Dean hefted himself to his feet.

Sam huffed.

"And I'll make sure I don't drop them on the ground."

Dean grumbled a bit more. "Y'know... I'm just doing an exorcism on your ass if you haven't figured this out by tomorrow."

- -

The tattoo burned him as it moved. Half the time Sam would feel like the thing had just been inked on him, a constantly swirling, itching monstrosity... that twirled around his arm when it was bored.

Sam wasn't sure what to do with the bite. anymore. Even though Dean kept it covered, kept it stitched, there was no healing. While the tattoo itched, the cut was numb, blood seeped out almost like an afterthought.

He never told Dean, but Sam was sure he knew that the thing was getting infected. Sam tried to flinch when Dean stitched, but it never worked. He was a second too late. Always.

Sam's never sure when they're going to be done with the hunting, but he can't ask. They're too broken to deal with the aftermath of the question. It's too delicate a situation, but he doesn't know if he can handle it anymore. Sam felt the tattoo flare, angrily, at his back for a moment before he calms.

It's that sense of... sentience that finally makes the pieces fall together.

- -

One of their contacts -- a professor of Folk Lore out in some long forgotten province in Canada - sent him a few stories when everything started to develop. A few vague comments on the Picts and the Celts and the Latin translation for all the stuff in there from the Romans back in the day. Sam had to squint to see most of the writing - the books hadn't been preserved as well as either he, or the professor, needed to understand what was in the stories.

Possibly one reason why Kay always sent him a good low down look at the topic first. It's not the Sam's stupid, but the professor realized that he needed things quick and dirty a long time ago. It was laid out like research John would have left them, just the facts and nothing on the side.

The tattoos covering the Picts' bodies were a symbol of power, of spirits in some cases and the marks, made by woad, left the tattoos coloured blue.

The spiral that he had on his back mocked him in the similarity to the one on the picture the professor sent him. It also made Sam realize that they were going to have rethink this entire exorcism thing, because this spirit was far, far older than they thought it was.

- -

The ritual they'd managed to hack together, IMs between professors and Sam seemed to dishearten Sam more to the failure of English as a communication structure, wasn't perfect but it would work.

Probably.

The drum itself, a bodhran, hadn't been made the more traditional way by letting the skin dry. They didn't have the time and Sam's started to think the spirit might have caught on by the time the pain started. The twinges started during his initial research, by the time they've got the drum and are out in the middle of the forest ready to start Sam's almost doubled over in pain and Dean's eying the tattoo like it's going to bite him.

They're as ready as either of them are ever going to be, and Dean's more than willing to sing if it's going to mean Sam is unpossessed. Again.

The Gaelic chant should have sounded guttural, but it didn't. Dean's voice was whisper quiet, but Sam felt the thrum of power coming through the words and the beats.

Sam had to speed up the beat on the bodhran to be counterpoint to Dean's words.

Brisfidh mŽ. Brisfidh mŽ. Over and over Dean's rich tones seemed to ricochet with the drum.

Tha mi sg“th 's mi leam fh“n Dean's voice wavered briefly, then bounded back. The forest was perfect in the solitude.

Suddenly, mid-chant, the tattoo burst into fiery pain on Sam's back. He grunted but kept the beat going, somehow managing to stay conscious as he felt the tattoo become more solid... more sinuous. It flowed down his arm viscously, like blood only the blue-woad of the tattoo. The ooze pooled and finally formed itself into the figure of the spirit-girl.

Naked. Only tattoos covering her body.

If Sam hadn't been fighting to stay alive, he might have laughed at the surprised expression on Dean's face. As it was, Sam figured he owed his brother a few bottles of Jim Bean to keep him company for the next few weeks.

If they survived.

Tha mi sg“th 's mi leam fh“n,
Buain na rainich daonnan

She twirled in the light of the moon, manic and carefree. Sam could see firelight that flickered in her eyes.

She was definitely beyond their normal fare in spirit-land.

Ciod am feum dhomh bhi ri tuireadh?
DŽ ni tuireadh dhomhsa

But it'd worked. That was the important part. It called the spirit back to her form before life. They couldn't do much more than barebones research, but Sam and Kay had figured her to be a bit of a mythology mix. A druid spirit if the worst of it, someone not willing to go beyond the veil, and taking the spiritual power from others to make sure it never had to happen.

She grew slowly more distinct, and Sam feels the stick he's using start to fall from lax fingers. She grew slowly more distinct and Sam felt the stick he'd been using start to fall from his relaxing fingers. Energy leeching from his body.

"You silly boys. You don't need... I'm not taking anything from him." Her voice was hardly what Sam expected, low and sugar-sweet rather than angry and bitter.

"The bite goes away... It always does." She laughed again, and caressed Sam's face lightly.

She sighed, leaving Sam all but slumped against the ground. She walked the area, listened to Dean's voice and watched as Sam's eyes shuttered slowly closed.

"You see. The string doesn't hurt. Eventually I'll find another and he can go back to hiding like he was."

Anns an t-sithean, o, gur sg“th mi;
'S tric mo chridh' 'ga leonadh

"No more, no more." She's clapsed her hands to her ears, screaming like they'd dug their nails into her.

Her smile, when it came, was beautiful if startling in its sanity. Sam's hands still drummed the beat on the drum, haphazard and drunken sounding without the staccato of the tipper to clear the sides. But always, all throughout, Dean's voice carried the song.

And she tapped Sam on the nose, an admonishment in her eye. She seemed to be hinting at something, a regret before madness took hold. She kissed him soundly, leaving a
before she exploded, hundreds of pieces of her shining off into the air.

"That one... is never going to move on is it?" Dean muttered, breath misted out in harsh pants.

"No. Probably not." Sam stuck to the ground, body shivering compulsively. The inrush of energy when she'd shattered had all but caused his body to seized

Dean's voice, hoarse from the singing, came out gutteral. And maybe, just for a change, things are going to start looking up for them. "Alright, Magneto." Dean laughed.
"What?" Sam forgot his body for moment, blindsided by a reference even he couldn't follow.
"Y'know. Like you attract ghosts --"

"I know who Magneto is, Dean I just --"

Dean shoved him into the snow bank, and Sam ate his response.

"Oh no you don't even --"

Sam had to admit that Dean probably won that that round, but at least they were both covered in snow by they time they got back to the Impala.