Burgers and Pixie Dust - 7

Goldenrod was terrible at giving directions.

Dean “missed” a turn that would have taken the Impala across a baseball field and rolled his eyes, and already the pixie astride the backrest buzzed their wings. “Human, you should have gone that way! This tracking spell won’t last forever, you know!”

Dean grumbled something unintelligible and looked ahead for an actual street that would take him the right direction. “I can’t just go off the road,” he groused back.

“Someone would stop him and we’d never get there if he didn’t use the roads,” Sam explained from his perch on Dean’s shoulder, far more patiently. Dean knew why; the little guy was amused as all get out by the conversation between Goldenrod and Dean. He’d be gloating about his own merit as a navigator for months after this. At least.

Oscar was still in Dean’s pocket. His little arms were draped over the edge to help him stay up, since he was too small to simply stand in it. The others had opted for their places out of necessity, Goldenrod to try to point the way for Dean and Sam to keep them in check. Oscar, timid as he was, chose to remain somewhere he didn’t need to worry about falling.

Dean was prepared to be the only one bringing the fight to this Red Cap fairy. Goldenrod had made it clear that they wouldn’t be joining the fray, and Dean would never expect Oscar or Sam to take on someone human sized. They were resourceful little guys, he knew that better than most, but there were some things they needed to avoid.

His grip tightened on the wheel. He could do this. He had to, so they wouldn’t be in as much danger. Sam had his pure iron nail and his silver knife, so he could protect the others while Dean went on the offensive. And Sam and Oscar both had a handy little backup plan tucked away in their bags.

He made the turn and glanced to Goldenrod to make sure he was still on the right track. They were pouting again, but they didn’t blurt out any new directions, so Dean stayed on the street he’d chosen.

“D-Dean,” Oscar’s little voice filtered up from the pocket. Dean glanced down only for an instant before returning his attention to the road.

“What’s up, Oz?”

“Just, um. I remember when we were lookin’ at stuff earlier, it said something about the Red Cap’s … cap. I think if you can get it away from him it might do something?” Oscar’s voice was unsure, and Dean could picture his little eyes flickering to Sam up on the shoulder.

Right on cue, the younger Winchester chimed in. “Some of the lore sites here and there did mention it,” he said. “But most of it isn’t clear. It does say he uses the blood of his kills to dye it red, though.”

Goldenrod huffed in that haughty way they had. “That part is definitely, disgustingly true,” they said. “If he lets the hat dry out too much I think it throws him off his game, but you won’t get it away from him. He won’t let it happen.”

“Oh, m-maybe that’s true,” Oscar muttered from the pocket. His little voice was nearly snatched away.

“I’ll give it a try, Oz,” Dean assured him. Any edge they could get against a monster, he’d take. “Goldenrod? Next turn?”

The pixie shifted on the backrest of the seat, teasing Dean’s peripheral vision with motion. They observed all around the car as it crawled along the side street, and at one point they paused to stare at nothing, falling eerily still.

Friggin’ fairy magic.

“Keep going, and … I suppose angle leftwards at your earliest convenience,” they directed, begrudgingly catching on that Dean couldn’t plow the Impala through the small houses lining the road.

“Got it,” Dean answered, keen eyes already darting ahead for a turn.

~~~

Side roads and rarely-used turnoffs led them to the outskirts of town. By the time they reached a wooded area that Goldenrod recognized from their first hours in the human realm, Oscar was a nervous wreck. The pixie above fidgeted more and more, while Sam watched more keenly. Dean’s heart, so near the pocket, had changed its rhythm sometime since the trip started.

Oscar’s had too; his fluttered with every thought of what they were looking for.

Part of him wished he was back home with his pile of blankets. His house was small and sometimes dreary and it wasn’t very pretty, but it was his. It was safe.

He couldn’t let his friends go up against this thing without knowing they’d be okay. Last time, he’d been able to help. He might be able to do something again. Even if he was terrified, he had to be there just in case. He was the reason they’d come, after all.

“Dean,” Sam called sharply from up on the shoulder. The human tensed, and Oscar peered straight up at him. Sam had his eyes fixed on something outside the car.

The car slowed while Dean looked for what Sam saw. Oscar saw the realization forming on his face in large scale. Realization, and then a hard determination crossed Dean’s expression.

“Son of a bitch.”

Dean found a place to park the car. After making sure Sam was okay on his shoulder and Oscar in his pocket, he left the Impala where she was, with Goldenrod flitting fearfully along beside him. When he rounded the huge black vehicle, Oscar finally saw what the others had keyed in on.

A long, bloody handprint smeared on the trunk of a tree. It was fresh.

Looking past it, there were more spots of blood on trees and ferns, leading away into the woods on the edge of town and up a hill. Someone had been dragged off from the road, and Goldenrod was fidgeting more than ever. Oscar ducked down so he only peeked his eyes over the edge of the pocket.

“Looks like he left a trail for us,” Sam commented darkly.

Dean scoffed. “Got your iron and silver, Sammy?” he asked.

“Got it. Do you have yours?”

Dean grinned that time, but it wasn’t the kind of grin Oscar saw when the human greeted him or watched something amusing on TV. It was grim, and it was feral. “You know I’m ready. Let’s gank this evil son of a bitch.”

The bloody trail gave Dean a clear path to follow, but he didn’t stay on it exactly. Oscar practically held his breath as the man tensed into a stalk so quiet that his footsteps barely rustled the leaves and grass under his boots. Even Goldenrod quieted. There was no room for error in this.

A house came into view and Oscar almost dropped into the pocket the rest of the way. Dean procured a knife from somewhere (maybe his sleeve?) and stalked forward cautiously. The paint had almost all peeled away from the house, and most of the windows were broken out. The front door was gone, and the frame was decorated with several of those dragged handprints, most of them dried to a rust color.

Music played somewhere inside, and Dean’s steps paused.

“Waitasecond,” Goldenrod hissed, flitting out in front of Dean. “You’re gonna get glamoured if you walk in there now.”

Dean scowled, but Oscar’s brow knitted. He had no idea what “glamoured” meant, and hoped that Goldenrod would explain without one of their tangents.

Instead, they clapped their hands together twice. Oscar blinked, and could have sworn their skin sparkled more than usual for a few seconds, and then they drifted to the side again. “There, now you’ve got all my glamour affecting you so you should be safe at least for a while. I just won’t tell you to do anything!” They smiled winningly.

“You think that’s helping?” Dean hissed, unconvinced.

Before he could go on, Sam placed a calming hand on his neck. “It’s all we have right now, Dean,” he advised, “you gotta get in there in case that last victim still has a chance. We’ll be okay.”

Dean hedged, but stalked forward anyway. His battle calm, disrupted only for a moment, settled over him once more as he eyed the corners around the house and held his knife out in front defensively. No unseen attackers leapt out at him.

By the time he reached the door, the music was louder, but it couldn’t cover the sound of sobs from somewhere inside the house.

Oscar’s heart beat so quickly he almost wondered if it had stopped. Soon, they’d find out what this hideous creature looked like. He pictured long, sharp teeth, and nasty claws, both ready to rip a human to pieces. Bloodshot eyes glared and a snarling jaw snapped in his mind’s eye, and Oscar finally hid his face behind the edge of Dean’s pocket.

Sturdy boots crossed a threshold that hadn’t belonged to anyone for years, silently entering the monster’s den.

Oscar didn’t peek out again until Dean’s slow, sneaking walk came to a stop. He leaned against a wall covered in mostly-peeled and bloodstained wallpaper. Several feet away was a doorway into a back room of the house, and the music and sobbing filtered from there. A voice taunted whoever was weeping, but not in a language Oscar recognized. It grated on his nerves like a sharp point grazing over skin, leaving a stinging itch behind.

Dean was already offering Sam an open hand, and as soon as Sam was aboard, the broad platform lowered to the pocket. It was time.

“Stay outta sight, Sammy,” Dean warned, his voice almost inaudible.

“I remember the plan,” Sam affirmed, helping Oscar onto Dean’s hand. They couldn’t afford to be on his person while he went into a fight. One punch over the pocket would be the end of them. Goldenrod’s haughty demeanor was gone and their usually-fancy look disheveled.

Oscar stared wide-eyed up at Dean as the man lowered them all the way to the floor at the base of the wall. He looked terrifying, but Oscar’s shudders weren’t for Dean. He’d learned that look was reserved for the vicious monster in the next room.

“Careful, Dean,” he whispered. “We’ll be looking out for you.”

Dean nodded, and brushed a fingertip over both Sam and Oscar’s heads before rising back to a stand. Goldenrod, standing taller than them both but still much smaller than Dean, watched his knife warily, but hadn’t backed out yet.

Then, with more silent steps, Dean inched around the small trio towards the door.