Fic title: Sam and Dean Winchester: Unicorn Hunters
Author name:
aggybird
Artist name:
elthegeneral
Genre: Wincest
Pairing: Sam/Dean, with side character romance, too
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 24,555
Warnings: Some gore.
Summary: AU after Season 5. Sam and Dean are ready for a little down time after saving the
world and somehow escaping from hell (again), when the Summer Queen shows up in their
motel room to enlist their help. Turns out, the whole near-Apocalypse thing thinned the veil
between our world and the world in which the faeries banished an ancient, terrible, and
bloodthirsty race of beasts: Unicorns.
Luckily, with the help of some faery allies and an unorthodox plan, they might be able to save
the world. Again. But this time from unicorns.
Author's Notes: THANK YOU to the fantastic
elizah_jane who held my hand a lot and
assured me that I shouldn't succumb to black despair or else the unicorns would win. Also, thank
you to
lazy_daze and her email group of happiness and wonder, and to all the AMAZING
folks who let me flail along with them in that email group during the BB process. You guys
made everything good. Written for spn_j2_bigbang 2011.
Link to art: @ deviantart (spoilery for the ending)
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Sam and Dean Winchester: Unicorn Hunters
Before the Apocalyptic dust has settled and the beers have been popped open and Dean has
gotten used to his brother not being in Hell, the Queen of the Fairies shows up in Dean's motel
room.
If he thought about it, Dean would have pegged fairies as a Sam thing. He's joked about Sam
being the King of the Fairies long enough that it wouldn't surprise him to find out it’s true.
"Uh," Dean says. He sets his beer bottle down on the nightstand.
"Dean Winchester," the Queen says regally. "We call upon you in great distress."
Dean blinks hard. It's like he's seeing three different women at once, superimposed and shifting
back and forth in the same spot: one hovers in the air, smaller than his thumb, glowing like a
firefly and shooting off firecracker pops of light; another stretches tall and thin and ominous
toward the ceiling, her moon-pale blonde hair floating around her head, her limbs alien and
elongated; the third stands a few inches shorter than him, a pretty woman with a pixie haircut,
dressed in blue jeans and a sparkly tank top that says, "Believe."
All three of them have wings. And none of them cast a shadow.
Dean glances at his beer bottle fretfully. He's pretty sure that was only his first one. So he's either
hallucinating or there is really a—
"Oh my God," Sam says, returning from his food run. He stands frozen in the doorway. The bags
of takeout fall to the ground and spills open. Now, in addition to the alluring scent of lilies, fresh
morning dew, and honey that accompanies the arrival of the Queen of the Fairies, Dean can
smell Kung Pao Chicken and soy sauce.
The Queen wrinkles her small, perfect nose and shifts slightly to regard Sam. "The tainted
brother," she says calmly. "Unfortunately, our urgency necessitates that we deal with you as
well."
Dean decides she's a bitch.
"Yeah, well, we're not interested in what you're selling, sweetheart," he says. "Unless what
you're selling is cold beer or a couple hours of your time." He waggles his eyebrows for
emphasis.
Sam makes a choking noise.
The Queen looks at Dean, and her blue eyes narrow as she says, deadly serious, "We are not
amused."
"We totally are," Dean says. "Because we totally get a pop culture reference that you don't."
"Clever as you think yourself," the Queen snaps, "We do not have time to trifle with you. We
require your help."
"Our help?" Sam asks. His eyes have a worrisome sheen to them. Dean's seen that sheen before:
it usually surfaces during trips to museums or art galleries. Dean's eyes get their own sheen on
those particular occasions, only their sheen is more like a dull glaze.
The Queen regards Sam again, this time more thoughtfully. "We find it distasteful to converse
with either of you, as traditionally we prefer to entrap mortals for amusement or keep them
entirely ignorant of our affairs. However, the situation is dire enough to compel us to put aside
our feelings of revulsion."
"Listen, lady," Dean says, "Really. You can stop buttering us up. I'm blushing."
"Dean Winchester," the Queen says. Her three shapes pulse a brilliant crimson and bathe the
room in monochrome red, washing Sam's startled face bloody and casting the motel walls
crimson like the heart of hell. Just as suddenly, the color is sucked back into the center of the
room and she returns to sparkling gently, looking like an ice sculpture, but Dean got it, message
received. He's a cocky son of a bitch, but he's not suicidal.
"What do you need?" he asks.
The Queen steeples her long, thin fingers and tilts her head. "We need you to slay the unicorns,"
she says gravely.
"Bullshit," Dean says, before he can think about it.
The Queen's pale, winged eyebrow rises.
"What he means," Sam says hurriedly, coming to Dean's side, "is that we were pretty sure
unicorns didn't exist."
"Yes," the Queen says, her voice dark with loathing. "We have worked very hard to ensure that
humans need not fear the beasts' existence." She floats gracefully toward the nearest bed. Dean's
not sure that's a metaphor: he didn't see her feet move but somehow she's managed to travel a
good four feet. She settles light as a feather on the edge of the lumpy mattress, her posture
making it appear as though she rests on a throne. She glows with a soft, purple-grey light that
looks almost ultraviolet.
Dean squints. Actually, it is ultraviolet. It looks the same as the fancy black lights the CSI guys
use on those crappy procedural cop shows, and it's picking up some very questionable stains
covering the sheets on the bed where he was planning to sleep tonight.
The Queen follows his gaze down. "Disgusting," she says, "Wallowing in your own filth." She
flicks her hand and the sheets disappear completely, replaced with a soft green carpet of clovers
flowing over the bed and down onto the ground. The bed changes shape, too: the edges flatten
and the center rises into a mound, ringed with small, white mushrooms. Flowers in vibrant,
rainbow hues pop into existence—literally, Dean notices with irritation: they produce faint pop
pop noises and tiny explosions of glitter as they uncurl. Dean suddenly realizes he’s looking at a
fairy hill in the middle of their hotel room.
The flowers spill down the grassy mound, creeping toward his feet. He feels an insistent nudging
under his toe and lifts his foot as a daisy springs up through the carpet, its petals swaying merrily
without the aid of a breeze.
"Cute trick," Dean says. "Do you do parties?"
"Silence your tongue!" the Queen snaps. Her hair billows straight up and the light flares,
illuminating her face from below and casting eerie shadows around her eyes. "Oh, would that
you were never given the gift of language! Would that we could cut the pink worm from your
mouth!"
"Dean," Sam says placidly. "Maybe you should stop antagonizing the Queen of all the fairies."
"Are you kidding me?" Dean says. "Most fun I've had this week. We only stopped the
Apocalypse last Thursday, I was getting bored."
Dean has a feeling that right now, Sam is smacking an imaginary palm to his forehead.
"Samuel Winchester," the Queen says, calming. Her hairs drifts down gently and she folds her
hands over her lap. If Dean closes one eye, the Queen stays in the form with the sparkly tank top.
Somehow, this is more threatening than the other two forms. "Clearly, despite your taint, you are
the more intelligent of the pair."
Sam shoots him a smug look and Dean refrains from making a face because he is the bigger man,
dammit.
"But we are not the Queen of all the fairies. We rule the Summer Court. Our sister rules the
Winter Court. She rarely leaves her domain, so you will be required to travel to her location,
where she awaits your arrival. Our courts seldom work toward the same ends," here the Queen
pauses, an unpleasant expression settling over her beautiful face, "but as we have explained, the
times are desperate."
"Why us?" Sam asks. Dean knows if he'd asked the same question, he probably would've gotten
another angry look and maybe a flower sprouting from an uncomfortable place on his body. But
Sam has a way of making his tone sound completely innocent. He gets a lot more slack that way.
Brown-noser.
The Queen considers Sam. "You have saved the world more than once. That is why we believe
you can do so again. However, you will not attempt this alone. Before the full moon rises, we
shall send you one of our best knights to aid you in your quest. You shall have the full power of
the courts behind you."
The tiny version of the Queen, the one that looks like a Tinkerbell fairy, flickers a dark blue
when she says this.
Dean narrows his eyes. "Yeah? And everybody's happy that you're dragging humans into this?"
The Queen's tall figure smirks and the version in the blue jeans frowns. It's a little confusing.
"No. We admit that we face... opposition within our court. Not all of our subjects remember the
wrath of the unicorns."
"The wrath of the unicorns," Dean says flatly.
"I am sure they were really… wrathful," Sam interjects, when it looks like the Queen is about to
change colors again and shoot Dean full of glitter or daffodils or something.
"Theirs is a wrath you cannot imagine, Samuel Winchester," the Queen says darkly. She closes
her eyes and lowers her head, and when she speaks, her voice reverberates deep and clanging
like an iron bell. "They will destroy your world and all the creatures in it. They are eternal greed.
They will never be satisfied."
"Them and every other monster," Dean says. "That's not a new one."
"You should not make light of the unicorns, Dean Winchester. They ravaged your world once
and they will do so again in their unending thirst for blood."
"Blood?" Sam asks, taking a step forward.
"Yes," the Queen nods. "They thirst for the blood of the pure."
"I thought they just thirsted for rainbows. Or putting their head in a blonde virgin's lap."
The Queen chuckles, which is possibly the most unsettling thing Dean has ever heard. It raises
the hairs on the back of his neck and prickles gooseflesh along his arms.
"No unicorn would lay his head in a maiden's lap unless he intended to disembowel her," the
Queen says. Her lips curl up, everything about her expression cruel and amused. Dean has a
feeling she's not really bothered by the thought of some human getting gutted.
"So what?" Dean asks. "So what if the unicorns chomp down on a bunch of humans? No skin off
your delicate nose, right?"
The tiny-sized version of the Queen pings around in the air like Tinkerbell on crack, while the
tall, thin version puts one long-fingered hand in front of her mouth, hiding a smile. The version
Dean can see the best, the one wearing the sparkly t-shirt and sporting the platinum pixie cut
woven with flowers, puts her hands on her hips and draws herself up.
"We care little for humans," the Queen says, "save that the Creator ordained you as His chosen,
and we remember his edict well, even if we think it misguided."
Sam makes a noise and Dean looks over at him. "Creator?" Sam says quietly, like he's testing out
the word. "Do you—I mean, that is... are you talking about God?"
The Queen nods. "Long ago, our kind belonged to the host of Heaven. When the Great War
came, some of us declined to choose sides. We could not fight against our brothers and sisters."
Like hell, Dean thought. You didn't want to get involved because you wanted to see which side
won before you made your choice.
"That is incorrect," the Queen says sharply, her eyes flaring red. "We were merely cautious.
Some thought that the Morningstar was correct; others believed it was improper to question the
Creator's wishes."
"Uh huh," Dean says. "Which not-side did you fall on?"
"Well, since she's here trying to recruit us to save humanity from vicious unicorns, I think that's
pretty obvious. Don't you, Dean?"
Dean glares at his brother in exasperation. "Try not to lick her feet too much, Sam, you'll get
sparkles on your tongue."
"Silence," the Queen commands. "Do you wish that we continue or not?"
"Not," Dean mutters, but Sam shoots him a quelling look, so he subsides with an eyeroll.
"The Creator cast the Morningstar and his allies to the Pit; for those who chose no side, he cast
them to the Earth. We were punished for our doubt, not our rebellion."
"So the myth is true," Sam says, sounding like a giddy kid at Christmas. "Fairies were angels
once."
The Queen winces. "We dislike that word. We were once the Host. Now no more."
"Demoted from harp players to mischief makers and wee folk, huh?" Dean crosses his arms over
his chest. "That's gotta suck."
The Queen's eyes narrow in fury and Dean watches in fascination as the color drains from the
walls like liquid, sliding across the floor and pooling in a writhing puddle at the Queen's feet like
a tiny sea of iridescent water.
"Uh, Dean—" Sam says urgently.
"Right, right," Dean says, edging closer to Sam. "What I mean is, that's terrible. I can't even
imagine the shock. Totally devastating. I applaud your, uh, inner strength at surviving such a
blow."
Abruptly, the Queen laughs again. This time it doesn't just feel like the hairs on the back of his
neck stand up—it feels like they pack their bags and tear off for parts unknown. His skin itches
like its covered in fiberglass, like he'll never be able to scratch enough.
"We can see your charm, now," the Queen says, tilting her head and examining Dean with far too
much attention. "You would make a good addition to the court. We have need of a Jester."
"Really?" Sams says, perfectly straight-faced. "You think Dean would make a good fairy?"
"I will kill you in your sleep," Dean says.
The Queen's smile lingers a moment longer, and so does the sudden chill. It's like the room gets
colder when she's happy. Dean's not sure how she rules the Summer Court when she reminds
him of the Snow Queen's bitchier sister.
"We are pleased. Now it is confirmed: We have no doubt that the Winchester brothers are wellmatched to defeat the unicorn menace."
Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. "Unicorn menace," he mutters. "How did we get here, Sam? I
want demons or skinwalkers or witches. Not unicorns. Okay, listen, Galadriel—"
"We do not recognize this name. You may address us as Queen Ariella or my Lady."
"…right," Dean says.
Sam jumps in. "It's not that we don't want to help. We just need more information. I mean—why
now? Why are the unicorns back?"
"Surely it cannot have escaped from even your notice that more... monsters, as you call them,
have stirred from their long slumbers? New creatures or creatures once thought pure myth makes
appearances in your world more and more frequently."
"Yeah," Dean says. "Fairies. Case in point."
"Your world was nearly ripped asunder by the Apocalypse. The veil between its reality and other
realtities faded to airy thinness. In many places, that veil was torn in the moment when Samuel
Winchester overcame the Morningstar and flung himself into the cage. The power reverberated
around the world."
"Well," Dean says. "When you put it like that."
Sam nods like it all makes sense. "So the... unicorns used the opportunity to reenter our world?"
The Queen inclines her head. "Indeed. Our people no longer guard the borders as they once did.
They have become complacent. The unicorns were able to slip through and slaughter the few
Fair Folk who got in their way. Now the unicorns have been loosed in your world, and the
unicorns will stop at nothing as they slake their unquenchable thirst."
"Am I the only one who doesn't think unicorn even sounds like a real word anymore?" Dean asks
the ceiling.
"Shut up, Dean," Sam says. Then, to the Queen, "You said you'd send us help?"
"Yes. Our best knight. He is currently engaged on a mission of great importance for the court,
but will conclude his business and reach you within a fortnight. In the meantime, you must visit
the court of our sister. We will provide directions."
The Queen clasps her hands together like she's praying; as she pulls her hands apart a piece of
parchment grows gradually between them, materializing from thin air. The parchment has a faint
gold shimmer as it finally resolves into a cracked, yellowed map.
Sam plucks it from the air and Dean leans over to examine it, watching as delicate ink lines
unfold and curl across the page. It's a map of America. At first, the states' shapes look somehow
wrong, until Dean realizes that there aren't enough of them; there are only thirteen.
"You have got to be kidding me. This is a map of the frigging Colonies."
The Queen appears honestly puzzled. "The location of the Winter Court has not changed."
Sam's expression is somewhere between pained and amused. "Right," he says. He stares at the
map, and Dean can just imagine his freakish brain making the calculations as he stares at the
deep, electric blue spot glowing in the middle that marks the Winter Court. "So... then the Winter
Court is in the... Appalachian Mountains?" He puts his finger to the map. "This is where
Kentucky is today."
"Great," Dean says. "Kentucky."
The Queen coughs delicately, and the tall, thin version of her hovering in the background covers
her mouth to hide laughter again. "We find it is... easy to glamour the mortals in that area. Keep
the map safe. It will guide you," she says. On the last word, another point of light flares on the
map: it's an eye - searing pink.
"You are the pink light. Follow it to the fairies," the Queen explains.
"Awesome," says Dean. "Like unicorn hunting couldn't get gayer."
"Our knight will explain upon his arrival. Be warned before you visit the Winter Court,
Winchester brothers. It is a dark place. They are the Host who favored the Morningstar. We of
the Summer Court favored our Creator."
Dean tries not to think, Yeah, but neither one of you took a stand, you cowards, but knows he
didn't succeed when the Queen's eyes go demon-black and all the glass in the room shatters.
"We wish you luck, Dean Winchester," the Queen hisses before she vanishes.
"Uh, Dean?" Sam says. "Please don't be upset, but there are daisies growing out of your head."
---"So," Dean says, after pruning his hair. His scalp still itches like there are roots pulsing
underneath his skin.
"So," Sam says.
There's a moment of silence.
"Are we HIGH?" Dean explodes, pacing the room. "I mean, did we really just get a visit from the
Queen of the fucking fairies—"
"Technically just the Summer Court."
"—asking us to help save humanity from killer unicorns? And then I got flowers for hair. How
am I supposed to take that, Sam? We go from stopping the Apocalypse to saving the world from
fluffy white horses with horns. What does the Universe have against us? Does it just like to fuck
with us?"
"I think you're overreacting," Sam says calmly.
"Well, I think you're under-reacting," Dean says, crossing his arms.
"Look," Sam says. "Yes, it sounds crazy. But so did you coming back from hell, and me coming
back from hell, and yet we both did it. You got angelic intervention, and I got... well, we're not
sure what I got, but I'm back. Maybe we're just meant to fight. Maybe that's what the Universe
likes to do with us."
Dean didn't need to be reminded about Sam's return. One minute, Dean was enjoying being
comfortably dead inside, a casual alcoholic sitting down to dinner with a fake family he really
didn't want, and in the next minute, he saw a streetlight flicker outside Lisa's house and knew.
He's still uneasy about Sam's return and it's lack of consequences so far, but he figures that
karma is catching up with them right about now.
"We should check it out," Sam says simply. "We're only a few hours drive from where the
Winter Court is supposed to be. We can make it there by tonight."
"Ugh," Dean says, flopping down on the grassy mound of his bed and twisting to face Sam. The
grass is surprisingly soft against his cheek and he swears that he can hear a flute playing beneath
his ear. "Where's my damn takeout? I need to fortify myself if I'm going to goddamn fairyland.
Why couldn't this Queen come to us? If they want us to save their asses, you'd think they'd be a
little more accomodating."
"I guess she's not as nice as the Summer Queen."
"Now there's a thought," Dean says, scratching his head and pulling another flower from behind
his ear.
---Dean grumbles about having to eat his food in a hurry, but Sam can tell he's just as curious to get
on the road.
They wind their way through mountain valleys for a few hours before they start seeing signs for
Daniel Boone National Forest. Sam researched it back at the motel while Dean showered and
weeded his hair, and it looks like this national forest has an abundance of caves and unspoiled
woodland. Sort of perfect for a faery hideout Underhill.
Sam looks up from following their pink dot on the map and spots the hand carved sign
advertising Glen's Den, pointing it out to Dean before they can miss their turn. According to their
map, this is the place.
The Glen's Den sign hangs from two silver chains on a weathered signpost, like one of those "Ye
Olde Tavern" signs. As they make their way down the dirt road toward the building, Sam's
surprised to discover that it's a ramshackle biker bar listing against a thicket of gnarled oak trees.
The oaks are like nothing he's ever seen: they look like they could be three hundred feet tall,
remnants from the stories the first settlers told about the forests of the New World; forests that
were full of ancient trees reaching into the sky, totally undisturbed by man, their trunks so big in
diameter that ten grown men couldn't link arms around them. Here and there he sees elm and
willow trees peak between the oaks, and half remembers an old bit of folklore: Elm do grieve,
and oak do hate, and willow do walk if ye travel late.
Pulling up in the shadow of those great, old trees, he feels small and young imagining the power
they draw from the earth, the wisdom in every year-ring inside their trunks.
"Not the best location," Dean says, interrupting his thoughts. Dean gestures at the trees. "Can
you imagine if one of those suckers fell? That'd be one pancaked bar."
"I don't think they're going to fall. The root systems on those things probably go for miles."
Dean snorts. "Nerd. Come on, let's go meet the other Queen. But two's my limit."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Lucky for you there are only two."
Dean throws him a cocky grin as they climb out of the Impala. "What does the lore say? About
this Queen?"
"Considering no hunter has ever met one of the Queens, the lore is pretty scarce. Most hunters
don't even believe the faery courts are real."
"Yeah, well, most hunters didn't believe in angels either, till those dicks with wings started
falling outta the sky."
Sam blinks. "Thanks for that image."
Dean slaps Sam on the back as they walk toward the door, and Sam takes a moment to enjoy the
short sting and the sense of warmth between his shoulder blades. Here in the dark and cool of the
forest, he feels like he needs to lean into Dean, to reassure himself that he is not alone.
The bar is strangely quiet, though Sam can see light spilling out from underneath the door. He
takes a minute to inspect the bar and revises his opinion: it doesn't look like any biker bar he has
ever seen. In fact, it looks more like a pub, like something from scenic travel brochures of
Europe.
He blinks and suddenly it's back to looking like a sleazy bar. He blinks again and it changes
shape once more, looking even more Old World. A cobbled path now leads to the door.
Somehow, he's positive he's finally seeing the building's true shape: it is a tavern two stories tall,
constructed of massive wooden beams, the spaces filled in with white plastered-over bricks; the
top floor hangs slightly over the bottom, and the roof appears to be thatch. An oil lamp hangs
from a tarnished silver hook beside the weathered door; the flame burns high, welcoming weary
travelers.
He feels like they're about to step into some sort of Shakespearean drama. The air is charged and
thrumming. Twilight has settled to full dark, and fireflies appear in the surrounding woods. He
squints, suddenly uncertain that the tiny darting lights are really fireflies at all. One whizzes past
his face with a fluttering sound, circles his head twice, and shoots off into the woods.
"Huh," Dean says next to him, studying the building with one eye half-closed. "I guess you see
what they let you see. Think they serve mead?"
Sam shakes his head. "Do not drink or eat anything a faery offers you, Dean. The lore is at least
pretty definitive about that."
Dean heaves a huge sigh. "Any other words of wisdom, geekboy?"
Sam's lips twitch. "Well, you could try not insulting this Queen, too. From what I gather, the
Winter Court is not known for being as nice to humans as the Summer Court."
"No wonder these guys were angels once," Dean says. "They're still dicks with wings, they just
have different wings now."
"A perfect example of what not to say to the Winter Queen."
"Shut up, I'll be charming as hell."
"Speaking from experience, that is not very charming."
Dean looks at him sharply. "Funny. Can we get inside already? This forest gives me the creeps.
It feels alive. And before you say something annoying like, 'But the trees are alive, Dean!' please
know that I will punch you in the head."
Sam smirks and sweeps his hand toward the door. "By all means, lead the way."
The door handle is a thick ring of silver blackened from age. When Dean grasps it, Sam sees him
clench his jaw.
"What?"
Dean shakes his head as though clearing it. "Nothing. Don't worry about it." He pulls on the ring
and the door swings open. Light and noise explode into the forest's quiet darkness. It's such a
shock that Sam inhales audibly and he and Dean share a glance.
Inside, it is like stepping into another world—a world from five-hundred years ago. The floor is
simply packed earth covered with rushes; the tables and chairs are simple handmade wood, worn
smooth and shiny with the use of centuries; oil lamps hang from the ceiling, burning with a
strange woodsy smell like pine and incense. The interior is smoky and the flames cast flickering
shadows over the occupants' faces and hiding their bodies, making the room feel sinister.
Everywhere Sam looks, it's like his vision fractures. He sees a tall man drinking a tankard of ale;
now the same man is a shaggy beast with antlers that reach the ceiling and the face of a young
woman. Small, black creatures rseembling naked monkeys dart among the beams in the rafters,
shrieking; one misses a leap and falls to the table, rattling the glasses and plates and causing the
tables' occupants to growl and hiss. It tries to get up, but in the next instant a handful of more
black monkey-things descend on the injured creature. There is a cacophony of shrieks and when
the creatures scatter a small pile white bones gleams on the table. Something that resembles a
man carved from gray stone pounds the table with his massive fist and laughs.
"Jesus," Dean says. When Sam looks at him, his eyes are wide and his freckles stand out against
his pale skin. Somehow, in this room, Dean's eyes are an even more unearthly green, and his skin
glows softly. Sam is struck with the thought that Dean isn't from this world. No one that
beautiful could be human.
The tavern is filled with creatures Sam can not easily identify: some of them appear nearly
human, with only their strange, incandescent beauty giving away their inhumanity. He thinks
they might be elves or aos sí, the Fair Folk. They are dressed like royalty, in long flowing
dresses and cloaks, and they stand apart from the other fairies in the room, smiling and
whispering at each other.
Other creatures he can only guess at. In one corner, a dark-haired woman and a dark-haired man
sit silently side by side at a table, their hair dripping with water and the hems of clothes wet.
They stare at him with eyes that stream water. A herd of small men wearing red caps race by his
feet. They smell acrid, like death and blood, and one pauses to glance up at Sam, flashing him a
malevolent grin full of cracked, jagged teeth.
"Sam," Dean says, putting a hand on his arm. He tilts his head toward the left, and Sam looks to
see a beautiful woman sprawled on a large chair covered in animal furs, holding court with a
crowd of diverse creatures.
She catches Sam's eye and smiles, beckoning him closer. His feet move without him willing
them.
Unlike every other creature in the room, nothing about her shape seems blurred or shifting. She's
refreshingly steady and calm, like the eye of a storm. Sam knows instantly that this is the Winter
Queen.
She is dressed in black leather trousers and a dark, purple corset over a billowing white shirt that
glows like moonlight. Her hair is a wild riot of black curls; tiny fairies, their bodies skeletal and
grey, dart around her head constantly fixing her hair. She taps her finger against her plump red
lips and watches as Sam and Dean approach. She has long, translucent nails that end in needlelike points.
One of the skeleton fairies tugs on a curl a little too enthusiastically, and Sam sees the Queen
wince. The next second, the Queen's hand shoots out and one long nail impales the small faery.
She glances at the struggling creature and smiles. And then she bites its head off and chews
thoughtfully.
"Well!" Sam hears Dean mutter. "Any potential erection for the hot faery bitch has been
completely neutered."
Sam agrees fervently.
By the time they make it across the room, the Queen is delicately wiping her mouth with a silk
cloth. "Ah, boys," she says. Her voice feels like velvet caressing Sam's skin. It has a color: it is a
deep purple, smoky and thick, and sticky as black molasses.
She waves her thin, white hand dismissively and the assorted creatures gathered around her
throne scatter, leaving an opening for Sam and Dean to approach her.
"Welcome," says the Winter Queen, smiling, and Sam thinks that he would die to see her smile
at him.
"Thanks," Dean replies, and it feels like something that was being woven gossamer thin around
Sam unravels.
"Nice place you've got here," Dean continues. "Very Halloween meets freak show. I like it."
The Winter Queen continues smiling. "Thank you. I strive to make my visitors feel welcome.
Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
Sam looks around for a chair and nearly stumbles over two beautiful faery women, dressed in
silver gowns, who lower themselves to all fours.
"Uh," Dean says.
"Sit," the Winter Queen urges. Her smile is cruel.
"I'll stand," Dean says.
"Your chairs displease you?" the Winter Queen asks, her voice silky.
The faery women begin trembling, and Sam thinks of the tiny, struggling faery impaled on the
Queen's nail. "No," Sam says. "Our clothes are dirty from traveling and we do not wish to insult
you by soiling your beautiful... furniture."
The Winter Queen laughs, and it's beautiful, like tinkling bells and raindrops. "Very well. You
there," she says, pointing at a short man with the legs of a goat, "Bring our travelers some plain
wooden chairs. I do hope you will be comfortable, Winchester brothers."
"I'm sure we will," Sam answers. He knows this was a test. He's not sure if they passed.
"So," Dean says once they're both settled. Sam can feel the eyes of every creature in the room on
them, and he resists the urge to tug at his shirt collar.
"We got a visit from your sis earlier today," Dean says. "You gonna tell us the same story about
needing to slay unicorns? Your sister was really friendly about it."
The Winter Queen laughs again and readjusts her position in the chair, swinging her legs over
one of the arms and resting her elbow on the other arm, twisted so that she faces Sam and Dean.
She looks like a feral cat, languid and bright eyed. "Please," she says. "My sister is an icy cunt. I
am a horrible monster who would sooner torture you than help you. You need not hold your
tongue."
"Nevertheless," Sam interjects before Dean can stupidly take the queen up on her offer. He is
sure this is another test. "We feel that your, uh, position demands respect from us."
"We do?" Dean asks.
"Yes," Sam grinds out. "We do."
The Winter Queen's eyes flicker with something like approval. Her eyes are arresting; the iris is
entirely black and dotted with lights. It's like looking into a night sky full of stars, only once you
look, you keep going deeper and deeper, to the end of the universe—
"Okay," Dean says, shattering the spell again. Sam doesn't know why Dean's voice drags him out
of it, but he can tell that the queen notices, because her eyes flick quickly back and forth between
Sam and Dean, but her expression does not give anything more of her feelings away.
"So, O Great Winter Queen—" Dean begins.
"Annie," the Winter Queen says.
"—say again?" Dean asks.
"You can call me Annie."
Dean looks at Sam, his eyebrows raised, and Sam shrugs back at him.
"Fine. Annie, we were told to come to you. Your sister said you'd offer us your help."
"Yes. Much as I wish to spare my Court any interaction with our priggish cousins, this is one
time when we must work together. I know you are a cynical man, Dean Winchester, so believe
me when I say that these monsters are like nothing you have ever faced before."
"Well, yeah," Dean says. "We've never faced friggin' unicorns."
"Hopefully, you will never have to face them again. I have stood on the battlefield against the
unicorns. I have stood amidst the bodies of my subjects and faced down their frothing terror.
Unicorns are not a creature with which it would be wise to trifle. They are more dangerous than
you can imagine."
"Seriously?" Dean says. "I appreciate the gravity of the situation here, I just find it really hard to
believe that the cute horsies of legend are bloodthirsty killers. Usually the myth is not that far off
the mark."
"That is an indication of the strength of their power. It stills lingers, clouding the true history.
Much like a glamour, the beasts bewitched the human mind into thinking them harmless."
"Then are they a kind of... faery?" Sam asks hesitantly.
The Queen immediately shakes her head. "No. They are something else. They were here before
we were cast to the earth. We battled them from the beginning. There were gods and creatures on
your world long before our Creator arrived. Most of them were driven out. Some remained."
"Let me see if I've got the gist of all this. You guys need us to help you defeat the unicorns.
You're gonna send us some help, we're gonna kill the unicorns, and then you are going to leave
us alone?"
"That sounds plausible," the Queen agrees.
Sam does not like the smile that flickers at the corner of her mouth, quick as a snake. "When will
you send your, uh... knight?" he asks.
"When I find him. He is very slippery. I am certain he is around somewhere. He usually appears
every few weeks or so to report to me. He will seek you out soon."
"Great," Sam says.
"Is that it?" Dean asks. "We don't need to do anything more?"
"Survive," the Queen says, her voice heavy and tar-black. "That should be difficult enough. I do
not have much faith in your success, but my Host cannot vanquish the unicorns. We have lost
our numbers over the millenia. We are small. You are the only option."
"With a vote of confidence like that, this should be a breeze," Dean says.
The Queen shrugs negligently. "We Fair Folk do not lie, Dean Winchester. You may count upon
that. Of course," she adds, "We may not always tell the truth either."
"That's comforting."
The Queen smiles, and Sam is struck again by her beauty. She is more alive than anything Sam
has ever seen. Then he glances at his brother, at the strong line of his jaw, and his flashing green
eyes, and amends that to the second most alive thing he's ever seen.
"Our meeting is over now," the Queen announces. "It is time to drink and be merry. Will you
join us? We would be honored to have your presence among us."
"I'm sure you would," Dean replies. "But there's this whole unicorn menace out there, so we
should really go. Get a battle plan together. You know how it is."
"Of course. You are warriors. And you have a monumental fight before you. Look for your help
to arrive soon. And now, gentlemen, get out."
---They sit quietly in the car for a few minutes. Sam can hear the chirp of cicadas and crickets
beyond the windows. The faery tavern disappeared the minute they stepped outside, and now the
clearing is empty.
"So," Dean says. "You wanna throw for who has to call Bobby and ask about unicorn lore?"
Sam huffs a laugh and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah."
---"Dammit!" Dean says.
"Seriously, Dean? Scissors?"
"One of these days, I am gonna pick paper."
"No, you're not," Sam replies.
---After Bobby has laughed his ass off for a few minutes, he says he'll start digging and get back to
them. He also tells them that his first guess would be to follow the nearest rainbow to the
unicorns' lair.
"You're a comedian, Bobby. When are you playing the Improv?" Dean asks before hanging up.
"What do we do know?" Sam asks once they've checked into a motel for the night. Sam is
unpacking his duffel while Dean rifles through his own bag, finally emerging with a triumphant
sound and holding a whiskey bottle.
Dean shrugs. His shoulders look tense and Sam thinks that if they were different brothers, closer
and easier with each other, he'd offer to massage them for Dean. "Wait for our faery sidekicks, I
guess," Dean says. "You got any better ideas? You know what, no. Don't tell me, I do not wanna
hear anything right now. This is one of those times," Dean says philosophically, uncapping his
bottle, "that makes me want to punch a wall."
Sam glances at him worriedly. "But you aren't going to, right?"
Dean cracks his knuckles. "One more fruity faery light or speck of glitter and I can't make any
promises."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Uh huh. Remember what happened the last time you punched a wall?"
"He moved," Dean snaps. "I didn't mean—I hit him exactly where his head oughta've been,
okay?"
"You probably should have remembered that demons don't play by the rules."
"Yeah, well, neither do Winchesters," Dean says, taking a hard swig from the whiskey bottle and
wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "I'm going out. I am gonna need to be a lot more
drunk to deal with this crap."
He grabs his duffle and slams into the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later in form-fitting
jeans and an olive green t-shirt that hugs his arms and chest. His hair is wet, and his eyes look a
little wild. Sam has a brief thought that any woman would have to be an idiot not to want to go
home with Dean.
"Don't wait up," Dean says, jangling the keys as he leaves.
Sam watches him go, and feels something hard and dark bloom inside his chest, something that
reminds him of the atmosphere inside the Winter Court and the cruel slant of the Summer
Queen's eyes.
---A week later, Dean wakes up to a series of short staccato knocks banging out the tune to shaveand-a-haircut, but before he can get up to see who the hell is stupid enough to come calling at—
he checks the digital clock next to the bed—four in the goddamn morning, the door flies open
and a creature leaps into the room.
All the lights go on at once, even though Dean didn't touch a switch. He's momentarily blinded,
but he can still make out Sam's shape as Sam rolls swiftly out of bed and hits the floor in a
crouch, his demon-killing knife already in hand.
Good boy, Sammy, Dean thinks, and then turns his attention to the creature as his eyes adjust.
It's man-shaped, probably about Dean's height but thinner, and its arms are longer, making its
hands hang even with its knees. At first glance, the thing's skin appears brown but closer
inspection reveals it to be more of a purple-chocolate color, like the creature saw a picture once
of how human skin was supposed to look but didn't get the combination quite right. The creature
has golden eyes and slit pupils, and its riot of red-gold hair is wild and spiked and shaggy like an
animal. Where a human's ears would sit, two small, floppy dog-like ears peek from its mane of
hair. When the creature grins, its mouth is full of pointed yellow teeth, and its smile stretches
abnormally wide, creeping higher than a human face could manage without serious plastic
surgery. It reminds Dean of the Cheshire Cat, and Dean thinks that Alice down the rabbit hole is
a pretty apt analogy for their life.
Needless to say, Dean has his shotgun in hand before his feet hit the motel carpet.
"Ah, hello, Winchesters!" the thing says. Its voice is scratchy with a strange rumble underneath,
like it's laughing. It puts its hands up in a placating gesture. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"Sam?" Dean says, never taking his eyes off the creature. "You good?"
"Yeah," he hears Sam answer.
The creature peers around the room, seemingly unconcerned that Dean's got a double-barrel
trained on it. "What terrible sleeping quarters," it says, wrinkling its long nose, its ears flattening.
"If I were going to live in a box, I'd at least pick one that hadn't been decorated by a blind
epileptic."
"I'll pass your observations on to the interior designer," Dean says, leveling his shotgun. "You
wanna tell me what the hell you are and what you want?"
The creature looks hurt. It puts its hand to its chest and Dean sees that its nails are hard and thick
with dull points like dog's claws. "Didn't my Queen tell you to expect me? Why, I am your
knight in shining armor, Dean Winchester!"
"Wait," Sam says. "You're a—"
"Phouka!" the thing says, looking delighted. "That is what I am and that is what you may call
me. I have come to assist you on my Queen's orders. You will need my help to locate the unicorn
stronghold."
"Unicorn stronghold," Dean says. "Unicorn stronghold. This is my life."
"You'll probably need my help to vanquish them, too," the Phouka adds. It clasps its hands
behind its back and begins traveling the room, bending close to inspect the things it finds, like
Dean's leather jacket and Sam's laptop. It looks over its shoulder at Dean. "Of course, I think we
are all going to die, but it should be fun!"
"What," Dean says.
"Didn't my Queen tell you how many were killed on the last occasion we battled the unicorns?"
"No," Sam says. "I take it that it was a lot?"
The Phouka laughs. It sounds like a crow's call. "Oh, yes, marvelous thousands! The destruction
let loose a plague throughout all of Europe. Those were dark times. In fact, that is what they
were called, I believe. The Dark Times."
"Wait," Sam says. Dean notices that Sam has lowered his knife. "A plague and—are you talking
about the Dark Ages?"
The Phouka waves its hand airily and hops up onto the motel table, crossing its legs. "Times,
ages, words, words, words. You humans have too many of them that mean the same thing, like
brother and partner and partner and lover. Why, with that logic, you might almost mistake
brother for lover! If A equals B, and B equals C," it sings to itself, "then A equals something else
en-tire-ly!"
The Phouka turns its head and winks at Dean. "Right, Dean?" it asks, dark amusement dancing in
its golden eyes.
Dean feels himself go pale. Right, he thinks. He has really had enough of supernatural creatures
that can see into his head, thanks. He knows he's got an unhealthy relationship with his little
brother, but he doesn't need the sick and wrong thoughts he has when he's drunk at three in the
morning broadcast to the world. He thinks of those extraterrestrial conspiracy nutjobs who wear
metal colanders on their heads to keep out the alien radio waves, and he's almost tempted to try it
out for himself.
Dean looks over at Sam: Sam's mouth is hanging open like he can not believe what he's seeing,
like his freakish brain hasn't even processed it yet. Dean's right there with him. He tries to ignore
the Phouka's words.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Like how fairies are annoying, and you're a faery, therefore—you're friggin'
annoying."
"Precisely!" the Phouka says. "My, you are a clever one. That is surprising. I was told you were a
complete and utter dolt!"
Sam looks like he doesn't know whether he should laugh or not. Of course, some of the
burgeoning rage Dean feels must be evident on his face because he can see Sam swiftly decide
against the laughing.
"Are you from the, uh, Summer Court?" Sam asks.
"No," the Phouka replies. "Last time I checked, I had a sense of humor, so I could not possibly
be! Make sure to have any fun you would like to have before the Summer Knight arrives. They
frown on anything they consider improper, which is usually everything."
"I'm still not sure I buy this whole unicorn menace thing," Dean says. "Sam and I haven't heard
any chatter about mythical beasts attacking people. If these things are as bloodthirsty as you guys
keep telling us, they should have struck somewhere by now."
"They bide their time, Winchester," the Phouka snaps. Its yellow eyes glow more intensely. "You
think they are simple beasts to be killed, but that is not true. They have intelligence. More
intelligence than you, I'd wager." The Phouka sticks its tongue out at Dean, and Dean has to
resist the urge to return the gesture.
"They're big, evil horses. I think we can take them."
The Phouka glares but it instantly transforms into a quirked smile. "Yes, but take them where?" it
asks, tilting its head quizzically. "The park? The zoo? A baseball game? The movies? How
would you find seating? They might like the popcorn, though. You never know."
"Yes," Dean says. "I can see you're going to be a lot of help. Did the Winter Queen send you
because she wanted to get rid of you?"
"Oh no, if my Queen wanted to get rid of me, she would just eat my heart. She's very forthright.
It is so refreshing, don't you think, not to keep anything secret?"
"Jesus," Dean says. He looks at Sam. "Can we survive spending time with this thing?" he asks,
jerking his thumb at the Phouka, who is examining Sam's laptop again.
"Aha!" the Phouka exclaims, pointing at the laptop. "I recognize this. Samuel Winchester,
tomorrow I wish you to show me your magical box machine. I have heard of this human
contraption, but I am always too busy running my lady's errands to stop and play. I can sense that
there is much mischief I could get into by accessing its magic, and phoukas love mischief. I have
also heard that there is a place called the Internet that welcomes faeries."
"What?" Sam asks.
"I have heard of trolls on the Internet. If the Internet contains trolls, surely it contains others from
faery?" the Phouka says innocently.
"Another comedian," Dean says. He decides it is pretty stupid to keep holding his shotgun up, so
he lowers it until the barrel points at the floor. "We should introduce him to Bobby. They'd crack
each other up."
"Oh, yes, I would love that. I love meeting new people, you know. It is not often I can reveal
myself to mortals. Most of them run away screaming or go blind or both. And then after I kidnap
them and bring them to my Queen as playthings, they aren't very friendly either."
"Imagine that."
"Now," the Phouka says briskly, clapping its hands together. "I know it is late and I hate to
disturb your beauty sleep—especially you, Dean, you look so far behind!—so which bed shall I
slumber in? I have to warn you that I toss and turn at night. I am a bit of a restless sleeper."
"Shocking," Dean says. "If you want to sleep, you're sleeping on the floor."
"Now, Dean, you know I cannot do that. We faeries are delicate creatures! We need soft beds.
Otherwise, we make a terrible racket all night. I'd hate to keep you both up." The Phouka bats its
eyelashes and grins, showing its teeth.
Dean manages to keep his answering smile from turning into a snarl. "Fine," he says, sickly
sweet. "You can take my bed." He grabs the pillows and the comforter off the bed because fuck
if he's gonna leave this floppy-eared freakshow anything but the most threadbare motel sheets.
"Uh, Dean," Sam says.
"What?"
"We could—share," Sam says awkwardly. "We did get a room with two kings."
"Funny," Dean hears the Phouka say, sotto voce, in a voice he's sure is meant just for him, "but I
thought this room had two queens." The Phouka putters around the room, humming to itself: it's
the same "A equals B" tune it sang earlier.
Dean decides, if he gets the chance, that he's going to let a unicorn eat the Phouka.
He spends a very restless night sharing a bed with Sam and trying not to feel the warmth
radiating from Sam's body. Every half hour or so, the Phouka giggles from the other bed, and
Dean knows the damn thing does not actually need to sleep at all.
----
When Dean wakes up the next morning, the Phouka is already awake and sitting on top of the
dresser, its hand on its chin, watching Dean and Sam.
Dean cracks one eye open, then groans and burrows closer to Sam's warmth. Sam makes a
similar groaning noise and turns, slinging his arm over Dean's chest. Dean sighs and everything
is great for about three seconds. Then they both wake up enough to realize they're frigging
cuddling, and they stiffen simultaneously and roll away from each other. Dean's eyes shoot open,
going from sleep-encrusted to wide awake so fast it feels like he's scratched his corneas. Sam
gives a nervous laugh and leverages himself to a sitting position, running his hand through his
bedhead.
"Good morning, slugabeds!" the Phouka chirps. "I didn't wish to wake you earlier. You two
looked so cozy."
"Fuck you. Die," Dean says, rolling out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom. He needs a cold
shower.
The Phouka laughs delightedly and calls after him, "We are going to have so much fun, fun, fun
together, Dean Winchester. I can tell!"
---Sam putters around, waiting for his turn in the bathroom. Dean emerges after a lengthy shower,
muttering something about this being a time for a pie emergency, and takes off, leaving Sam
alone with the Phouka. He's going to kick Dean's ass for that later.
He keeps one eye on the Phouka as he dresses, deciding that he'll wait until Dean gets back to
shower. He doesn't trust the Phouka alone with their duffel bags.
The Phouka hums quietly to itself. It's examining the TV, running its hands over the TV's
surface, jabbing at buttons and—as Sam stares incredulously—the Phouka bends down and licks
the glass.
"Uh," Sam says. "That's not how the TV works."
The Phouka glances over its shoulder and gives Sam a confused look. "I know that," it says
slowly, giving the impression that Sam is the strange one.
"Right. Do you want me to show you how to turn it on?"
"Not really." The Phouka shrugs and then bounces across the room to stand in front of Sam. It
doesn't have to lift its eyes far to meet Sam's, and it stares at him, not saying anything; it just
looks at him, its lips quirked in its customary smile.
The Phouka has an unsettling habit of standing or sitting too close and staring at you when you
talk to it—not the way a normal person maintains eye contact when they're interested in a
conversation, but how a scientist might observe a strange, fascinating animal. It's a look that
makes it clear Sam is one second short of being poked curiously with a stick.
"What shall we do until Dean Winchester returns?" the Phouka asks. It wanders over and sits
down next to Sam on the mattress. It hesitates, smiles to itself, and then scoots closer.
Sam scoots further away. "I don't know. Should we—should we start planning our attack
strategies for when we find the unicorns?"
"That is easy," the Phouka says. "Our strategy is: do not get killed as we try to cut off their horns.
Of course, that is easier said than done, since their horns are razor sharp and if you are close
enough to cut it off, you are close enough for them to kill you." It scoots closer again.
Sam scoots away, one butt cheek hanging off the mattress. "Right," he says. "Wait. We have to
cut off their horns?"
The Phouka hums, nodding its head. Sam is positive its laughing at him. He's never seen
anything like the Phouka. Its weird, curling smile is grotesque and its face is bizarrely canine; yet
somehow, despite its inhuman features, the Phouka remains compelling. Something about its
fluid movements is beautiful, and its face is so arresting that he thinks it might actually be
handsome.
Sam feels really uncomfortable about that.
"Why their horns?"
"It is where their power is, silly," says the Phouka. "Cut off their horn and they become weak.
Then you stab them through the heart and watch them die. The slower the better," the Phouka
growls, its expression darkening with some memory.
"Have you fought a unicorn before?" Sam asks.
"Mm-hm," the Phouka says, brightening. It edges nearer.
"Wow!" Sam says, hopping up and moving several feet away to lean against the dresser. "That
must have been something."
The Phouka looks amused, and Sam thinks that's probably its default setting. "Indeed. You have
not seen a battle until you have seen the full host of Faery readied for war, armor flashing as the
legions charge the field. We are lucky that the rift is so small—only a few hundred unicorns
penetrated the barrier. That is why no one has noticed the killings yet, why there has not been an
outcry."
"Then how are we going to find them?" Sam asks.
"Silly Samuel," the Phouka says. "Unless we are very lucky, one of them will find us."
"What?"
"Unicorns are not timid creatures. They seek out any and all threats in order to eliminate them.
And right now, their biggest threat is me and you and your darling brother. They will know that
the Queens have sent hunters for them. They will come for us before we can track them to their
nest."
"Shit!" Sam says. "How come nobody mentioned this?"
"Was it important?" the Phouka asks innocently.
"Of course it was! We are—" Sam stops. "You were supposed to tell us," he says slowly.
The Phouka looks startled, but quickly covers the expression with its customary amused grin.
"Oh?"
"I bet you were supposed to tell us that right away, weren't you?"
"Samuel, you are suspicious young man!"
"And I am beginning to understand that you like to cause trouble, just for the sake of causing
trouble."
"You have read the lore," the Phouka says slyly. "Where does it say that faeries are beneficent?"
Sam sighs. "Nowhere. In fact, the general consensus seems to be that you're better off not dealing
with faeries at all because they love nothing more than to trick humans."
"Yes," the Phouka nods sagely. "I am afraid we do have our issues when it comes to humans. But
do not think we blame you for being barred from Heaven! Oh, no, no, no! Not at all! We
wouldn't dream of it! Heaven forbid—quite literally, really, that is the whole point. We were
supposed to love you funny little monkey creatures and because we doubted, just an itsy bitsy bit,
we were cast down, thrown out, doors closed, cut off from the joy and singing and love forever."
The Phouka smiles its weird, stretched out smile, and its ear flatten against its skull.
"Right," Sam says dryly. "No ill will toward humans at all. Dean's right, you're crazy."
"But you have been crazy, have not you, Samuel Winchester?" Phouka asks, its yellow, animal
eyes thinning with its knowing smile. "You have been crazy, mad, addled, and out of your mind,
yes you have. You have spent dark days over and over all alone because of cruel tricks." It tsks,
its long pink tongue flickering out to swipe over its bottom lip. "So sad. So neatly ordered. So
compulsive. Tidy, tidy motel rooms and eating your dinner and sewing your own wounds.
Craaaaaazy."
"How do you know all that?" Sam asks. His voice is harsh, and he clenches his fists. He can't let
himself think about those endless Tuesdays when Dean died over and over again. He'd rather
remember hell.
The Phouka laughs. "Because I have been crazy, too," the Phouka says solemnly. "I have been
there and back! And some would say back again, but it is a nice place to visit, though nowhere
I'd want to live. Yes, I have been mad, mad, mad. I have had something beautiful ripped away
from me. But mine never came back from the dead. Not like your beautiful thing did."
"What does—"
"Did you know there is singing in Heaven? It is everywhere. Angels, singing, all the time. It is
the most beautiful sound in the universe, more beautiful than a love sigh or a baby's cry. And I
will never hear it again. All because I doubted. That is a terrible thing to bear, Samuel
Winchester."
Sam doesn't know how to respond. He thinks about what it was like without Dean—twice now,
he's had to survive without Dean. He tries to imagine forever: no Dean ever again, cut off
completely from his brother. It makes it hard for him to breath.
The Phouka chuckles. "You can forgive a naughty faery his tricks, can't you?"
"Do not withhold information," Sam says finally. "Not if you want me and Dean to succeed. You
do want us to succeed, do not you?"
"Yes, yes. But not for the same reasons that the snooty-tooty Summer Queen does. Remember
that."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh!" the Phouka says. Its ears swivel toward the door. "I hear the rumble of your brother's
carriage approaching. Hooray! He is bringing sugary food for us to break our fast." It claps its
hands together and springs from the bed.
Sam rubs his temples, still feeling unsettled. He does not know what to think of the Phouka, but
they don't really have a choice. It appears they're going to need the thing's help to defeat the
unicorns. He can't imagine what the creature from the Summer Court will be like, but if it's as
crazy as the Phouka, Sam is worried that Dean will wind up killing their help.
Dean bangs into the room, throwing the door open so hard that it bounces off the wall. "Grub's
up," he says. He's got a coffee stirrer clamped between his teeth, a tray of coffees in one hand,
and a greasy paper bag in the other.
"Did you get your pie?" Sam asks indulgently.
"Yes," Dean says. "And it was damn good. I figured you'd want something, too, so I got you the
heart attack special. I know how much you hate healthy food."
"Did Dean Winchester get anything for me?" the Phouka asks hopefully. Its ears are perked up
and it gives Dean big—there's no other word for it—puppydog eyes.
Dean arches a brow. "You?"
The Phouka sticks out its lower lip. "Meeeeee," it says pitifully.
"You gotta be kidding me. Yes, fine. I'm sure Sam'll give you some of his breakfast. He likes
strays."
"Hey," Sam says indignantly. "Why don't you give him some of your breakfast?"
"Because I got extra anyway, dumbass."
"Huzzah!" the Phouka exclaims. "Oh, Dean Winchester, if only I weren't disgusted by your slimy
human lips, I would kiss you in gratitude!" It darts over and snatches the paper bag from Dean's
hand, dancing over to the kitchenette and ripping into the bag's contents.
"I really hate that thing," Dean says.
"I am not sure the feeling isn't mutual," Sam says. He fills Dean in on his conversation with the
Phouka while Dean was out.
Dean looks thoughtful. "You know, we never really did figure out what their angle was. The
faeries, I mean. I get that they battled the unicorns—" It still looks like it physically pains Dean
to utter the word— "Before and all, but why? Why battle them? I mean, it stands to reason that
the unicorns would probably leave the faeries alone if there are juicy humans around to chomp
on."
"I doubt the Phouka will give us a straight answer. Maybe we'll have more luck with the other
faery we're supposed to get."
"Color me excited," Dean says, making a face.
Across the room, the Phouka makes a delighted noise and says, "Wonderful! A donut! And it is
covered in sugar!"
Sam and Dean both look at each other in alarm.
---"Please stop jumping on the bed," Dean says for the twelfth time. At least the Phouka isn't
bouncing off the walls anymore. Literally.
"But it is fun!" the Phouka says. "I have never done this before. I like it. Are there more donuts?"
"NO," Dean and Sam say together.
Slowly, the Phouka's jumping winds down, until he stands on the mattress, grinning and not even
a little out of breath. He hops to the floor. "So, Winchesters. What is your grandiose plan?"
"Don't you have a plan?" Dean asks.
"Me? Why should I come up with the plan? I am not the one with all the heroic accomplishments
tucked under my belt. Of course, I also have not nearly ended the world more than once with my
selfish behavior, so I can see why you might like me to come up with the plan. Yours have
mostly been terrible!"
"You know, I would say go fuck yourself, but if you were an angel once, you probably don't
have the equipment," Dean sneers.
The Phouka darts closer, eyes flashing, and it says in an eerie approximation of Dean's voice,
"You're junkless down there, aren’t you, hmm, like a Ken doll?"
Then the Phouka throws his head back and laughs and laughs until suddenly his chin snaps
down, his eyes level with Dean's.
Okay, the Phouka's a little taller if Dean admits it to himself.
"Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Deeeeeean," the Phouka singsongs, dancing around the
room, touching furniture, moving things it finds on the dresser, sitting on the bed and then
popping back up like it is impossible for it to stay in one place.
It circles Dean, making little cooing noises. "So pretty for a mortal," it says. "You would make a
very good fairy."
"Say that to my face," Dean snarls.
Suddenly, the Phouka is right there in front of Dean, its teeth bared in an unsettling grin, its
mouth inches from Dean's. Its breath smells like lemon peel and almost-rotten roses. "How
close?" the Phouka asks, snapping its teeth twice with a click click, its grin growing unnaturally
wide, the smile curving nearly to meet its yellow eyes. "How close to your face, Dean, Dean,
Dean, Dean, Deeeeeeean?"
"Not that close," Dean says, fighting the urge to twitch backward and barely managing to hold
his ground. He imagines faeries are like rabid dogs: the minute they sense your fear, they'll
attack. The Phouka shifts closer and Dean has to lean away or risk kissing the damn thing.
"Orange!" the Phouka laughs, reeling back and twirling in a circle, its long arms flying to the
sides.
"Orange what?" Dean snaps, trying to regain his composure. "You friggin' fruitcake!"
The Phouka claps its hands delightedly. "Orange you glad I didn’t say 'Dean' one more time!?" It
stops, tilting its head like a bird and tapping its chin with one finger. "Or was that 'banana'? I can
never remember!"
"You're nuts," Dean says, a little in awe. He's met crazy people before, but the Phouka makes
them all look they were auditioning to play its understudy. "That is it. Sam, team meeting, right
now. Come on." He stands up and heads toward the door.
"You," he says to the Phouka. "Stay here. We are going outside to come up with a terrible plan
and we do not want your input."
The Phouka shrugs. "Do as you will. It is of no real concern to me."
---When they get outside and close the door, Dean rounds on Sam. "I do not want that thing
hanging around, Sam! Can't we ditch it?"
Sam can't say that he doesn't find the Phouka vexing, to say the least, but he figures it's up to him
to be the logical one. "Look, I don't like this any more than you do, Dean, but you heard what the
faery Queens said. We need their help—"
"Right, and faeries are notoriously reliable."
"Oh, remember, we never lie," the Phouka says.
Sam and Dean stop talking and stare at each other.
Then, very slowly, they look up.
The Phouka is sitting upside down, legs crossed, floating in the air and watching them with avid
interest.
"Uh," Sam says.
"Don't mind me," the Phouka says. "This is entertaining. I only wish I had some popcorn. You
two fight like an old married couple. In fact, I think old married couples could take lessons from
you. Are you certain you are brothers?"
Very certain, Sam thinks, glancing over at Dean, who has his jaw clenched and an obstinate
gleam in his eyes.
The Phouka's eyes flick to Sam, like he heard his thoughts. "Hmmmmmmm," the Phouka says.
"You know what, brothers Winchester? I think you are not really coming up with a plan. I think
you said that as a pretense to leave my company. I am hurt. Hurt and wounded."
To Sam's surprise, Dean chuckles and shakes his head. "I want to punch you and laugh at you at
the same time, you freak."
"That is very common," the Phouka nods sagely. "Can we go back inside now? I want to watch
the TV box and Samuel still has not shown me things I am not supposed to see on his computer
machine."
---A few hours later, Sam goes out to get dinner, and Dean figures he'll probably come back with
some healthy granola wheat germ shit in retaliation for Dean's breakfast of champions delivery.
The Phouka is parked on the end of the bed, riveted by The Jersey Shore. It figures.
"How delightful!" the Phouka says. "This reminds me of the gladiator fights the Romans used to
have. Only this is more cruel. They would make lovely additions to the Winter Court, these
humans."
"Yeah, I think you'd have to worry about them taking over."
The Phouka considers this. "You could be right." One of his dog ears twitches and he scratches
at it, his tongue hanging out.
Dean shakes his head. "I find it pretty hard to believe you were an angel once. I've met angels
before. I know what they look like. And pal, you do not look like an angel."
"Ah," the Phouka says. "No, you have not. You have met angels inhabiting human meatsuits. In
Heaven, they look quite different."
Dean waves his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. The angels have all got seventeen-hundred
wings and eight faces, one of which is a lion."
The Phouka purses its lips. Dean can tell it's doing it to hide a smile. "No need to ask which
particular angel you met. Zachariah was always proud of that face."
"I think he had four faces, all of which were dicks," Dean says.
The Phouka blinks. "Hm. I suppose. Taken literally, that would be a very… interesting looking
angel."
"You knew him?"
"All angels know one another, Dean. They share a profound bond."
"I've heard that before," Dean says wryly. It's hard for him to look at the Phouka and picture him
being an angel, being somebody like Cas.
"So you looked something like this in Heaven?"
"Something like this," the Phouka replies. It turns from the TV and lies down on the mattress on
its back. It hangs its head over the edge, looking upside down at Dean. Gravity causes its ears to
flop open. "These were the forms that were chosen for us when we were left behind after
Heaven's gates closed—with a few… modifications over the millennia. We are comfortable in
them now."
"Why do some of you guys look more human than others?"
"That I do not know," the Phouka says. "Just one of the Creator's little mysteries, I suppose. I
don't suppose you've ever gotten a direct answer from him either?"
Dean nods his head in acknowledgement. "Not yet. Do you miss it?"
The Phouka's eyes narrow in confusion. "Miss what?"
"Being an angel. Do you even remember it?"
The Phouka rolls over and the look it levels at Dean makes him wish he'd never asked.
"Do you miss your mother?" it asks quietly.
They don't talk again until Sam gets back with the salads.
---The next morning, the Phouka is back to its annoyingly cheerful self.
"I have decided that you are socially inept," it tells Dean, patting him on the shoulder.
"Otherwise you would not ask such stupid questions. And since I cannot stay mad at small
children or those with the mental capacity of small children, I forgive you."
"Thanks," Dean says.
"Now bring me more donuts. With sugar," the Phouka says airily.
"Yeah, that's gonna happen," Dean replies.
Sam walks out of the bathroom brushing his teeth. He's shirtless, and Dean bites his lip, very
aware that the Phouka is watching him closely.
Sam pulls his toothbrush out of his mouth long enough to ask, "Has Bobby called yet?"
"Yeah, while you were in the shower. He didn't have much to say other than to ask us if we'd
seen our first magical, prancing unicorn yet. He also wanted to let us know that legend has it that
unicorns give you vaginas."
"Well, that is simply not true," the Phouka says. It's standing on its head now, its legs arrow
straight in the air. It's definitely the most interesting creature Dean's ever had a conversation
with.
"I know it's not true. It was a joke."
"I thought humans liked their jokes to be funny."
"Usually they do."
The Phouka snorts and closes its eyes, still standing on its head. A few seconds later it breaks out
into peals of laughter and tumbles out of its headstand, rolling around on the floor.
"The hell—"
"I just thought of a joke!"
"What?"
"Your face, Dean Winchester! Now that is funny."
Sam chokes on his toothpaste so hard that Dean has to come over and whack him on the back. A
little harder than necessary, but Sam deserves it.
---"Jesus, is this what having a toddler is like?" Dean groans later that day, toppling backwards onto
the bed. "I swear, the Phouka is more trouble than he's worth. You know he's totally spying on us
for his Queen, right?"
"You don't know that, Dean, maybe—"
"Sam, he said, 'I will be right back, I need to report to my Queen about your activities.'"
"Okay, fine," Sam concedes. He's not surprised, really. The Winter Queen didn't strike him as a
'hands off' kind of woman. "But it's not like we should be surprised. We have no clue what the
faeries' ultimate goal is beyond helping us defeat the unicorns."
"Please don't say the word unicorn anymore. Every time you do, a kitten dies."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean—" he starts to say, before he's interrupted by a pouding on the door.
The knock rattles the shot glasses on the side table and sends a vibration through the floor that
pitches Sam off his feet.
Dean sits up swiftly, clutching the bed as the booming sound comes again. "That is not the
Phouka," he says. "For starters, the damn thing never knocks."
Dean is at the door, knife out, before Sam can say anything. "Stay back, Sam," Dean says.
"Like hell," Sam replies, right behind him. He'd throttle Dean for trying to protect him, if he
didn't love him so damn much. If anything, the last few years have taught Sam just how much—
to hell and back.
"You are such a little bitch."
"Open the door, Dean."
Dean shoots him a disgusted look and manages to leverage himself firmly between Sam and the
door, which makes Sam roll his eyes. Dean opens the door slowly. The sun glares directly in
Sam's eyes, but he can make out a tall shape. Dean must be able to see better, because his
shoulders relax and he says, "Holy shit," in a way that sounds impressed.
"Winchester brothers," says a deep voice with a lilting accent. "I come to you from the Summer
Court and swear my fealty to your cause."
"Holy shit," Sam echoes in agreement, when he finally gets a good look.
An honest to God faery Knight steps into the room, clad in gleaming silver armor, a sword at his
hip. He's tall, taller than Sam. He has long silver-white hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He's
painfully handsome, if you discount the fact that his skin is pale green and his eyes are colored
backwards: instead of white, his corneas are deep green, and his irises are the color of flickering
firelight. Still, Sam's pretty sure that even with his weird coloration, his sharp, foxlike features
and impressive build would be enough to stop any fair maiden's heart.
"I am Stevriel," the knight announces, before delivering a sweeping bow to Sam and Dean.
"Now this is more like it," Dean says.
Stevriel straightens. His face is so expressionless it could be carved from stone. Sam finds it very
unsettling. At least the Phouka's face moves.
"So you're from the Summer Court?" Dean prompts, when Stevriel doesn't say anything more.
Stevriel nods.
They wait, but Stevriel merely continues standing silently, his hands clasped behind his back.
Apparently, he is a faery of few words.
"Uh, so..." Dean seems at a loss as to what to say. "You're here to help us fight the unicorns?"
Another nod.
"Awesome," Dean says. "I assume you can wield that badass sword strapped to your hip?"
Nod.
Dean huffs out a breath. "Do you talk?"
Nod. And still no change in expression.
"When?" Dean asks impatiently.
Just then, Sam hears a clattering outside; the motel door swings open and the Phouka skips
inside, whistling a merry tune. "All right, Winchesters," the Phouka singsongs, "I return
bearing—" It abruptly stops, its ears pinned straight back, a low growl rumbling in its throat. The
lights in the room dance wildly.
"Stevriel," the Phouka snarls. Sam stares at it in disbelief. The Phouka sounds savage,
unfriendlier than Sam has ever heard it. Sam's reminded of a wolf circling prey. The Phouka's
shopping bags thud to the floor, and its hands curl into claws, like it would enjoy nothing more
than to leap across the room and tear out the Summer Knight's throat.
"Phouka," Stevriel replies evenly, tossing his silver hair over his shoulder. "I see the Winter
Queen has freed her pet dog from its leash."
"And I see the Summer Queen has sent her most useless knight."
Before Sam can blink, Stevriel has the Phouka pinned against the wall, a blade at its throat. "I
would guard my tongue if I were you, Unseelie dog, lest you lose it."
The Phouka growls, a low guttural sound, as its ears pin back and its lips pull away from its
sharp, yellow teeth. "Any time you wish to match your battle skills against mine, I welcome it."
"Whoa, I'm sensing a history here," Dean interjects, holding his hands up. "Stevriel joined us
while you were gone, Phouka. He's our new pal from the Summer Court. You got something
against him?"
The Phouka breaks eye contact with Stevriel to look at Dean, and it's like flipping off a switch.
Small dots of red light pop and spark in mad firefly flashes around the Phouka before abruptly
extinguishing.
"Oh no," the Phouka says, its expression smoothing to utter calmness. "Steveriel will be an
enormous asset to you both. It’s not hard. He is already an enormous ass."
Stevriel presses the blade closer to the Phouka's throat. A thin line of purplish blood trickles
down the Phouka's neck, but the Phouka doesn't react. Stevriel's lip curls, rage simmering in his
orange and green eyes. "I look forward to the day we meet on the field again, Unseelie."
"You'd be the only one," the Phouka says. "Personally, I'm not even looking forward to the day
we meet in hell."
"Insolent dog!" Stevriel snaps, and his blade bites deeper.
"Hey!" Dean shouts, putting his hand out. "Cut it out, already! Stevriel, you wanna back off the
Phouka? I know he's annoying, but we need his help. It'd be hard for him to do that if you chop
his head off."
Stevriel whips his blade away from the Phouka's throat and steps back, giving Dean a short bow
and returning his sword to its scabbard. "As you wish, Dean Winchester. I am ever at your
command."
"Somehow, that wigs me out," Dean says.
Sam is impressed by how quickly the Phouka regains its balance; its features may be canine, but
it's got the quick, nimble grace of a cat. The Phouka makes a big show of dusting off its coat.
"Well," it says at last. "That was highly unpleasant."
"It is equally unpleasant for me," Stevriel says tonelessly.
"Oh, do calm down, Stevriel, no need to get so excited, really," the Phouka replies. "I am sure we
will help the Winchesters vanquish the unicorns and before you know it you'll be back in the
Summer Court pointlessly licking your Queen's delicate foot."
"You dare insult my Queen, dog—"
"Do pay attention, Seelie, I didn't insult your Queen, I insulted you."
"Yeah, this'll be fun," Dean says. "Okay, the team's all here. Let's get this unicorn exterminating
show on the road."
---The next day they get attacked by a unicorn, and Dean starts to reevaluate his life choices.
The day starts off crappy enough: Sam and Dean are sharing a bed yet again, which means Dean
barely gets any sleep, and he wakes up with his head—both upstairs and downstairs—throbbing.
He's been awake most of the night, acutely aware of Sam's hot thigh pressed against his. Each
time Sam shifted in his sleep and brushed against him, Dean got to experience a painfully
renewed erection. It was awesome.
The Phouka, naturally, wakes up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, already bouncing around the
room and asking for coffee. Stevriel appears to have slept standing up, which doesn't really
surprise Dean. The knight has that whole 'ultimate soldier' vibe going for him. He's magiced his
armor into a more sensible embroidered tunic and breeches ensemble. Studying him, Dean feels
like he and Sam have accidentally stumbled onto a Lord of the Rings set.
Sam yawns hugely as he wakes up, stretching his arms above his head, and giving Dean an early
morning rippling muscles show.
Dean accepts the inevitability of the future of cold showers stretching before him.
Once they've both showered, Sam goes to get breakfast while Dean babysits the fairies. Stevriel
and the Phouka circle each other like snapping junkyard dogs, and the headache that was
threatening when Dean woke up turns into a full blown tap dance behind his eyes.
"Mm, coffee," the Phouka says when Sam returns and hands him a cup. "Sweet, delicious
sustenance. This is one of the only worthwhile things humans have produced."
"I need no such stimulus," Stevriel says, managing to sneer without moving a single facial
muscle. "My body is a perfectly honed weapon."
"Too bad you cannot say the same thing for your mind," the Phouka responds.
Stevriel glowers, and his hand goes to his sword hilt.
Dean presses his fingers to his forehead. "Phouka, shut up. Steve, stop thinking about killing the
Phouka."
"You ask of me an impossible task, Dean Winchester," Stevriel says. "You also ask it of a name
that is not mine."
"Fine, then just don't try to actively kill him. You can think about it all you want. Steve," Dean
adds pointedly. It was a whim, but now he's warming to the name. He doesn't like things being
forced on him, and he'll take whatever small bits of control he can find.
The Phouka grins, slurping down the steaming coffee with no apparent ill effect. "Now," it says.
"It is time for you to pick some flowers for your brother. Whoops! I mean with your brother,
don't I? Silly me!"
Steve glances between Sam and Dean, then looks at the Phouka, who raises a challenging
eyebrow. Steve murmurs something in a language that Dean doesn't understand, but the sound of
the words makes him want to drop to his knees and weep with their beauty. The Phouka looks
briefly surprised, shock and happiness rippling over its features, and responds in the same
language.
Steve examines Sam and Dean again, and nods thoughtfully. Dean has a feeling that yet another
faery has read the situation for more correctly than Dean would like.
Dean hates faeries.
They spend the morning picking flowers—daisies, to be precise—because both faeries tell them
that this is a surefire way to tame a unicorn. They have to weave a daisy chain bridle, and if they
can slip it over the unicorn's head, it will become docile.
Dean has never felt gayer in his life, and that includes the times he's woken up with a hard-on
after dreaming of getting fucked by his brother.
"No, no, Dean," says the Phouka. "Your daisy doesn't only has four petals. Have a care, Dean.
Daisies are serious business."
Dean knows the Phouka is being a little shit, because when Dean looks at it, its ears are standing
up and its tongue lolls out over grinning lips.
Sam takes to daisy-picking liking a fish to water. Dean breaks the bloom off a daisy and hefts it
in his palm, testing the weight. Then he lobs it at Sam's head.
"Hey!" Sam says, whipping around. The bright daisy bloom is lodged in his hair. "Stop it, you
jerk."
Dean snickers. "Oh yeah? Make me."
Which is how, fifteen minutes of wrestling later, Dean ends up wearing a daisychain.
Sam pinned him down, and it was fucking distracting. He doesn't like to think about it.
His only consolation was when the Phouka commented that Sam made the loveliest daisychains
it'd ever seen. Sam turned a completely unflattering shade of red, and it gave Dean enough time
to adjust his jeans and regroup.
Since then, they've been wandering slowly through the Appalachian mountains, headed north,
because both faeries assure him and Sam that the unicorns are likely to appear wherever they are,
so they decided they'd stick to rural places in order to keep potential civilian carnage to a
minimum.
They travel unpopulated areas and backwards, one-stoplight towns that don't have anything more
fun to offer than a rundown bowling alley. The Phouka is excited about the prospect of bowling,
which Dean nixes on principle, until the Phouka asks for the seventh million time, "Oh, please,
Dean Winchester, I wish to bowl from the bottom of my heart!" and Sam says, "I think they
serve beer there."
Dean makes both faeries promise to wear a glamour so that they look human. The Phouka
immediately transforms into a handsome young black man; Steve's magic doesn't seem as
advanced: he simply de-greens his skin, de-points his ears, and borrows a pair of Dean's
sunglasses.
Of course, they get kicked out of the bowling alley two hours later when Steve materializes his
faery sword from thin air and chops his bowling ball in half for having the audacity to fail to
deliver a strike unto him every time he threw it. Dean thinks Steve was also getting pissed that
Phouka kicked their asses at bowling. Dean has to admit that crazy as that creature is, it has some
skills.
It's when they're leaving the bowling alley that things go to hell.
Sam and the Phouka are walking ahead, as the Phouka chatters excitedly on about how much it
loves human games and how they are even more fun when you use magic to cheat and how it
thought that people had really laughed when it turned all the bowling lanes to caramel so that the
bowling balls stuck fast.
Steve walks a few paces behind Dean. Dean suspects he still has his armor in a twist about
bowling all those splits. Dean glances over his shoulder and calls, "Come on, move your ass,
Steve," and turns around just in time to barrel into the Phouka.
"Phouka!" Dean says instantly. "Walk, dammit."
But the Phouka is frozen in place. It drops its glamour in the blink of an eye, back to looking
normal—normal for the Phouka, anyway—its ears standing straight up. It's wearing some kind of
faery armor: a leather vest with sigils burned into it over a loose shimmery green shirt that Dean
guesses is woven with magic; silver braces adorn its forearms, and its legs are clad in leather
breeches tucked into ankle boots tipped in silver points.
"Dean," the Phouka says, tossing its shaggy head and looking pretty damn mythical. "Be silent.
For the love of the Creator, be silent."
Behind him, Dean hears the sing of Stevriel's sword as it's drawn. Stevriel wears his full silver
armor again.
And then he hears something else. It's a weird whuffling, snorting noise, like something big is
sniffing the ground. It's getting closer.
"Sam," Dean says urgently, and then Sam is by his side and they're shoulder to shoulder, and
Dean can breathe easier.
"When I tell you to run," the Phouka says, sounding more serious than Dean has ever heard it,
"Please do not argue, Dean, even though quarrelsomeness defines your nature."
"Hey! It does not—Okay, fine," Dean grumbles. "So what the hell is—?"
"I smell unicorn," the Phouka says.
Sam reaches out and grabs Dean's arm.
Dean hears the hoofbeats long before the unicorn charges around the corner of the bowling alley.
The unicorn rears up, slicing the air with its sharp, cloven hooves. Nothing about it is white or
fluffy. Its red coat glitters like blood on a knife over its wet, heaving flanks as it drops down and
rakes the ground with its hooves. Its twisted horn, the color of rusted iron, rises wicked and
deadly from the center of its forehead, fully three feet long and aimed at directly at them. The
unicorn's eyes glow orange like the depths of hell, and when it whinnies, Dean can see its fangs.
"Sam," Dean says, reaching for the crushed flowers in his pocket. "I don't think the daisy chains
are going to bridle it."
"Run," the Phouka says. "Run now!"
Dean doesn't need to be told twice. Every basic instinct that helped his ancestors survive things
that went crunch-crunch in the night kicks in, adrenaline spiking through his system. He grabs
Sam's arm, nearly yanking it out of the socket, and charges down the street.
He glances behind them and his stomach drops. The unicorn gallops across the parking lot, its
hooves throwing up sparks against the asphalt as the pavement buckles and cracks beneath it. It
bears down on the figures of the Phouka and Stevriel, issuing a terrible shriek that no horseshaped creature should ever make.
Dean sees the Phouka do some sort of elaborate Tai Chi move with its hands and suddenly a
gleaming gold sword and dagger materialize in its hands as it takes a fighting stance that, if
Dean's any judge, is even more experienced than the one Stevriel takes.
Kill Kill KILL KILL! Dean hears. The scream slams into his mind and he cries out, stumbling
against Sam. Sam gasps, but manages to keep his footing, and then suddenly he's the one holding
Dean's arm, dragging him away when Dean can't operate under his own power any more.
Dean whips his head around when he hears the clang of metal and another shriek. His brain feels
like its bleeding. The unicorn rears up again, striking out at the Phouka and Steve with its
hooves. The Phouka ducks and rolls under the hooves in a ninja move, coming up to slice at the
unicorn's vulnerable underbelly.
The unicorn whinnies in pain and smoke steams from its nostrils.
"Phouka!" Steve shouts. "Be vigilant!"
The Phouka flashes a bright grin, wrinkling its long nose, and leaps out of the way as the
unicorn's hooves crash down before the beast blasts the ground with a stream of fire from its
nostrils.
"Holy shit," Dean says, "the fucking thing breathes fire! The unicorn breathes fire!"
"What did you expect, Dean?" Sam pants. "Glitter? The faeries told us the unicorns were
monsters!"
"Yeah, but—!"
But deep down, Dean had never really believed it. He'd still thought of this whole thing as a big
ol' cosmic joke. Yeah, sure, killer unicorns, haha. Only now there really is a killer unicorn back
there attacking the faeries, and it looks crazy as shit, foaming at the mouth and tossing its sweaty
mane. The faeries are barely keeping it at bay.
Parasites! Insects! Worthless two-legs! I will crush you!
The unicorn does not sound happy. Then it finally registers that the voice Dean's been hearing in
his head is the psychic fire-breathing unicorn.
"Four-legs, four-legs, bet you wish you had more legs!" the Phouka chants, darting in for another
slash with its double-blade combo. The Phouka moves like its dancing a deadly two-step,
twirling and stabbing with elegant flourishes. It seems to be enjoying itself.
"Phouka, focus!" Steve shouts.
The Phouka turns to stick its tongue out, and the unicorn's razor sharp hooves catch it full on the
chest, gouging through the Phouka's leather vest and sending it flying with a spray of blood.
Now Steve faces the monster alone, and Dean can see that the knight is slowly losing ground.
The Phouka groans and picks itself up, trying to stand on wobbly legs, its front bloody.
"Brother," the Phouka says hoarsely, and then shakes its head, its ears flopping, as it squares its
shoulders and calls out, "Brother!" more strongly.
Dean wonders who the hell the Phouka is trying to summon when the Phouka suddenly
straightens and thrusts both its sword and dagger high into the air, roaring, "BROTHER! RIDE!"
There is a moment of hushed silence, like the theater before a show starts, and then there is a
sonic boom followed by the electric sizzle of a lightning strike and a flash of red smoke. In front
of the Phouka appears a giant creature astride a massive horse. The creature has the body of a
bare chested man and the head of a deer with enormous antlers stretching out like the branches of
an ancient tree, moss swinging from the highest tips.
"We need your help," the Phouka gasps, waving his sword toward where Steve is barely
managing to fend off the raging unicorn.
The creature nods and releases the reins to gesture with a massive hand. And Dean feels his heart
explode with terror when a pack of hellhounds materializes at the creature's feet, snarling and
yipping.
The creature points at the unicorn and the hellhounds take off, racing toward it, clambering over
each other in their eagerness to get to their prey.
Stevriel glances at the approaching pack in surprise and immediately falls back, reaching the
Phouka's side. He holds his sword with one hand and steadies the Phouka with the other.
"Thank you, Gwyn," Dean hears the Phouka call wearily. It collapses against Stevriel and lets the
knight guide them in a limping retreat back toward Sam and Dean.
The unicorn is still shrieking as it attempts to fend off the dogs that swarm over its back, their
claws tearing into its flesh and their gnashing teeth ripping into its flanks and biting out deep
hunks.
The unicorn howls and tosses its head, managing to catch one of the hellhounds in mid-leap and
neatly disemboweling it in a shower of blood and intestines that paint the unicorn's red coat with
a wet sheen.
This sends the dogs into a frenzy and they attack the unicorn with renewed purpose. Soon, the
unicorn collapses, but not without casualties. The lifeless carcasses of over a dozen hellhounds
litter the asphalt.
The rest of the hellhounds howl triumphantly and fall to feeding on the unicorn, ripping into its
stomach as it slowly dies whinnying in agony.
"Jesus," Dean says. All he can see are the hellhounds. All he can remember are hellhounds.
Hellhounds—their teeth—oh God, their—
"Dean," Sam says urgently, tugging on Dean's arm. "Dean, come on, we have to go."
"Quickly," Steve urges. "Where there is unicorn, more will soon follow the cries and the scent of
its blood."
The Phouka breathes harshly, wincing and pressing his clawed hand against his chest. It's a mark
of how injured he is that he's letting Steve prop him up and guide him toward the Impala.
Dean feels pale and shaky, seeing hellhounds over and over in his mind's eye, so when they
make it back to where the Impala sits parked, Dean wordlessly hands Sam the keys, and they
peel rubber out to the highway. Dean stares out the window, shivering, and doesn't stop until
Sam places a hand on his thigh. Then he shivers once, for a different reason, before calming.
----
Sam knows it's going to take Dean a while to get his shit together, so he drives the car and
doesn't say anything.
He understands now why the Queens sent them help. There's no way he and Dean could've faced
that unicorn alone. It took a pack of hellhounds to take it down, for Christ's sake. The faeries
saved their lives.
Sam thinks it all would've been over if the Phouka hadn't summoned that faery creature. And
Sam's pretty sure he knows which faery creature the Phouka summoned: if the Phouka can
summon the Rider of the Wild Hunt, he's got a lot of clout. And as much as he dislikes humans,
he nearly died protecting Sam and Dean. Sam's beginning to think that the Phouka is a lot more
than he seems, and he hides that very well.
Sam can hear the two faeries arguing with each other in the back, and it's somehow grounding to
listen to the two of them bitch at each other like a pair of high schools girls.
"You let your guard down!" Stevriel chastises. "You should not have taken that blow. Move your
hand, Unseelie, and let me inspect your wound."
"Oh, shut up," the Phouka snaps. His ears are drooping. "You distracted me shouting your
bloody orders. I would have done perfectly fine without your help."
"Obviously," Stevriel snorts, poking the Phouka's chest for emphasis and making him cry out.
"See if I help you next time!" the Phouka hisses, slapping at Stevriel's hand. "Next time I'll let
the unicorn impale you right through your prissy armor."
"You brought the Huntsman. How?"
The Phouka sniffs. "He owed me a favor."
"A favor from the Huntsman is nothing so small," Stevriel says after a strange pause. "It's value
is greater than the favor of a Seelie Knight."
"Well," the Phouka replies after another charged silence, sounding mollified. "It is certainly not
worth as much, you are correct. But the favor of a Seelie Knight is not entirely worthless, either."
"Very well," Stevriel says, like they've struck a bargain.
Sam glances in the rearview mirror and watches as the Phouka and Stevriel lock eyes. Sam feels
like he's missing something here, some kind of weird faery thing.
The Phouka looks away first and clears his throat. Then he leans forward and taps Sam on the
shoulder. "Are we there yet?" he asks.
----
By the time they stop at a motel for the night a few hours later, Dean seems to be back to his old
self.
"I don't know about anyone else," Dean says, "but I need to blow off some steam. It's not every
day a man gets chased by a unicorn. Whaddya say, Steve? Wanna grab a cold one?"
Stevriel gives Dean a disapproving look. "A true knight remains pure and forsakes all pleasure."
Dean sighs. "It's not easy being green, is it, Steve?"
Stevriel blinks. "I do not understand you."
"Yeah, I can see that. Sam, you wanna come with?"
Sam looks between the Phouka and Stevriel, who are still arguing despite their momentary truce
in the car, and tries to imagine the bloodshed he and Dean will return to if they leave the two
faeries alone together. The Phouka catches his look and clasps his hands behind his back, then
begins whistling innocently, rocking on his feet.
Sam can't help but smile.
"I'm not sure we can leave these two at home alone yet, Dean."
Dean heaves a sigh like his world is ending. "What if I hit up a liquor store? C'mon, work with
me, Sam, I ran away from a unicorn like a big girl today. I need alcohol."
"Fine," Sam says. He eyes the faeries. "Just hurry back, okay?"
"Oh yeah," Dean says before he heads out the door. "I don't want to miss a minute of this party."
He leaves, and Sam turns his attention back to the two faeries. "Phouka," Sam says. "Are you
okay? It looked like you were injured."
The Phouka waves his hand and laughs. "Not at all. We of the Winter Court have a very rapid
healing—"
Stevriel yawns and smacks the Phouka in the chest.
"—ow!" the Phouka gasps, doubling over. When the Phouka straightens, he glares at Stevriel.
"We do heal rapidly, when self-important Seelie keep their stupid hands to themselves."
Steve looks supremely unimpressed.
Dammit, Sam thinks. Now Dean's got me calling him that, too.
"If you allow me to doctor your wound, Unseelie, it will heal faster."
The Phouka crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out.
"Childish," Stevriel replies, but Sam is positive he sees the ghost of a smile flit across the
knight's thin lips.
"Fine," the Phouka says, flattening his ears in displeasure. "If it will silence your jabbering."
"Let me fetch my satchel. I have healing herbs and cleansing witch hazel." Stevriel crosses the
room and opens his leather traveling bag.
Sam catches the Phouka's eye and grins. The Phouka shifts uncomfortably.
"He likes to fuss," Sam remarks.
"All Seelie do," the Phouka says. "It is silly. Their kind are spoiled. In the Winter Court, no one
takes care of you. You must take care of yourself. If you are weak, you are devoured."
Sam blinks. "Uh."
The Phouka turns back to Stevriel and crosses his arms. "If you insist upon demeaning yourself,
Seelie, follow me," and marches into the bathroom.
Stevriel heaves a deep sigh and casts his eyes toward the ceiling. Sam hears him mutter, "Creator
give me strength," before following the Phouka inside.
Dean makes it back about half an hour later, laden down with brown paper bags.
"Did you buy out the entire liquor store?" Sam starts to ask, but then he sees Dean's expression
and shuts up. Maybe Dean isn't over the hellhounds yet.
"I didn't know what faeries drank," Dean replies, plunking the bags down on the creaky motel
room dinette. "They didn't have rose petal dewdrop or four-leaf clover juice."
Sam fetches two glasses and hands one to Dean, then opens one of the bags. "So you got Johnnie
Walker?"
"I figured that was pretty close to ambrosia," Dean grins.
Sam shakes his head fondly, just as the two faeries emerge from the bathroom. He raises an
eyebrow at Steve—dammit Stevriel's—smug expression. The Phouka doesn't seem too upset.
The faery is bare cheste with a thick white bandage wrapped around his upper body. Sam notices
that the Phouka has dark blue tattoos inked into his purple skin. The tattoos look like a cross
between the angelic language and celtic symbols; they cover his chest and upper arms, and when
he turns to deliver a remark to Stevriel, Sam can see that the symbols extend to the faery's back
and down below the waist of his cotton drawstring trousers.
"Hey Steve, you sure you don't want anything to drink?" Dean asks casually.
Stevri—Sam gives up—Steve hesitates and glances at the Phouka, who has already bounded over
to the table and begun pawing through the bags excitedly.
"Knights should remain pure," he reiterates, but he seems less certain, and Sam knows Dean can
spot a chink in the armor better than anyone.
"Come on," Dean wheedles. "Live a little. You're hanging out in the human world and you
fought a scary ass unicorn monster today and lived to tell the tale. You deserve to celebrate." He
pours a glass of whiskey and hands one to Stevriel, clinking them together.
"Bottoms up," Dean says.
"Bottoms up," Steve agrees reluctantly.
---Dean never, ever wants to get drunk with faeries again.
"Not a word, Sammy," Dean says the next morning. "Not a fucking word."
"Sorry," Sam says. "It's just—there's still a little glitter on your cheek."
Dean scrubs furiously at his cheek. "Fucking faeries."
"And moonbeams in your hair."
"I will end you," Dean says.
---Over the next few days, things are pretty uneventful. They pay attention to the local news, but
they don't hear anything about slayings by killer horses or similar creatures, and they can't help
but relax a little.
It helps that in addition to whatever weird faery bond Steve and the Phouka formed fighting the
unicorn, after getting drunk together and braiding faery knots into each others' hair, the two
faeries are too mortified to actively hate each other as much as usual. The Phouka disappears
once or twice with a wave and a brazen, "Be back soon, delivering my spy news!" which makes
Stevriel shake his head in disgust.
"Come on," Dean says. "Are you gonna tell us that you're not reporting back on our progress to
your Queen either?"
Steve looks shocked. "No, Dean Winchester! I gave you my oath of fealty. I am honor-bound to
your service until our task is completed. I cannot owe fealty to more than one liege."
"Uh, okay," Dean says, backing away, because Steve is getting the same zealous gleam in his
eyes that Sam sometimes gets when he's researching.
Bobby calls a few times. He's managed to turn up a few cryptic pieces of lore about how
unicorns survive on the purity of life force. From what he can find, it sounds like they used to
roam the great forests of Europe, back when Europe still had great forests that stretched across
the whole continent, picking off humans as they pleased. Then for some reason, the unicorns
started getting hungrier and hungrier, and eventually they were driven off through some kind of
mystical barrier by the combined power of the Faery army.
Dean hates that his life now includes the knowledge that there was once a Faery army.
But even Bobby sounds shocked to discover that a lot of the crazy monster stuff throughout the
ages can be attributed to unicorns, once you look deep enough. History gets rewritten when they
look at it from a killer unicorn angle—Genghis Khan's men used majestic battle horses that
devoured the dead after their victory; Alexander the Great's famous warhorse was probably a
unicorn; and a lot of the old stories of werewolf attacks were probably actually unicorns, because
the beasts were described as fierce and deadly with muscled flanks and long necks.
All in all, Bobby figures there's a whole lotta unicorn lore that's been mistaken for dragons,
chimeras, and a host of other monsters. Unicorns got away with murder for centuries. It's a mark
of how strong the unicorns' power is that humans still think they dance on clouds and shoot
rainbows from their asses.
"Human minds are so malleable," the Phouka remarks. He's using Steve's whetstone to sharpen
his claws. "My Queen loves playing with them."
Dean snorts. "Your Queen's a bitch."
The Phouka shrugs. "I'll not argue that. She is a fierce warrior as well. You would do well to fear
her."
"If we didn't fear the Devil, we're not gonna fear your Queen."
"Yes," the Phouka murmurs. "You never were very smart, were you?"
---Toward the end of the week, Sam feels a change in the air. The background noises of animals
and birds quiet down until they disappear altogether. The faeries are constantly on alert, and they
urge Sam and Dean to travel deeper into the mountains.
Sam hears the trees whisper, their boughs swaying and leaves dancing, and the word Winchester
echoes hauntingly among gnarled branches as they creak and rub together.
The Phouka begins twitching at the slightest sound, and Stevriel sharpens his sword at least twice
a day.
Sam asks the Phouka if they should be worried and the Phouka tilts his head and says, as though
it’s obvious, "Of course we should, Samuel. We are being hunted by a unicorn and we are most
likely going to die."
"Phouka," Sam says after a second. "Do you always have to be so honest?"
"No," the Phouka says, "I do it to be annoying and cruel."
"Good to know," Sam says, heaving a sigh. He has to keep reminding himself that even though
the Phouka may look vaguely humanoid, he's really not—he's a creature, something they'd hunt
under different circumstances. And even Stevriel, who could pass for a runway model if it
weren't for his green skin, is not human. They're both faeries, and at the end of the day, they
regard humans as one step above primates.
Stevriel is not so openly hostile; during conversations with him, Sam gathers that he finds
humans curious and vaguely useless, but if the Creator holds them in such esteem, they must
have some redeemable quality. Though, as he tells Sam bluntly, he has yet to discover it.
But the Phouka is another story. Sam wonders if the Phouka will ever forgive humans for
causing doubt, and for doubt leading to exile from Heaven; the faery sings under his breath
constantly, and he watches the stars when he thinks no one is paying attention. Sam remembers
the Phouka's words with a pang: Did you know there is singing in Heaven? It is everywhere.
He can't blame the Phouka, not really. He can't imagine having a piece of his soul ripped away
like that. If something ever kept him apart from Dean, he'd hate that thing forever.
The next afternoon, they visit the library so Sam can checkout some books for more research on
one of Bobby's theories. Steve and Dean both look uncomfortable, but the Phouka darts between
the shelves. The Phouka loves to read, and he finds the library particularly enchanting, especially
after its explained to him that libraries house humans' books.
"You mean humans collect their knowledge?" he asks Sam.
"Yeah," Sam replies, perplexed. "Of course."
"How very odd. I had not thought your kind that intelligent."
"Happy to surprise you," Sam says.
"So humans keep records. Legacies of your knowledge."
"Sure. And we invent stories, too."
"Imagination," the Phouka says softly. He turns his face away. He seems to be considering this
deeply. "That is something angels never possessed. Something like free will."
"I guess," Sam says. "But if you never had imagination, how could you have become... you?"
"Hm," the Phouka replies.
The Phouka thaws considerably after that conversation.
When Sam is finished at the library, they grab lunch at the only restaurant in town, a seedy diner
a block away from the motel. The waitress stares openly at them—the faeries have both
glamoured themselves again, though anyone with eyes can tell there's something not quite
human about them.
Dean convinces Steve and the Phouka that hamburger tastes like unicorn meat. Sam watches the
Phouka delightedly tear apart a hamburger, imitating the screams of a dying beast as he
demolishes it, while Stevriel looks on indulgently.
They make it back to their motel and everyone's laughing—even Steve is almost smiling, if Sam
squints—when Sam notices that the air is silent as death.
Stevriel holds up a silencing hand, and that's when Sam hears it.
The voice that's been whispering their names through the trees. It's louder.
Winchesters. Come out, come out, humans. It is time to play.
"That sounds friendly, don't you think, Sam?"
Sam glances at Dean. "Unicorn?"
Stevriel nods. "Yes. The one that has been hunting us. The Phouka sensed it many days ago."
"Awesome," Dean says, cracking his knuckles. He only does that when he's really scared. Sam
will never tell him he knows that.
"We must face it," Stevriel says.
"Must we, Steve?"
"Yes," Stevriel says, looking perplexed. "I just stated this."
Sam sighs. "Steve, he was—you know what, never mind."
Oh, Winchesters, come here, come here, Winchesters. I can smell youuuuu.
"I guess nobody taught these unicorns how to not sound completely creepy," Dean gripes.
WINCHESTERS.
"He's getting impatient," Sam says.
"Yes," the Phouka agrees. "He wants to eat us quite badly. And I am afraid I do not have another
favor to call in. Oh well. I suppose today is as good as day as any to die a bloody death."
"Man, you are a friggin' ray of sunshine, Doris. You missed your calling, you should be writing
Hallmark cards."
The Phouka bears his teeth at Dean. "I want you to know that I will cry when it devours you,
Dean Winchester."
Dean gives the Phouka the finger.
"Stop this childishness," Steve admonishes. "We must go out to meet it. There is no other choice.
We will face it alongside you, Winchester brothers."
Sam feels suddenly so grateful for these two faeries. They remind him of Jo and Ellen; they
know it's hopeless, and they give Sam and Dean crap, but they're going to stand shoulder to
shoulder with Sam and Dean regardless.
Somehow, Sam knows they won't die today. He doesn't believe it's in the cards. They've seen too
much and done too much to be killed by a unicorn, of all things.
He looks at Dean, and Dean must see something in his expression because he smiles, and it
reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in the way that Sam loves.
"All right, lock and load. Let's do this thing."
The Phouka and Steve both transform into their faery battle armor, their weapons at the ready.
"Wonder twin powers, form of a badass," Dean remarks with a whistle.
Steve's lips quirk, and he glances at the Phouka, who salutes them all with his dagger.
"Don't forget your daisy chains," the Phouka says perkily.
----
It turns out, to Sam's eternal surprise, that the daisy chains do actually work, once they manage
to distract the unicorn long enough to get it over the unicorn's head.
But before they can do that, there is a lot of running around and screaming and trying not to die.
The unicorn keeps screaming, I am Skullcrusher! I am SKULLCRUSHER!, and Sam cannot wait
to chop off its horn and kill it because that is the dumbest name for a unicorn he has ever heard.
Soon you will be no more, Winchesters! The unicorns will rise up again to claim our dominion
over this land!
This unicorn, Skullcrusher, is bigger than the last unicorn that the hellhounds took apart, but
being bigger also seems to translate to being less agile. It has a lot more power, but its turning
radius sucks.
It slashes with its horn, but the four of them have managed to get in quite a few blows, and blood
drips down the horse's sweating sides.
Stevriel has been teaching Dean how to use a faery blade the knight conjured for him, and the
lessons are paying off because Dean is holding his own. But suddenly, the unicorn rears up and
changes direction. And the change in direction means Sam is right in its path with nowhere to go.
"Sam!" Dean screams.
The unicorn reaches Sam, its horn lowered for the killing blow.
Sam sees the horn coming closer and all he can think is, What a ridiculous way to die, when out
of nowhere the Phouka is standing there in front of him, pushing him out of the way, saying, "Do
pay attention, Samuel Winchester."
Something in his eyes makes Sam's breath catch, something about the way the Phouka gives a
strange, final smile that is small and somehow more real than any expression Sam has seen on
the Phouka's face.
The Phouka shoves Sam, hard, his supernatural strength untethered, and twists his body to face
the unicorn. Sam hears the Phouka give a little grunt as Sam's spun away, flailing and hitting the
ground, the air knocked from his lungs.
The Phouka stumbles, sways, and rights himself, then launches at the unicorn, his dual blades
flashing so fast they blur.
It gives Dean and Stevriel enough time to reach him, and then they're there, hacking at the
unicorn. Dean gets knocked to the ground, too, and Sam is still trying to catch his breath and get
to his feet. Stevriel leaps into the air like some kind of deranged gazelle, his sword raised over
his head. His silver hair has come free of its leather thong, and it streams behind his head as he
descends, bringing the sword down in a swift, vicious arc.
There's a jarring clang as the faery sword connects with the iron of the unicorn's horn, but the
sword holds fast and slices through.
The unicorn shrieks, its eyes rolling back wildly in its head and foam spewing from its mouth as
it falls down to its side, twitching and spasming.
"That is awesome," Dean says from the ground as he watches it die.
The Phouka stands a few feet away. The faery must have been bounced off the unicorn hard,
because he's clutching his ribs and wincing.
"One unicorn down, a couple hundred to go," Sam says, grinning at his brother.
Dean smiles back. His teeth are bloody from a cut on his lower lip and Sam is struck by how
fierce and wild his brother looks. He could be a faery warrior like Stevriel, sent from some other
realm. Sam wants to kiss him, crush their mouths together, taste the blood on Dean's lips.
The thought should shock him. Instead, he grins. With every other fucked up thing that's
happened in their lives, this doesn't come close. This seems inevitable.
Dean crows their victory, and even Stevriel nods and cracks a smile. He swipes his pale hair
from his face and ties it back, sheathing his sword and making his way over to Dean.
Only the Phouka doesn't seem to be joining the celebration. Sam doesn't pay attention for a
minute, too busy watching Dean.
But then the Phouka says, "Oh dear." He sounds very peculiar.
Sam glances over. The Phouka is still holding his side. He looks vaguely surprised.
Stevriel dusts a hand off on his trousers and offers it to Dean, helping him to his feet. The knight
casts a disdainful look in the Phouka's direction. "What is it now, Unseelie?"
"I—I bleed," the Phouka says.
Sam inhales sharply. Shit. The Phouka pushed him out of the way of Skullcrusher's path—
"Why, how unfortunate!" the Phouka exclaims. The faery barks out a laugh, swaying on his feet
as he clutches his side. Sam can see now that purple blood, shockingly bright, oozes between his
fingers and drips down to the earth.
The Phouka laughs one last time, short and gurgling, and then collapses and lies writhing on the
ground. The point of Skullcrusher's horn sticks out, embedded in the Phouka's ribs.
Sam knows from their research that unicorn horns were originally made from bone, but after
battling with faeries for many years, the unicorns used their magic to adapt their bodies and turn
their horns into iron, the one metal that can harm one of the Fair Folk.
"Stand back," Stevriel commands, striding forward and dropping to one knee beside the Phouka.
The Phouka looks up, shivering, his face wracked with pain, and tries a cocky smile that falls
miles short of its target. "Will you put me out of my misery, summer knight?"
"Silence," Stevriel says. "I will remove the horn. You will suffer, but you will also survive.
Move your hand."
"Ha ha ha ha," the Phouka gasps. More purple blood bubbles out. "If it is all the same to you, I
think I would rather die."
"Luckily, you do not get a choice, Unseelie." And without any further warning, Steve pushes the
Phouka's hand aside and rips the horntip out.
The Phouka howls and howls, and the howl builds into the most hideous shriek Sam has ever
heard. He has to cover his ears, and he sees Dean do the same. It feels like his brain is going to
explode.
The Phouka bucks on the ground, his body bowed in agony. Shapes bulge and ripple along his
spine, like a werewolf going through its change backwards and forwards; his hands turn to black
fur-covered paws, and he digs at the ground frantically, like he might claw his way past the pain.
Sam watches the faery thrash violently, veins bulging in his neck as he screams out. Bile rises in
Sam's throat.
Eventually, the Phouka's shrieks give way to pained whimpers and short pants. Through it all,
Stevriel kneels at the Phouka's side. At one point, Sam sees Stevriel reach out and take the
Phouka's hand, his expression never changing.
"You will survive," Stevriel says, like it's an order. "Look at me, Phouka. If you do not survive,
who will I hate?"
The Phouka's body shudders and Sam hears his wheezy crow's laugh, rougher than usual. He
turns his head, his cheek pressed against the dirt, and meets Stevriel's eyes. The Phouka's lips are
bloody where he has bitten through his skin, and tear tracks line his cheeks.
"Aw," the Phouka rasps. "Are we having a moment, Steve?"
"No," Stevriel says flatly, but Sam swears the knight's eyes soften.
The Phouka closes his eyes. "I suppose it would be hard to find another creature as excellent as
myself to hate."
"Very," Stevriel agrees.
"Well, do not say I never did you any favors," the Phouka replies shakily, before his eyes close
and his breathing evens out.
Dean's silent next to Sam, watching the whole thing with an unreadable expression, and Sam
wishes he knew what Dean was thinking.
"Is he gonna make it?" Sam asks.
Stevriel looks up. "Yes. The iron from the horn is nearly gone from his blood. He will live to
annoy us another day. Unfortunately."
"He saved me," Sam says stupidly. "He jumped in front of me."
Stevriel hesitates, then nods. "Phouka is honorable. We would not have defeated Skullcrusher
without him."
"Man, I didn't realize he was so good with a sword and dagger," Dean says. "He went totally
medieval on that unicorn. I am not gonna lie, that was pretty sweet."
"But now you see what we are up against," Stevriel says, his expression solemn. "The four of us
are skilled warriors, and yet one unicorn nearly overcame us."
"Yeah, but now we've fought one of the bastards. We know what to do."
Stevriel inclines his head. "You and your brother Samuel are better equipped now. We must
continue to remain vigilant. First, we must allow Phouka time to recover. He will be weak for
some time. Iron is poison to our kind."
Stevriel clears his throat and then bends down, picking up Phouka like he's made of nothing but
twigs and feathers, and carries him back inside the motel room with an infinite gentleness that
Sam knows would have driven the Phouka crazy.
The knight lays the Phouka down on the bed. Then he takes a cloth from his bag and goes to the
bathroom, returning with it dampened a few moments later. He sits down beside the Phouka and
places it on his forehead before leaning back and reaching into his travel bag. He removes a
handful of sweet smelling leaves and crushes them over the cloth like a poultice.
The Phouka sighs, his eyes still closed, and turns his face toward Steve.
Sam watches the Phouka worriedly, then looks at Dean. "We should probably take care of that
unicorn carcass." What he really means is, Maybe we should give him a moment.
Dean quirks an eyebrow. He's always been good at getting Sam's messages. "Sign me up," he
says.
They leave the room together, and Sam makes sure to brush his shoulder against Dean's. He
doesn't imagine the way Dean leans into it, and hope takes up a tiny spot in his heart.
---They get a brief lull during which the Phouka recovers.
Dean gets used to hearing Steve and Phouka bicker. Steve likes to remind the Phouka that he
nearly died and the Phouka likes to snap his teeth in Steve's face and tell him to mind his own
business.
Dean's inclined to side with the Phouka on whatever he wants for the moment, because the faery
saved Sam's life, no doubt about it, and that goes a long way to cementing Dean's loyalty in a big
way.
But after the encounter with the unicorn called Skullcrusher, it seems like they face a new
unicorn every day. Dean wonders why they don't all attack at once, but Stevriel tells him that
unicorns don't travel together. They're solitary and territorial and when they do get together, they
tend to try to eat one another.
By day fifty-three of what Dean's named the Unicornalypse, they're all tired and dirty, and none
of them are unscathed.
During one of their skirmishes with a particularly vicious unicorn named Bonethrasher (which
Dean casually renames Miss Petal for the duration of the battle—he has to get his kicks
somewhere), Stevriel nearly gets taken out by the enraged monster, but luckily Dean jumps in
and saves his faery ass at the last second, lopping off the unicorn's horn in the process like a big
damn hero.
Apparently, in Steve's faery knight code handbook, that somehow translates into them being
forever best friends.
Steve tries to make it sound manlier than that, but Dean's not fooled. Still, it's kind of cool. Steve
isn't that bad, especially after Dean gets him addicted to World of Warcraft on Sam's laptop, and
Sam bitches at him for wasting time. It's worth it to hear Stevriel stare down Sam and declare
haughtily, "This is a game of strategy, Samuel. And I have a duty to my raiding party."
So all in all, Dean's got bruises and three cuts that need stitches, Sam has a broken finger and a
couple of scrapes, Steve's hair was singed by unicorn fire breath and he took a slash from a horn
across his arm, and the Phouka still moves a little gingerly where his ribs are concerned. The
Phouka probably still has it worse than all of them: he has a blackened scar that winds from a
puckered circle on his ribs; the dark tendrils creep under his skin in spirals winding away from
the wound.
By day fifty-four of the Unicornalypse, Dean is wondering what could possibly happen next.
And that is the day Dean first sees the leader of the unicorns.
At first, he thinks it's just like any other unicorn, despite the fact that it's pure white, and most of
the unicorns they've encountered have ranged in shades from black to brown to red—nothing
particularly striking.
Not this unicorn. This one practically glows. Dean heard once that there's really no such thing as
a white horse. Well, there is definitely such a thing as a white unicorn. It's the first one he's seen.
The other weird thing is that, unlike the other unicorns they've encountered, it doesn't try to kill
him right away. In fact, it just watches them. When they drive, it keeps pace with the Impala—
Dean can see its glowing white coat flashing through the trees alongside the road as they travel.
Sometimes he thinks they've lost it, but then the Impala will round a curve in the round, and the
unicorn will be standing there, like it was waiting for them.
Just watching.
It starts to make them all nervous. No other unicorns have approached them while the white one's
around. He hears the Phouka whisper to Steve, "Seelie, do you think it is the—?" and Steve says,
"Hush, dog. Do not alarm yourself."
That does not make Dean feel any easier.
Then, two days after that, Dean opens their motel door and comes face to face with the unicorn.
It's just standing there, staring at him. It's less than a hands breadth away.
And Dean thinks, A unicorn is about to eat my face.
The unicorn snorts and retreats a few paces, its hooves clop-clopping on the pavement. It shakes
its mane.
Better, Dean Winchester? comes an amused voice.
Dean blinks.
He still can't believe that he's face to face with a unicorn. Or is it face to horn? He's not sure, but
he knows that unless he wants to get gored, now probably is not the time to make that joke. Or
the one that goes, Hey, dude, why the long face?
Your mind is very chaotic, human. Most likely it is from the stress of constant battle.
"You think?" Dean says out loud. "I mean. Yeah."
The unicorn tosses its head. Dean's pretty sure it's laughing at him.
I have come to speak with you. I am… my name is difficult to pronounce with the human tongue,
but it is something approximating… Ripjaw.
"Delightful," Dean says. "You couldn't have been named Cupcake?"
No. Could you have been named Englebert?
"Point taken," Dean says. "So why haven't you tried to kill me yet?"
As I said. For the moment, I only wish to speak with you. Dean hears a whinny of laughter in his
head. The killing can come later, of course.
"Great, an evil unicorn with a warped sense of humor. The day couldn't get any better."
Evil? No, no. You mistake evil for survival. It is a common failing among humans.
"Man, what don't we fail at?" Dean asks. "According to every supernatural thing we encounter,
humans suck. At everything."
Ripjaw inclines his head. You are very good at being food.
"You're a riot."
Ripjaw snorts and paws at the ground. You are also very good at killing unicorns. How many
have you and your merry band of misfits felled in the last few months?
Dean shrugs carelessly. "I dunno. I stopped counting."
Smoke curls from Ripjaw's nostrils, and its red eyes narrow. I would not be so flippant if I were
you, human. I am not here to negotiate. I was merely curious about you and your brethren.
Ripjaw pauses, and its lips pull back. Dean realizes it's grinning. I like to play with my food
before I eat it.
"Hate to throw a wrench in your plans," Dean says. "But here's the thing. From what we can
gather, you guys want purity, right? A world full of yummy pure souls?"
Yes. Humanity was washed clean after its near annihalation—which I am told was by your hand.
Well done.
"Yeah, well, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the world is not really as pure as you think."
Oh?
"Uh huh," Dean says. "I'll prove it to you."
--"I've got an idea," Sam had said to him a few weeks ago. "You're not going to like it, but I've
done some reading. Bobby thinks that the unicorns like purity. If we can pull my idea off, we
might be able to convince the unicorns that humanity is disgusting and impure and beyond
hope."
"I'm… listening," Dean had replied cautiously.
---It took Dean about three days of yelling at Sam and four days of Sam repeatedly using the
phrase, "For the greater good," and rubbing Dean's shoulders in a really disarming way before
Dean agreed to Sam's plan.
Then it took a full bottle of whiskey to execute the plan, but it worked.
It turns out, unicorns are totally disgusted by incest. It fucks up their purity mojo and it really
grosses them out.
"Are we going to have to talk about this?" Sam asks. He looks worried.
"Nah," Dean says. Definitely no talking about this. Especially when all he wants to say is that
he's in love with his brother, and all his dirty dreams are coming true, he's sure Sam's gonna hate
him when he finds out.
---Dean tells Ripjaw that humans have gotten deviant in the last few centuries. For example: incest?
Totally kosher.
This I must... see, Ripjaw tells Dean, which is what Dean was afraid of. Come to the wood at
midnight. Follow my hoofprints.
"How do we know you won't eat us out in the woods? How do we know it isn't a trap?"
You don't. But if things are as you say, I would like to know. I do not wish to feast on impure
flesh.
Despite the fact that the Phouka and Steve think it's a bad idea, Sam and Dean pack a bag with
the necesseities and head out to the woods.
Dean wishes he had at least three more bottles of whiskey.
----
They do it during a full moon, underneath an ancient weeping willow, on a bed of soft clover. If
that's not the worst part, Dean picked scissors.
"You still gonna respect me in the morning?" Dean asks, shucking off his jeans and lowering
them to the ground. He's naked now, and he wants to puke. He bats his eyelashes instead. "Be
gentle with me, Sammy, I'm a delicate maiden."
"Shut up, Dean," Sam says. His jaw clenches as he unbuttons his shirt. Dean swallows when Sam
lets the fabric slide from his shoulders.
Intellectually, Dean knows that Sam is a big guy, but now, looming out of the darkness limned in
silver moonlight, Dean realizes just how big Sam is. He's kind of intimidating, standing there
with shadows playing over his muscles, watching Dean.
His eyes are trained on Dean's face as he slowly unzips his jeans. Dean can't help it when his
tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and he hears Sam groan.
"We've got lube," Dean says, eyes riveted. "So, I guess... I mean, I'll get on my hands and
knees—fuck, I can't—Sammy—" Dean spins around, unable to look at Sam any more.
"Shh, shh," Sam says, stepping forward. He presses close behind Dean, molding their bodies
together, fitting Dean's naked ass right against the curve of Sam's dick. Sam's naked now, too.
And he's hard.
Dean can't help the tiny moan that escapes.
One of Sam's hands comes up to rest lightly around Dean's throat; the other cards gently through
his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp. "You trust me, right?"
"Yeah," Dean says. He closes his eyes, feels Sam's hands caressing his skin. "Yeah. You know
that."
"Okay then. Lie down on your back," Sam says. "We're doing this and I want to see your face
when we do. I don't want you going anywhere without me, Dean. You're gonna be with me the
whole time. No checking out."
Sam's arms wraps around Dean, manhandling him until he's turned and they're chest to chest.
Sam's hands are visegrips on Dean's elbows, and Dean couldn't get away if he tried.
They're both breathing heavy, and this is too real for Dean, too much, so he huffs and says,
"Jesus, Sam, give a guy some space. Quit it with the monkey arm routine."
Sam's hand comes up and grips his hair. Hard. "Don't push me right now," Sam says. His
breathing is ragged. If Dean admits it, he's scared of Sam, of how it feels to be so close to him,
knowing what they're about to do. But apparently, fear does it for Dean, because he's also hard.
"On your back," Sam says again. "I want to see you."
Dean tries to protest, but his chest feels tight, and the tightness radiates to his throat, encircling
his neck like a collar, choking his words. His face is flushed, and he's glad for the cool, quiet
darkness because he could never do this in the sun.
You will copulate now?
"What the shit," Dean swears, jumping a foot. "I forgot about him."
"Me too," Sam says. He hasn't looked away from Dean's face, and this is all getting a little
intense.
Then Sam hits Dean with something that makes his knees wobble and threaten collapse.
"Tell me you want this," Sam says.
Dean can only open and close his mouth.
"Please, Dean," Sam says. "I need to know you want this."
Dean swallows. "I do," he whispers.
"Thank God," Sam says. "Because I want this. I want this so badly."
And that's about all the warning Dean gets before Sam is on him, pushing him down to the soft
ground. Sam bites and licks every bit of skin he can reach and Dean gasps, his heart thudding,
each beat sending blood rushing to his painfully hard cock.
Sam presses Dean into the clover, and the scent of crushed green rises up around them, mixing
with the moonlight and the magic Dean feels thrumming in the air.
"Dean," Sam is whispering, "Oh God, Dean, so beautiful," and Dean blinks at Sam, thinks,
"Me?" But it's hard to hold onto his thoughts when Sam's sucking on his neck and using his
clever hands to explore Dean's body. His fingers pluck at Dean's nipples until they're taught and
aching, and Dean squirms under him, pressure building slowly at the base of his spine. His balls
start tightening, and he can't believe that's all it'll take, like a fucking teenager, Sam hasn't even
touched him—
"Sam!" Dean gasps, and Sam must get it because he pulls away. He sits back on his heels and
tugs until Dean's legs are spread, thrown over Sam's thighs.
Dean tries to turn his face away. He feels too open, to exposed, the muscles in his legs are
quivering with the strain of being pushed so wide, but Sam reaches down and cups his face, and
says, "No. Look at me."
Dean's always been helpless against Sam.
"I'm gonna make this so good, Dean. I promise, don't worry. You don't ever have to worry. I'll
take care of you," and as he talks, Sam uses one hand to rub soothing circles into Dean's skin, the
other hand going to the bag and removing the lube.
He pauses to squirt some on his fingers. "You ready?" he asks.
"Jesusfuck," Dean says. "Just—just do me already, okay?"
A dark smile flickers over Sam's face. "Hold on tight, Dean."
He locks eyes with Dean as pushes the tip of one finger inside Dean. Dean knows he's not
allowed to look away, but this is crazy, this is Sam, his Sammy, putting his fingers inside him—
"Ah!" Dean pants when Sam crooks his finger.
Sam smirks. "Yeah, you want this," he says. He bends down, driving his finger deeper, and
swipes his tongue across Dean's lips. "You want it so bad, don't you?"
"So bad," Dean agrees, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head when Sam adds a second finger.
He doesn't even know what he's saying, only that he never wants Sam to stop, not ever, oh God.
Sam's fingers press against his walls, scissoring him open with steady pressure.
Before long, a third finger joins the others, and Dean feels exquisitely full, and not full enough,
all at the same time. He wants more, and he tries asking for it, but Sam seems determined to take
his time, to work Dean with his fingers until Dean is sobbing and his dick is leaking precome in a
steady stream.
"Please, Sammy, please," Dean begs, bearing down on Sam's fingers. "Need more, need you in
me, goddammit, come on," and finally, finally, Sam pulls his fingers out.
"Okay, baby," he says, and on some level Dean should object to that he knows, but all he can
concentrate on is watching Sam oil up his impressive dick, and all he can think is, "Holy shit,
that's going inside me."
"Relax," Sam breathes, brushing his fingertips over Dean's cheeks. His dick presses at Dean's
entrance and Dean holds his breath as Sam thrusts in. It burns, and he's sure Sam won't fit, it's
too much, but then the ring of muscle gives and Sam's inside, pushing in slowly, relentlessly
deeper and deeper.
"Oh God, Dean," Sam says, bowing his head, his hair falling over his face.
"Sammy," Dean gasps, clutching at Sam's back, trying to draw him deeper. He digs his hands
into the strong muscles there, panting and throwing his head back. "Sam. Fuck. Fuck."
Sam moves, pulling out shallowly and thrusting back in, like he's afraid he'll hurt Dean. Dean
hopes it's that and not the sadistic asshole trying to torture him. He says as much, and Sam huffs
something between a laugh and a groan.
"Dean," Sam says, "I can't—God, I can't hold back—"
"Then don't," Dean says. "I don't want you to, I want everything you can give me, I need you—"
Sam's hips snap forward and Dean cries out as Sam sets up a brutal rhythm, pounding into him
and sending shockwaves up through his belly with every thrust. Sam's grunting, sweat pouring
off him, as he drives into Dean over and over. Dean brings his legs up and wraps them around
Sam, moaning at the friction of his dick against Sam's slick stomach.
Sam's balls slap against his ass, and Sam lets out a little growl, leaning down to bite Dean's
shoulder.
"Tell me you love this," Sam orders. His hipbones slam into Dean so hard he knows he'll have
bruises tomorrow.
"Love this, love this, love you," Dean answers, past coherent thought as he ratchets higher and
higher toward climax.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam swears and reaches between them, wrapping his huge hand around Dean's
dick, pumping it up and down a few times before Dean's balls tighten and he tips his head back,
giving a choked-off cry as he spills into Sam's hand.
Sam groans and buries his face against Dean's neck, his thrusts growing more and more erratic
until Dean feels Sam thicken and come hot and copious inside him, filling him with warm bursts
of seed.
Sam gives a few more thrusts, making little gasping noises like his world has just been wrecked,
before he pulls out and collapses next to Dean. Dean barely gets a second to catch his breath
before Sam's arms wrap around him, yanking him against Sam's sweaty, heaving chest.
"Holy fuck," Dean says.
"Mmhm," Sam agrees, nosing at the back of Dean's neck.
Most impressive, humans.
"Well, that was .3 seconds of afterglow," Dean says.
---They prove to Ripjaw that humanity has gotten way too depraved over the years. In fact, they
prove it three times.
Ripjaw agrees that watching Sam and Dean together is the most disgusting display he's ever
witnessed, but there's a gleam in his horsey eye when he says it, and Dean is really skeeved by
the idea of a pervy unicorn getting his rocks off watching Dean have sex with his brother.
Ripjaw vanishes after that, and Dean kind of has a feeling that they might have to deal with the
unicorn menace again in the future, but for now he's gonna count it a win.
"You gonna freak out?" Sam says as soon as the killer unicorn is gone.
"You?"
"No," Sam says. His eyes are dark and he takes a step closer, crowding Dean's space.
Dean takes a deep breath, fortifying himself. "Cool," he says. It only comes out a little hoarse.
Sam's grin makes heat shoot straight to Dean's dick. Sam leans in, his mouth hovering above
Dean's ear. "Gonna pick scissors again?" he breathes.
Dean shivers. "Uh... yeah," he admits.
Sam laughs. "Later," he promises.
First, they have to say farewell to their faeries.
---Dean finds Steve hiding out by the Impala, sorting the weapons in the trunk.
He's bummed that the fighting is over. Now that he doesn't have any unicorns to slay, it's time for
him to return to the Summer Court.
Dean senses a new potential hunting ally in Steve, and he's heard enough about the faery courts
to think that Steve and Phouka don't belong there, especially now after they've gone soft on
humans. Dean will take all the credit for that, thanks.
Bobby warns him and Sam that they'll catch hell for interfering with faery business, but Dean
doesn't care. He's dropped some hints, talked about what a shame it will be for the faeries to go
back to their respective courts when there's still so much excitement out there. Hell, there might
still even be unicorns out there.
"Don't you still owe me your fealty or whatever until I release you?" Dean asks Steve.
Steve looks startled. "Yes," he says cautiously.
"Well, too bad, I'm not releasing you." Dean's figured this out.
"You're not—I do not understand."
Dean scratches his neck. It's hard to meet Steve's eyes, 'cause this is some girly shit going down
right here. "I'm afraid you won't be able to go back to the Summer Court. Like, ever. I know
that'll suck, but you're my—our—uh, friend. Me and Sam might still need your help in the
future. I'm gonna keep you on reserve. Never know when we'll ask you to tap in."
Dean can tell when Steve's confusion clears.
"You might want to tell Phouka that, too," Dean adds, and watches Steve's eyes brighten as he
stands up and bows to Dean.
"You are a noble warrior, Dean Winchester," Steve says. "Should you wish it, I can arrange a
place for you in our realm."
"If you ever tell Sam you offered to make me a faery, I'll tell the Phouka you cried when he was
injured."
"I never cr—You are a ruthless man, Dean Winchester. Very well. I take my leave, and wish you
and your brother a happy life... together." He raises one eyebrow.
"You're kind of a shit," Dean says.
"Likewise," Steve replies, clasping Dean's hand. They're both smiling.
---"I've got one more thing to do," Sam says to Dean. "Go grab us some lunch. It'll just take a
minute."
"No problem. I'll find Steve and get us some grub. I want to have a chat with him, anyway."
Sam waits until Dean closes the door. He picks up his cell phone and dials a number, his fingers
crossed.
"Cas?" Sam says. "Listen, did you remember to get enough minutes so you could talk? Yeah?
Good. I need you to do me a favor. You've got some sway in heaven now, right?"
---It's five days later. Sam knows the second it happens. One minute the Phouka is dancing around
the room, being endearingly annoying and no doubt waiting for Steve to return with Dean, when
he suddenly stops. His golden eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect circle.
Normally, the Phouka is all liquid motion, but Sam watches him stumble, catch himself, and then
lean against the dresser for support, his head bowed.
The Phouka is eerily quiet for long minutes. Sam can hear his breathing hitch, and his shoulders
tremble finely with butterfly shivers.
"Phouka?" Sam asks tentatively.
"Well," says the Phouka, finally lifting his head. "Well, well." His golden eyes are huge and
luminous and tears stream down his dark cheeks, leaving silver trails. "I can hear singing.
Singing, Samuel Winchester."
"Yeah," Sam says. "Trepidation of the spheres and all that. Or so I hear."
The Phouka laughs and darts forward, wrapping his long arms around Sam's waist and squeezing
him so hard Sam's thinks he's going to crack a rib.
"Phouka," says a severe voice. "It's time to go. Release the younger Winchester."
The Phouka jumps back and runs his hands over his clothes and hair. He's grinning so widely
that it must be painful; his crooked smile stretches from ear to ear.
Steve folds his arms across his chest. "What are you so happy about?"
"Oh, nothing," the Phouka says, giving Sam a secretive wink. "Let's hit the road, my fellow
rebellious faery. Now that we've decided we're going rogue, we're going to have a wonderful
time of it! Of course, both Courts will be out for our blood, but at least we have thrown off the
yokes, chains, and shackles of outrageous fortune! We'll—"
"Phouka," Stevriel says. "I have discovered that I wish to shut you up by kissing you." And he
does.
The Phouka's arms flail a little bit in surprise, and then he melts against Stevriel, his arms going
around the knight's waist.
Sam senses Dean come up beside him. Dean leans against Sam, observing the spectacle. "Does
that make them fairy faeries?"
Sam snorts. "Shut up, Dean."
"Yeah? Why don't you take a page out of Steve's book and make me?"
So Sam does.
---fin.