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lulu-zodiac · 3 years

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Hidden in Plain Sight

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Jeremy Bradshaw

Tags: Early seasons Dean, pre-podcast Professor Bradshaw, denial, unresolved sexual tension, bickering, smut, gratuitous owl references, case fic

Summary: It's the fall of 2006, and a string of grisly deaths linked to local lore brings Sam and Dean to the village of Bridgewater. There, Dean finds himself working closely with the frustrating and unexpectedly compelling Professor Bradshaw.

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Dean feels about as comfortable in old colleges as he does in churches. There’s the same sense of exclusivity, that same reverence of things Dean has spent his life stuck on wrong side of. This campus even feels a little like a church, with its old architecture and sprawling ruby ivy and slit windows like narrowed eyes. His footfalls echo heavily along the cold stone corridor, making him feel uncomfortably aware of his own existence.

The door he’s looking for is old and made of oak, nestled in an alcove near the staircase, with a small plaque on it that reads Professor J Bradshaw.

Dean pauses for a moment, then knocks abruptly, suddenly noticing his knuckles are still smudged with earth. From within, a muffled voice instructs him to enter, and he does so, wiping his hand surreptitiously against the side of his leather jacket.

The first thing that hits him is the sheer volume of books in the room; they clutter every available surface, piled high in front of the big bay window like a strange line of defense. There are stacks of loose papers everywhere too, haphazard but clearly organized, some held in place by empty coffee mugs or odd-looking artefacts. The air is bright and warm, like this room catches the sun when it’s slow and mellow in the afternoons.

The second thing that hits him is the man sitting at the desk.

He doesn’t look up at Dean’s entrance, continuing to scribble away in a leather-bound notebook with intent dexterity, seemingly utterly lost in his own thoughts. He’s not what Dean expected; surprisingly young, maybe approaching forty, with a sharp jaw and tousled hair that just brushes his broad shoulders. When Dean clears his throat awkwardly, the man finally looks up with striking blue eyes that immediately pin Dean in place.

“Yes?” his voice is inquiring and several octaves deeper than Dean would have imagined, low and gravelly. He sets down his pen, looking at Dean with piercing focus.

“Uh – hey. Professor Bradshaw?” Dean feels distinctly self-conscious.

“Who wants to know?” the man closes his notebook with a snap and stands with surprisingly fluid ease, eyes still intent on Dean as though he’s cataloguing him.

He’s wearing a faded navy-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, slightly crumpled shirt tails poking out at the hem, just visible.

Drawing on years of sizing people up, Dean guesses that the guy probably has no one to go home to at night. If he goes home much at all, that is; the office has a distinctly lived-in look. It’s strangely reminiscent of the makeshift home feel of the impala’s interior.

“Um – Dean. Dean Collins,” Dean answers hastily, suddenly realizing he’s spent a little too long looking. “I’m uh – a student in one of your classes,” he lies the best way he knows how: with a charming smile. “I was wondering if you’ve got a moment? I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your work.”

“Come in, please,” Professor Bradshaw sits back down behind his desk, and gestures for Dean to close the door. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” Dean shuts the door and awkwardly removes three hardback books and a small, slightly drooping fern from the only available seat in front of Professor Bradshaw’s desk.

“Sorry – let me –” Professor Bradshaw leans over the desk to relieve Dean of the books and the plant. Close up, Dean can see faint lines softening the corners of his vivid eyes, and when he breathes in, he catches a hint of peppermint and the musk of warm skin, strangely compelling. Their hands brush for a moment as Professor Bradshaw takes the items, and Dean flinches, jerking away and planting himself firmly on the chair.

“So – Dean, yes?” Professor Bradshaw settles back into his seat. He’s still looking intently at Dean, gaze startlingly blue.

Wordlessly, Dean nods. He doesn’t know why he can feel the heat creeping up his cheeks.

“You’re not in any of my classes, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, with a slight edge to his voice. He reaches for a half-drunk mug of tea on his desk, expression skeptical.

Dean feels his stomach drop. “Uh, yeah – I’m new, just transferred a couple weeks back,” he bluffs quickly, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He feels strangely flustered, visible.

“No, I don’t think so,” Professor Bradshaw says, flatly. “I believe I would have noticed,” he adds, wryly, with a kind of impatient warmth in his expression that makes Dean’s cheeks flare with heat all over again. Professor Bradshaw merely swallows a mouthful of tea and sets the mug back down, still looking at Dean. “So. Who are you?”

“Alright,” Dean puts his hands up in mock-surrender, smiling wide even though he feels stupidly on edge, knocked off course. “You got me. I’m – uh – a journalist. My boss has me writing a piece on local legends, and I was hoping to pick your brains. Heard you’re the expert on all that stuff around here, and thought I might be in with a better chance of talking to you as a student instead of some annoying reporter.”

“I see,” Professor Bradshaw leans back in his chair, contemplative. A shaft of sunlight filters through the bay window behind him, illuminating a hint of tawny in his dark, untidy hair. Dust motes hang everywhere like suspended snow. “Well, luckily for you, Dean, I find that my students can be just as annoying as reporters. And I still talk to them on a daily basis.”

Dean grins a little awkwardly, “Yeah?”

“Of course, I do get paid to do that,” Professor Bradshaw adds, dryly. “But perhaps I do them a disservice. Some of them are really quite inspiring.” He pauses, raising his mug to his lips. It has an owl on it, Dean notices absently. An overly fluffy one, with a slightly threatening glare. “I daresay I can spare five minutes. What is it that I can do for you, Dean?”

“Uh, so you study the supernatural, right?” Dean asks, clumsily. His hands are sweating where they’re shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Ghosts and demons and all that shit?”

“I study the lore and mythology of supernatural beings, and why it’s important to humans to create such stories,” Professor Bradshaw clarifies, shortly.

“Right, got it,” Dean agrees, hastily. “But you’d know a bit about the Bridgewater coven?”

“I am familiar with the legends, yes,” Professor Bradshaw replies, reaching for his mug again. There’s an ink stain on the side of his index finger, smudged deep blue. Dean fleetingly wonders if it would rub off easily if he touched it, if it would leave a ghostly imprint on his own skin.

“Yeah – uh – so there’s been quite a lot of interest in the coven recently,” Dean blusters, annoyed with himself for how stupidly flustered he feels, “You know, since those bodies were found last week? At the burial site in Bridgewater Forest that’s associated with the legend? Yeah. Well, anyway, I was – hoping you might be able to tell me a little more about the legend of the coven.”

“I don’t see what the recent tragedies could possibly have to do with the legend,” Professor Bradshaw narrows his eyes skeptically.

“Right – yeah – nothing, I’m sure,” Dean lies hastily, “But the location of the crimes has definitely raised awareness about the existence of the legend, and that’s what we really want to provide for our readers.”

“Well, certainly, I can tell you the history,” Professor Bradshaw replies, briskly, “In fact, I teach an undergrad course on witchcraft in history and my lecture this Wednesday actually covers the legend of the coven. If you want a more detailed, nuanced version, you’re more than welcome to come along then – it’s at 11am in the Milton building. But I’m happy to give you the short version now, if that would be helpful?”

“Thanks – yeah, that’d be great,” Dean says, gratefully. “On a bit of a tight schedule today.”

“Well, the local legend about the Bridgewater coven has existed for almost two hundred years,” Professor Bradshaw starts, and immediately Dean can picture him talking in front of a lecture theatre full of kids. He’s a natural, something inherently captivating about the way he speaks. “In the 1800s, this village was an important site of religious pilgrimage. However, according to the legend, the village was also home to a small coven lead by a witch named Iris. Iris’s coven was said to have lived in secrecy in the forest on the outskirts of Bridgewater for years, and not to have troubled the village people. However, by 1816, the legend claims the coven had become very hostile, specifically towards the church. There were fears the coven had begun indoctrinating – or bewitching – members of the congregation.”

Professor Bradshaw pauses, swallowing another mouthful of tea. The muscles in his throat work, drawing Dean’s attention to the way his pale blue shirt isn’t buttoned up properly. He’s filled with the sudden, inexplicable urge to button it up correctly.

“More and more people started disappearing in connection with the coven,” Professor Bradshaw continues, setting his mug back down on the desk, and Dean jerks his gaze guiltily away from the line of his throat, clenching his hands into fists inside the pockets of his leather jacket. “The rapidly diminishing congregation lived in terror. The remaining members of the church all turned against each other. Then, at the height of local hysteria, Iris is said to have murdered Blanche, the minister’s daughter, in what is portrayed in the lore as some kind of statement of the coven’s power over the church.”

“Bet that didn’t go down too well,” Dean remarks, sardonically.

“Quite,” Professor Bradshaw catches Dean’s eye, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, according to the legend, the tragedy of Blanche’s death united the warring members of the congregation. They captured Iris and entombed her alive, using her own magic against her to keep her trapped. Iris’s death broke the spell on the members of the congregation who’d been indoctrinated against their will, and peace was restored to the village. The few remaining members of the original coven fled and were never seen again.”

“Wow,” Dean raises his eyebrows, “Very love-thy-neighbor.”

Professor Bradshaw snorts, “Yes. Religious leaders in the 1800s were renowned for sitting down and resolving their problems through compassionate discussion,” he remarks, dryly.

“Okay, but what about the other versions of the legend?” Dean asks, trying to remember the things Sam had told him to ask about, but drawing a total blank. His brain feels weirdly scrambled. It’s hard to remember what happened before walking into Professor Bradshaw’s office. “The other stories about the coven I’ve come across so far all seem pretty different.”

Professor Bradshaw frowns slightly. “It’s true, there are many conflicting accounts. Which is often the case with legends, being human constructions of the past,” he regards Dean slightly disapprovingly over the rim of his owl mug, a kind of skeptical stubbornness in the set of his mouth. “It’s not about knowing which ‘to believe’ – it’s about looking at why historically people have favored one version over the other and what that tells us about them.”

“Right, yeah, but aren’t legends often based on fact?” Dean pushes.

Professor Bradshaw pauses, contemplatively, “Yes. That’s certainly true in some cases.”

“Do you think it’s the case in this one?”

“Possibly,” Professor Bradshaw replies, haltingly. His expression is serious and he hesitates for a moment before elaborating; “In fact, I’m currently writing a paper about the historical figures who feature in the legend of the Bridgewater coven.”

“Yeah? Which ones?” Dean presses. He’s used to having to fake interest to get information out of people like Professor Bradshaw, but for once, he finds he’s genuinely interested. There’s something compelling about Professor Bradshaw’s evidently obsessive quest for obscure answers, something that resonates with all too much familiarity.

“Iris, predominantly,” Professor Bradshaw replies. “I’m very interested in the historical reasons women were condemned as witches. Often, it’s as simple as jilted male lovers using accusations of witchcraft as a means of revenge, or the women using herbal remedies that threatened contemporary male ideas of medicine and the body. Sometimes it’s to do with female homosexuality and society’s unacceptance of same sex relationships or women as sexual beings. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for gay men to be condemned for witchcraft either. But statistically, more homosexual women died as a result of such accusations.”

“Uh – right –” Dean swallows, looking away. His hands are sweating again, and he wipes them surreptitiously on the insides of his pockets. Clearing his throat, he changes the subject, suddenly remembering the other thing Sam had told him to ask Professor Bradshaw about, “What about the runes?”

“Ah yes, the runes on Iris’s supposed tomb,” Professor Bradshaw’s gaze is suddenly inscrutable in a way that makes Dean’s heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. It sweeps over Dean, lingering and unnervingly blue for a moment, before he continues, “Very interesting. I’ve been studying them a great deal as part of my research. The true nature of them has always remained a mystery, and any attempts to discern their meaning haven’t fitted with the legend at all. I believe they may be key to understanding the history behind the creation of the legend. But,” he smiles, wryly, “It’s not an easy task. They’re unlike any runes I’ve come across anywhere else before.”

“Can I see?” Dean asks, partly out of interest, and partly for some way of distracting himself from the way his heart is still thumping uncomfortably fast.

“You’d have to visit the forest burial site to see them in person, but I do have a couple of sketches of the lines I’m working on at the moment,” Professor Bradshaw gets to his feet and crosses to the cabinet by the window, pulling the top drawer open.

The fall chestnut trees outside smolder amber behind his silhouette, midday sunshine pale gold and still where it filters through the window. Time seems strangely irrelevant. Dean watches as Professor Bradshaw flicks through a green binder, fingers quick and dexterous, skilled and uncalloused in a way Dean’s have never had the chance to be.

Dean swallows and looks away, ignoring the thud of his heart as he stares around at the rest of the room. He clocks a bunch of compendiums of mythology on the bookcase nearest him, and two other eccentric and slightly neglected looking plants. There’s a thick plaid rug on the couch in the corner, not quite concealing a plate of half-eaten toast. On the windowsill, there’s a little tin mug with a toothbrush in it that makes Dean wonder again just how often Professor Bradshaw goes home at all. He finds himself wondering whether Professor Bradshaw has always had nothing but an empty house to return to, or whether that’s a more recent development. He’s definitely old enough to be going through a divorce. The thought sits uncomfortably in Dean’s chest for reasons he doesn’t particularly want to identify.

“Here we are.” Professor Bradshaw’s gravelly voice, suddenly much closer, makes Dean jump. He glances around to find Professor Bradshaw standing beside him, holding out a sheet of paper. The smell of warm skin and peppermint catches Dean off guard, stronger this time, and still strangely compelling.

“Uh – thanks,” Dean says awkwardly, taking the proffered page. He feels Professor Bradshaw’s fingers brush against his fleetingly, warm and ink-stained.

Dean swallows, forcing himself to focus on the page in front of him even though his cheeks are hot with something he doesn’t want to think about. The sketches are good, a few strange vaguely Norse reminiscent symbols drawn hastily with accompanying, scrawled notes in the margins. There’s something about the runes that niggles at Dean’s brain, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like something he’s known his whole life but can’t put his finger on.

“These are interesting,” Dean he frowns, tracing his finger along the two last symbols.

When he glances up, he finds Professor Bradshaw looking at him intently, blue eyes inscrutable. “Yes,” he says, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. “Those are the ones which struck me too,” he’s speaking a little quieter, low voice distracting Dean from why the runes are so familiar. He hopes he can remember them, that Sam will be able to place what he can’t about them.

“So, uh, this tomb. The one with the runes on it – that’s definitely where that guy’s body was found last week? It wasn’t just nearby or something?” Dean forces himself to ask, ignoring the way his heart is suddenly thumping again. “And the girl found the week before – she was directly linked to the burial site too?”

Professor Bradshaw clears his throat, unfolding his arms. “I believe so, yes.”

“And that doesn’t seem – I don’t know – a little strange, to you?”

“Human beings committing violent acts against each other is generally something I find a little strange,” Professor Bradshaw replies, in clipped tones. “But beyond that – no. Now –” he breaks off, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I have a seminar to deliver in ten minutes,” he confesses, and there’s something unfinished about the way he says it, something almost reluctant. Like he half wants to stay here talking with Dean.

“No problem,” Dean stands, and takes a last glance at the sketches before handing them back, trying to commit them to memory. “Thanks, Professor.”

Their eyes meet as Professor Bradshaw accepts the page, and the room suddenly feels very airless, a pause suspended between them. Neither of them moves away.

This close, Dean can see miniscule flecks of grey like tiny stars lost in blue of Professor Bradshaw’s eyes, the way that his full lips are slightly chapped, like maybe he worries them between his teeth when he’s thinking. They’re soft pink and warm-looking, and Dean wonders fleetingly if they taste like peppermint tea.

“It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, gently, and his eyes are so blue.

“Uh – yeah – you too. Thanks. I’d – uh – I’d better get going,” Dean stammers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and cursing the way his cheeks are suddenly flaming with heat. His thoughts churn unsteadily; he ignores them the way he’s learnt to.

Still feeling strangely wound-up, he nods awkwardly at Professor Bradshaw and turns reluctantly towards the door.

“Wait a moment, Dean –” Professor Bradshaw’s voice halts Dean in his tracks as he reaches the door, and Dean turns expectantly, heat thumping a little painfully.

“Yeah?”

“Here – you’re welcome to borrow a couple of books on local history,” Professor Bradshaw is pulling a couple of books down from the overflowing cabinet by the window. “They should have a bit more about the legend of the coven that you might find interesting. Divergences of the legend and so forth. I’ll need them back by Thursday morning as I’m teaching a class on them in the afternoon, but you’re welcome to borrow them until then if they’d be helpful.”

“You sure?” Dean takes the proffered books awkwardly, and swallows the strange disappointment sinks in him like a stone as Professor Bradshaw steps back again. “Thanks.”

“As I said, I’m also giving a lecture on Wednesday where I’ll be examining the history behind the legend of the coven. I meant what I said - you’d be more than welcome to attend,” Professor Bradshaw says, sincerely. His eyes are intent, and there’s a hint of something almost like hopefulness hidden in the depths of his gravelly voice. Working on long ingrained instinct, Dean chooses to ignore it.

“Thanks, I��ll – I’ll see what my schedule’s like,” Dean replies, haltingly.

“Of course,” Professor Bradshaw agrees. He turns back to his desk.

“Can I ask –” Dean pauses, watching Professor Bradshaw stuff another notebook and a stack of handouts into his briefcase. “You said you’re writing a paper about the runes at the forest burial site– do you go to there much?”

Professor Bradshaw glances up, distractedly. “Yes, I spend time there every week.”

“So you haven’t noticed anything – I don’t know – anything unusual when you’ve been there recently?” Dean ventures.

“Unusual how?” Professor Bradshaw closes his briefcase with a snap and looks up at Dean properly, eyes narrowed with sudden skepticism. It’s stronger than the hints Dean has caught at other points during their conversation, sharp and blue, a world away from the observant warmth of a few moments ago.

“I dunno – odd noises, sudden drops in temperature, shadows –”

“Just what are you asking me?” Professor Bradshaw demands, voice clipped and defensive.

“Have you seen anything like that?” Dean presses, stubbornly. Irritation prickles his skin.

“No, I haven’t,” Professor Bradshaw says, bluntly. “And you know why? Because yes, I study the supernatural – but it’s not real, Dean. I don’t know what kind of sensational article you’re writing about local lore, but I can assure you, lore is all it is.” He winds a striped scarf haphazardly around his neck, and grabs his briefcase off the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

Sam is eating some gross looking granola yoghurt pot with a plastic spoon when Dean eventually clambers back into the car, feeling distinctly frustrated.

“You took your time,” he remarks idly, raising an eyebrow as Dean adjusts the mirror with an unnecessary amount of force and turns on the ignition.

“Goddamn waste of time was what it was,” Dean mutters mutinously, pulling out of the space and then immediately being forced to hit the brakes when a cluster of students cross the parking lot in front of him. He grinds his teeth and resists the urge to honk the horn. “Thought I was getting somewhere but he completely shut down the minute I asked him if he’d noticed anything weird at the burial site.”

“Suspicious?” Sam frowns, through a mouthful of granola.

“No, don’t think so. Just really damn touchy,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he waits for the students to move, “And a bit of an asshole. I dunno, suppose working in his field he’s probably used to people thinking he’s just some lunatic who believes in the supernatural.”

“And does he?”

Dean snorts. “No way. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it. You’d think someone who’s spent the last twenty years with their head buried in books about ghosts and covens and demonic possession might be a little more open to the idea,” he shrugs, and gives in to the temptation to lean on the horn, reveling in the brief satisfaction of making the students jump and scurry out of the way, “But no. The guy’s absolutely blind to it all, and could rival you on stubbornness.”

Sam purses his mouth in annoyance, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Get anything useful at all?”

“He did lend me a couple books,” Dean admits, nodding in the direction of the backseat. “Have to take them back on Thursday morning, though. He needs them for some class.”

“He leant you his books?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, skin prickling in annoyance, “What of it?”

“Dunno, that’s just,” Sam swallows a mouthful of yoghurt, “Pretty trusting. Academics usually treat their books as if they’re their first borns.”

“Don’t mess them up when you read them, then,” Dean says, dismissively, as they pull out onto the main street. “You find out anything useful about the victims?”

“Not really,” Sam leans back in his seat with a sigh, “Both from middle class, religious families. Seem to have been pretty well liked by people. Hard to establish any link more than that. The wife of the guy that was killed last week seemed a bit cagey, though,” he shrugs, “Might be worth a second visit to see if she’s holding out on us about something.”

“Right,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as they wait for a light to change. It’s starting to drizzle, tiny flecks of grey hitting the windshield. “Are we still definitely thinking ghost?”

“Seems like it,” Sam affirms, “The way the victims died definitely points to a vengeful spirit. But the place they were killed – connected to the burial site associated with the coven? I don’t know, I was thinking maybe it’s no ordinary ghost. Maybe it’s the vengeful spirit of a witch, and that’s why it’s so powerful?”

“Hm,” Dean mulls it over, flicking the windscreen wipers on as they continue to wait. They squeak slightly, repetitive and familiar. “You could be onto something there.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor Bradshaw was telling me about the local legend of the coven. Apparently, its leader was entombed alive by a bunch of angry churchgoers,” Dean steps on the accelerator as the light finally changes, and the rain-slicked village slides past in a blur. “That’s got to be some pretty good vengeful spirit material right there. And you said the victims were both religious, right? Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why now, though?” Sam frowns. “It’s been what – two hundred years? There must have been plenty of churchgoers who walked by the burial site before now.”

“Dunno,” Dean shrugs, staring out at the rainy smudge of fall colors. The chestnuts trees lining the street are the same smoldering hue of amber as the one outside Professor Bradshaw’s window.

They drive in silence for a few moments, wipers squeaking.

“Okay,” Sam says, at length, “So I’m thinking – we go check into a motel, get through as much of these books from your professor as we can while we wait for the rain to stop, and then check out the burial site later this afternoon before it gets dark?” Sam asks, chucking his plastic spoon in the empty yoghurt container.

“He’s not ‘my professor’,” Dean says defensively, and suddenly has to step a little too hard on the breaks to avoid running a red light.

“Alright,” Sam says, slowly. “Okay.”

“Anyway, yeah,” Dean blusters, hastily, ignoring the weight of Sam’s gaze on the side of his face, “Works for me. But first,” he flicks on the indicator and pulls into a space near a little line of local shops. “Food. Not that yoghurty shit you’ve been eating. Real food.”

The forest is steeped in quiet in the way all ancient places are, fall singing the leaves on the gnarled branches that claw their way towards the fading gold of the late afternoon sun. Dean breathes in the wet, cloying smell of moss and follows Sam’s careful path through the trees. There’s a chill in the air, but the handle of Dean’s blade is hot in the palm of his hand.

“How much further to this place?” he hisses at Sam’s back, swatting a frond of bracken out of his face and casting his gaze edgily through the twisting branches and burnt amber.

“Nearly there, according to –” Sam stops so abruptly that Dean nearly collides with him, throwing out a cautionary arm.

“What?” Dean whispers urgently, instantly drawing his blade. His heart is racing now, whole body tense, coiled, ready to attack. His gaze flickers rapidly through the mess of branches and he stands on his tiptoes, trying to see past Sam’s stupidly large frame. “Sammy,” he hisses, impatiently, when Sam doesn’t immediately answer, “What is it?”

“There’s something there,” Sam breathes, almost inaudible. His posture is still, alert. Dean can see Sam’s hold on the gun in his back pocket tighten.

“What kind of something?” Dean whispers, craning his neck to try and see. The light seems somehow dimmer already, the fading sun sliding further towards the ground. When he breathes in, the smell of wet leaves is stronger, now that they’re in the heart of the forest. His heart is thrumming so fast but everything else feels suspended in time, unnaturally still.

“I think it’s a person,” Sam murmurs, and somewhere close, Dean hears the brittle rustle of dead leaves, loud and unnerving in the wooded quiet. He watches the quickened rise and fall of Sam’s shoulders as his breathing suddenly sharpens. “They’re holding something. They – shit, Dean, they’re coming this way.”

Dean reacts immediately and on nearly twenty years of protective instinct; he shoves Sam out of the way and stumbles out into the clearing, blade brandished in front of him.

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#did i really just create a new ship tag on ao3 just because i couldn't get the idea of early seasons dean and pre-podcast jeremy meeting?#yes #yes i did #feedback truly makes my day <3 #crossposting from ao3 #bridgewater #bridgewater podcast #supernatural #dean winchester #jeremy bradshaw #dean x jeremy #spn fanfic #dean fanfic #my stuff #my posts: fanfic

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pengychan · 6 years

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[Coco] Heaven and Earth - Revolution

Title: Revolution Summary: Revolution didn’t reach Santa Cecilia until 1913. When it did, it changed three lives for good. [“My name is Imelda. Let’s go rescue your stupid friend.”] Characters: Hector Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz

Other fics from the series can be found here.

Revolution, and the chaos it brought, didn’t reach to Santa Cecilia until 1913.

Word had reached them that something was going on, of course, but none of them had understood quite what was going on: what little they got were bits and pieces from passing visitors and people moving in, and all of them were confused.

The revolutionaries were beasts. No, they were saviours. The government was the true evil. The government was protecting the people. Now the government had changed and was much better or much worse depending on whom you asked. Now revolutionary groups had switched sides and others had been created; armed militants of either side would storm in towns and villages demanding a place to rest, refreshments, horses, and even men to fight for whatever cause they believed in - and God help you if they were denied. They took men, they took boys, they took women, they took babes from their mothers’ breast, they killed for sport, nobody was safe.

In the whirlwind of claims and contrasting information, only one thing had become clear to the people of Santa Cecilia: that out there it was chaos, and that they should hope it would never reach their peaceful town. Even Ernesto, who’d been itching to leave since the day he had turned fourteen - which made him, at least in his mind, a grown man ready to hit the road - had decided it was best to lay low until the entire mess was over with.

Three years later, following a few months with no news, the people of Santa Cecilia were beginning to think that perhaps it was over after all. Then, of course, the soldiers came like coyotes closing on a wounded animal, and they’d known it had only just begun.

***

“Coyote, coyote… what rhymes with coyote?”

“Peyote?”

“Oh, good one. How do I work that in the song, though?”

“Can’t help with that one, son. You’re the expert.”

Perched on the now empty cart - he and his father had been delivering goods to the next town over for most of the day - Héctor let out a laugh. “I don’t feel like much of an expert right now. I haven’t come up with a decent song in months,” he muttered, and sighed. “Maybe Ernesto is right. A change of air might bring new ideas.”

“You’re only thirteen, mijo. A bit too young to hit the road, don’t you think?” Ricardo pointed out, reaching to ruffle his hair with the hand that wasn’t holding onto the horse’s reins. “Give it a few more years, and then perhaps… wait, what is that?”

“Huh?” Héctor looked up from his notebook to look ahead. They had almost reached the last hill before Santa Cecilia; once they were on top, they would see their town sprawled before them. But he could already see something now - a column of smoke rising into the sky from beyond the hill.

Héctor turned his his father, his mouth dry, to see him frowning and holding tighter on the reins. Neither of them said a word as the cart hurried up the hill, towards home - and when they reached the top, when he could see where the smoke was coming from, Héctor found himself unable to breathe for a few moments.

At the far end of the town, Ernesto’s house was ablaze.

***

“Ernesto! Where is he? What happened?”

Hétor’s voice, thin and terrified, was hardly heard by anybody at all. Most of the people he knew were there, in front of the smouldering remains of the house, and they began talking all at once when Héctor and Ricardo showed up - to the point that at first it was hard for them to understand what they were saying.

“Soldiers, said they were with the government--”

“Not many, maybe thirty, but they all were armed…”

“They came in the morning, not long after you left. They demanded food and drinks, stayed at the cantina almost all morning--”

“We were hoping they would just leave when they got what he wanted, but--”

But, Héctor finally gathered, one of the men had drunk too much and had tried to grab the server at the cantina, Milagros Castillo, a widower who had arrived to Santa Cecilia with her daughter and twin sons only a couple of months earlier. She’d tried to move away, but the man had grasped her more forcefully. She’d tried to run off, then, only to be chased in the square among the laughter of soldiers and the horrified looks of townspeople.

The laughter had stopped when someone had come between the armed soldier and terrified woman. Estéban de la Cruz was an unpleasant man to be around but, was the general consensus, his heart was in the right place; he’d shielded Milagros and, when the soldier had ordered him to move aside, he’d punched him in the face without wasting his breath to talk. Very much unlike his son, he’d always been a man of few words.

“And then they shot him,” Álvaro said, his voice grave. “They hit him in the shoulder, and he fell down like a sack of bricks. His wife, the poor woman, she rushed to him and tried to get him away from there while he screamed and bled, but more soldiers came out in the square and pointed their guns at them. We were all sure they were going to shoot him like a dog. We thought she was done for, too. Only that…”

Only that Ernesto had stepped in front of his father, arms held up and a smile on his face.

“Got to admire that,” Álvaro mused. “The boy must have been terrified, but he stared into the barrels of those rifles and smiled like he meant it.”

And somehow Ernesto, ever the charmed, had managed to talk the armed men out of shooting his parents. He’d apologized on his father’s behalf, said that his mind had never been right after an accident in the mine and surely, the heroes of Mexico - may God preserve President Huerta! - were above shooting a cripple and a woman. Why didn’t they come to his house? His father had a good reserve of homemade tequila they could take, as an apology for the trouble. There was a good horse they could have, too, and a good amount of gunpowder they used to make fireworks. And perhaps he could play for them? They had been having such a good time, it would be a shame to let the incident sour the mood.

“Well, somehow, it worked,” Álvaro said. “They lowered the guns. But then they looked at Estéban, and said… they said…”

You are lucky your boy has more brains than you do, their commander had said. Actually, I think he’ll be better off with us. A new soldier for the cause.

“No!” Héctor exclaimed, horrified. He hoped against hope that someone would reassure him, tell him that somehow that hadn’t happened - or, better yet, that Ernesto himself should show up to tell him that everything was fine, of course they had not taken him. But Álvaro sighed, and the hope was dashed.

“They took him. His father tried to stand up, his poor mother was hysterical, but what could we do? They were armed, all of them. If we’d struggled, they’d had shot him and then us, too. We had to hold them back.”

So the soldiers had left the town square, and followed Ernesto to his home. They had taken all they could take, clearly, before setting the place on fire and leaving, taking Héctor’s best friend with them. When the rest of the townsfolk had dared approach the burning house, not long before Héctor and his father had arrived, there was nobody left.

“Estéban is unconscious, I hear, and it’s probably for the best,” Álvaro finished grimly. “I think the doctor decided to sedate Adela, too. She was beside herself. She wanted to go after them, imagine that. Such is a mother’s heart, but it would have been complete madness.”

“But we must! Someone has to!” Héctor protested, dread heavy on his chest. The thought of Ernesto involved in an armed conflict - Ernesto, who had never in his life handled a gun and often joked that a guitar was the only weapon he needed - chilled him to the bone. He could die, or be maimed, or could go missing for years. The thought of having to go on without his best friend - the thought the world could even keep spinning without him in it - was simply absurd to him. Nothing would be the same ever again. Even music would lose its magic. “They can’t have gone far! If we go now--”

“We’ll only get ourselves, and maybe him, killed,” his father cut him off. He was pale and scowling, which was unusual for him. “There is nothing we can do.”

“No! We can’t just abandon him!”

“Héctor--”

“He’s one of us! One of our town!” Héctor screamed, the dread starting to give way to anger, and a few men turned away from him, gaze lowered. “And now you just want to move on like he’s not even missing? Just forget all about him?”

“Mijo, I understand you’re upset,” his father spoke, putting a hand on his shoulder. “But sometimes there is nothing we can do but hope. Maybe he will return, and maybe it will be sooner than you think. We can only pray and--”

“YOU ARE JUST COWARDS!”

The scream was loud enough to hurt Héctor’s throat, but he found he didn’t care. His chest was suddenly constricted and his vision blurry, and he turned to run before anybody could see him cry. He was not supposed to weep at all; he was a big boy now, not as old as Ernesto but still too old to cry. If Ernesto saw him now, he’d probably poke some fun at him.

Why the waterworks, chamaco? Just heard yourself singing?

Except that he wasn’t there, and maybe he would never poke fun at him ever again.

“Héctor! Come back!”

He didn’t listen, didn’t want to listen. He just ran and ran, trying to put as much distance between himself and everybody else as he could. In the end his feet took him to the stream, the one he and Ernesto spent a lot of time playing or fishing or making music, the one in which they had almost drowned during a flood five years earlier. He dropped down on the bank, staring down at the water, and it was only then that he allowed himself to cry, with no one there to hear.

Or so he thought.

“I can get us a horse. We can still catch up.”

“Eeek!”

Splash.

“... Did you just jump in the water?”

Héctor sat up, sputtering and trying to shake some water off himself. He reached to push wet hair out of his eyes, trying to figure out who had spoken, and his gaze paused on a girl with black hair tied back in a braid, standing only a few feet from the stream’s bank. She must have walked up to him without him realizing.

“What?” Héctor managed, and recognized her just as he spoke. She was the daughter of that Castillo woman, from the cantina. He’d seen her from time to time in the market, but she was a newcomer and had never spoken to him, so Héctor had never grasped her name - although he remembered thinking she was really, really pretty. That was the first time she spoke to him, and he got the distinct feeling she was not impressed. She crossed her arms, tilting her head on one side.

“I said I can get us a horse. Do you want to come rescue that attention hog you’ve got as a friend or not?”

Héctor blinked, his brain barely catching up with what he was hearing. “You want to… go help him?” he asked slowly, and she nodded. She had to be maybe a year older than Héctor at most, but there was something in her expression that made her look more like an adult than some adults Héctor had met.

“He was taken because his father tried to protect my mother from that pig,” she said, and took a step forward. “I think he’s annoying and his hair is stupid, but fair is fair. I’ll go get him back. That’s what you want too, isn’t it?” she added, and held out a hand for him to grasp. He did, and she pulled up with seemingly no effort at all. Héctor wrapped his arms around himself, trying not to shiver too hard in the breeze, acutely aware of how skinny he was.

“Yes. That’s what I want. But how…?”

“They’ll have to stop for the night. They’ll have a campfire, so we should be able to find them. We get there and take him back. It may be easier in two - one of us can create a diversion. Maybe free their horses and make them run off.”

“But what if they see us?”

“We won’t let them.”

Easier said than done, Héctor knew, but as she was the only one willing to help getting his best friend back home, he supposed he was not in the position to nitpick her plan… or lack of a plan. Still...

“But when they realize Ernesto is missing, won’t they come back to Santa Cecilia?” he asked, and the girl smiled. It was a sharp smile with something cat-like about it, and it made him shiver… but, he also noted, it made her look more than just pretty. It made her look beautiful.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll find a way to take care of them.”

He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure he wanted to know anything more - and plus, he had a distinct feeling he would find out either way. So he just nodded, and held out a hand. “My name is Héctor,” he said instead, and she gave another sharp smile, reaching to shake it.

“Nice to meet you, Héctor. My name is Imelda. Let’s go rescue your stupid friend.”

***

Considering that he’d seen his father shot and his house burned down before being led away at gunpoint to join the pro-government military, his mother’s screams still ringing in his ears, Ernesto de la Cruz - who was still two weeks away from his seventeenth birthday - figured he was doing rather well. As long as he had a guitar in his hands and could sing, he supposed he could make his way out of any kind of trouble, or almost. Maybe.

The sheer amount of alcohol those men had been drinking throughout the day was helping too, he supposed. He’d talked non-stop throughout the ride to that clearing in the mountains, making sure to talk the most to those who were clearly the leaders, praising Huerta and feigning immense interest in their victories, as well as a burning wish to take part of a battle himself very soon. By the time the leader ordered everybody to dismount of set a camp - which was a big word for ‘starting a fire and sitting close to it - they were more than just tipsy, convinced he was a fervent believer in their cause, and all too willing to listen to some music.

So he began playing and singing, and kept at it long after sundown. The men laughed, tried to sing along, shouted suggestions for the next song, clapped… and most of all they kept drinking, every single one of them. Ernesto knew that his father’s tequila was very strong stuff; they had lowered their guard, too, to the point they hadn’t even set up a watchman.

Good for me. I’ll be out of here the moment the last of them has the good grace to pass out. They won’t catch me. I’ll hide somewhere until they’re gone. I can do it. Just keep playing.

And he did keep playing and singing, because after all that was what he did best. Maybe it was the only thing he could really do but oh, wasn’t he amazing at it?

You should learn a real trade, his father would often say, but the joke was on him, because look where he’d found himself: bleeding in the dirt with a bullet in him. Ernesto would be better than that. He’d be smarter than that. He knew what his strengths were, and how to play them; he would show him, he would show them, he would show everyone.

“Isn’t that tequila the best? Another toast for Mexico! Now, for my next song--!”

Ernesto sang until he needed water for his parched throat, played until his fingertips were raw, and then played and sang some more. He got his captors to drink. He bid his time. When the right moment to escape presented itself, he would seize it.

Until then, he just had to keep going and never stop.

***

“Wait, slow down!”

“Slower than a canter? Do you want us to catch up or not?”

“I’m slipping off! There is no saddle!”

“Just hang on to me.”

“I-I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because I… well… I mean, it wouldn’t be-- whoa!”

The horse abruptly sped up, and Héctor instinctively threw his arms around Imelda’s waist so that he wouldn’t fall off. His face came way too close to the back of her neck; he noticed that her hair smelled nice, and immediately felt himself blushing so violently what he was very, very grateful she couldn’t see him.

“See? Not so difficult, was it?” she asked, spurring the horse forward while holding onto the mane, and Héctor struggled a bit to keep his voice firm.

“Sí, I guess… right,” he mumbled, and tried to focus on the sights around them instead. Santa Cecilia was surrounded by mountains and hills, and there weren’t many trails a group of thirty riders with two carts could take to get through them quickly; that made it easier for them to follow, if anything, in the dying light of the setting sun that made the dusty, rocky path turn almost golden. Even now that the sun had set the moon loomed large, and it was not entirely dark.

“I should write a song about this, if we make it out alive,” he muttered. He was thinking aloud, not really meaning for her to hear, and thus he recoiled when she answered.

“You write songs?”

“Er… yes. From time to time.”

“I heard you and your friend playing in the square once. You’re not half bad. So you wrote those songs?”

“Yes! I mean, most of them. Did you… did you like them?”

“I think you try too hard for a rhyme sometimes.”

“Ah.”

“But other than that, I thought they were really good.”

“Really?” Héctor asked, only to clear his throat, realizing a moment too late that he’d probably said that way too quickly, and way too high. “I mean… thanks.”

“That one about the river and the mine, though?” Imelda was going on. “I think it should be sung slower. Your friend, uh… Evaristo?”

“Ernesto.”

“Yes, him. He always makes them too upbeat. It doesn’t work for everything.”

“I know, I always tell him that! But he just likes it best that way.”

“You should put your foot down. It’s your music. You should have a say on how it’s sung.”

“I tried, but…” Héctor hesitated, not really wanting to say that Ernesto didn’t really listen to him that much when it came to music. As in, it was probably true, but… it just sounded bad put that way. “He just likes his way better,” he finished lamely.

That caused her to snort. “Then tell him to write his own songs to sing his way.”

“I can’t just tell him that!”

“Why not?”

“Well, I… I mean, he’s my friend.”

“So what? Friends argue.”

“I don’t like arguing very much.”

“No one does, but everyone argues when they care about something.”

Héctor cared about his music, of course, he cared a lot - but the thing was that he cared about Ernesto’s friendship more. What did it matter if he insisted to do things his way? The music was still good, and they had good fun. It was worth making compromises to see him happy.

A niggling voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was always the one to compromise, and never Ernesto, but he decided to ignore it. “I’ll… talk to him about that. When we get him back, I mean. So… you like music?”

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, and her voice was suddenly so much warmer Héctor wished he’d asked earlier. “I used to sing in a choir back in San Luz, before my father died. It was not my favorite thing, though - I liked it best when I could sing on my own. But I haven’t had much time to think about music. My mother works so hard, and I need to look after the house and my brothers.”

“Oh. I’m sorry about your papá. How did it happen?”

“He joined the revolutionaries, and never came back. A friend who left with him wrote to tell us he’d died in a fight. He said he died heroically. I guess that was supposed to make it all better,” Imelda added with a scoff. The coldness had crept into her voice again. “Good for him, I guess. He wanted to play the hero more than he wanted to be with his family, so he got what he wanted.”

Héctor had to work his jaw for a couple of times, at a loss of words, before he managed to speak. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Maybe… maybe you’d like to sing with us sometime? When we get back?”

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder, and Héctor was suddenly acutely aware of how close their eyes were. Then she smiled, and it wasn’t like her previous smiles. It was warmer and so was her voice. “You know what? I just might take that invitation,” she said, and Héctor smiled back.

“Please do! I’ll write a song for you to sing!” he blurted out, and this time he didn’t even feel embarrassed for being so openly eager. She had a nice voice, really, and now he really wondered what she sounded like when singing.

Enough, a small voice muttered in the back of his head. Ernesto is missing and probably scared out of his mind, and what you’re thinking of is music?

Right, Héctor thought, he should focus on what was really important at the moment. It was ridiculous, really - music was in his mind so much that, even now, he could almost think he could hear someone singing.

“Deje también mi patria idolatrada, esa mansión que me miró nacer…”

… Wait. He really could hear singing, and it was a familiar voice, too.

“Mi vida es hoy errante y angustida, y ya no puedo a mi mansión volver!”

“Ernesto!” he exclaimed, only to wince and cover his mouth when Imelda shushed him, pulling the horse to a stop. “Sorry,” he mumbled through his fingers, and dismounted after her, if with a lot less grace. Imelda tied the horse to a dying tree on their left, and gestured for him to keep quiet.

“Let’s continue on foot,” she whispered, and then they were off, moving closer to the sounds - the laughs and music and cheering - that became louder and louder the more they approached. Finally the path ended on slope and there, in a clearing below, was a large campfire. The soldiers were sitting around it, drinking and laughing… and there was Ernesto, of course, playing and singing.

He seemed to have won them over, because of course he had; Ernesto always knew how to get people to like him. In retrospect, Héctor wasn’t sure how come he hadn’t expected it to happen. He should have, really. A guitar really was the only weapon he needed, indee--

“Get down! Do you want them to spot us?” Imelda hissed. Her hand grabbed his shirt and pulled him down, getting him to crouch behind the sparse bushes on top of the slope. They hid behind the same bush and, while Héctor kept his eyes fixed on Ernesto, Imelda looked to their left, and then elbowed him in the ribs.

“Look! The horses!”

There were a couple of fallen trees at the far left of the slope, and that was where the soldiers had tied their horses; about fifteen, not as many as the men. Héctor guessed about half of them were travelling in the carts. One of the horses was familiar, too: it was Viento, the horse belonging to Ernesto’s family. He was an almost blinding white, and impossible to miss.

“I see them,” he whispered. “What now?”

Imelda frowned. “I’d hoped they wouldn’t find a place to tie them down. I could have used this to scare them into running off and create a diversion,” she added, holding something up. There was a large rock in her hand, as well as the sash she’d had around her waist. It took Héctor a moment to realize she meant to use it as a slingshot. “Once they got running, they would have gone after them and we all could have left without being seen.”

“What if we untie them?” he asked, eyeing the horses. He would have to move way to the left to get above them, but the bushes would hide him from sight. Then he’d be exposed going down, yes, but with the men’s attention focused on Ernesto, maybe… just maybe… “I untie them and get back up as quickly as I can. You hit one, they run off and--”

“No, that’s too dangerous,” she cut him off. “You could startle a horse, and if they make noise you’ll be spotted. I wouldn’t be able to cover you. I only have rocks and they’ve got rifles.”

“But there really isn’t another way to distract all of them, is there?” Héctor replied, and she hesitated before sighing.

“No,” she admitted, and he pressed on.

“I know it’s dangerous. We both knew it was going to be dangerous. But I’ve got to do this. That’s my best friend down there. I can’t abandon him. And if they get me, I… I won’t tell them you’re here. ”

Imelda stared back at him for a few moments, her expression unreadable, then she smiled. “You’re braver than you look. I like that,” she said, and nodded towards the horses. “All right, have a go. If they spot you, I promise I’ll raise hell to cover you.”

“But then they’d see you too, and--”

“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t ready to put my neck on the line, too,” Imelda cut him off. “His father took a bullet for mamá, and I was the one who got you here. Fair is fair. We’re in this together. We all return home, or no one does.”

Héctor was terrified, he was in awe, he was more excited than he’d ever felt, and he found himself smiling widely at her. “We’ll be fine. I am sure we’ll be fine,” he said, and with that he stood, keeping himself slightly bent to stay hidden from sight. He moved a step towards the horses… and the parched, rocky ground crumbled under his foot.

Oh, come on!

He threw a hand up for balance, and felt Imelda grasping his wrist. For a moment he thought it would be enough, that he wouldn’t fall after all, but then more earth gave in and his weight was too much. He slipped down and so did Imelda, still holding onto his wrist.

“Ooof!”

It wasn’t a too long fall, but the slope was quite steep and littered with rocks. There was a sharp pain on his shin when he scraped it against something hard, his shoulder screamed in protest as he fell on it, and still he kept tumbling down, unable to tell up from down, the world spinning.

Until he hit the ground, and rolled to a stop.

“Ow!”

“Uuugh…”

“Imelda! Are you--”

“All right, who the hell are you?”

Héctor winced, and looked up to see the mouths of three rifles pointed at his face. Three men were staring down at him, teeth bared in a snarl - all three drunk but still so very dangerous - while all other men reached for their own rifles, scanning their surroundings to see if there were more people. Spotting no one, they turned their gazes back on him.

“I…” Héctor began, mouth dry as a desert, not knowing what to say. Luckily, someone else was ready to do the talking for him.

“No, wait! Wait! He’s with me!”

Ernesto’s voice rang out suddenly, causing the men to pause. The turned to look at him questioningly and he smiled at them, all charm and confidence. Considering that he’d been just about to wet his pants while staring into the barrel of a rifle, Héctor had to admire that.

“With you?” one of the men repeated, and Ernesto immediately nodded, striding towards Héctor and pulling him up on his feet.

“This is Héctor Rivera, a friend of mine and a fervent supporter of the cause!” he declared. “When you left without him he must have been so bummed, he just had to follow us. Couldn’t let me get all the glory of fighting for Mexico, could he now?” he added, and turned to Héctor, gesturing widely towards the armed men staring at him. “Héctor, these are my new amigos – the heroes of Mexico. Glory to Huerta!” he added, slapping a hand on his back with more force than it would have been necessary.

“Ow! I mean. Right. Yes. Glory to Huerta,” Héctor managed, waving a hand, and he was greeted back with a round of applause, cheers and a couple of shots in the air as the closest men finally lowered their rifles. The smile still pasted on his face, Ernesto turned to him and whispered while trying not to move his lips.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’ve come to rescue you,” Héctor whispered back.

“Well, good job there. I had everything under contro-”

“Wait, but who’s the girl?” one of the men shouted, causing Ernesto to trail off and Héctor’s blood to run cold. He turned to see that Imelda was standing a few feet away, staring defiantly at the soldiers, the campfire casting shadows on her face. She had a cut on her cheek, and the droplets of blood somehow made her look even more dangerous. Knowing how unpredictable she was, Héctor had no idea what she would say now – and for once found himself terrified for her rather than of her.

“Ah. The girl. Sure,” Ernesto said, clearly at a loss but trying to hide it, the smile frozen on his face. “Of course she’s also with me. She is another old friend. Whom I know real well. Since, you know, ever. We go way back. Her name is...” he hesitated, and glanced at Héctor with some degree of urgency.

Help me there, amigo. I’ve got no idea.

“Imelda,” she finally spoke out, taking a step forward, and smiled. It was nothing like her sharp smiles – her real smiles. It was a sweet, almost fawning one that looked incredibly jarring on her face… but as they didn’t know her, the soldiers didn’t know any better. She beamed at the men, clasping her hands together. “I am also a fervent supporter of the Government, and wished to meet some of the heroes who fight for us. Glory to Huerta!”

Another round of cheers erupted, and Ernesto looked at Héctor with a raised eyebrow.

She’s not serious, is she?, his gaze said, and Héctor shook his head slightly.

“And you’ve come to join us, too?” one of the closest soldiers said with a leer that gave Héctor the creeps. “War is no business for a young girl, but I can think of a few things you might help us with...” he added, and held out a hand.

Two things happened at the same time: Imelda’s expression turned murderous, and Héctor opened his mouth to protest. Neither thing would have turned out well, but Ernesto was quicker than both of them and stepped forward, between them and the men.

“Oh, but you’ve got to see her dance!” he exclaimed, turning back to her. “If you thought I was good fun on my own, you’ve got to see Héctor play and her dance. Right?”

You can dance, right?, that look said. For the love of God tell me you can, because I am grasping for straws here.

To Héctor’s utter relief, Imelda smiled. It was that jarringly sweet smile again, but something in her eyes was still as hard as stone. “Oh, yes, I can dance. I sing, too,” she said, and Ernesto laughed, reaching to take the guitar he had left on the ground and throwing an arm over Imelda’s shoulders. She stiffened a bit, or so it seemed to Héctor, but she went along with the act.

“There, see? We’re going to make this a night to remember. Just give us a moment to decide on the song, sí?” he added, and turned to hand the guitar to Héctor. He took it with shaking hands, eyes shifting between Ernesto and Imelda.

“What’s the plan?” he whispered.

“We buy time, that’s what,” Ernesto hissed. “I had them drinking for hours. If we get them to keep that up...”

“… We might be able to murder them when they pass out,” Imelda finished, causing both boys to look at her. As Héctor tried to guess whether she was serious or not, Ernesto grinned.

“You know, I just met you and I think I like you. But how about we just sneak away at the first chance? Would hate to stain this shirt.”

She looked just slightly disappointed, but nodded without arguing. “Fine. So, the song. How about La Adelita?”

“Never heard of that one.”

“It’s a revolutionary ballad.”

“How about we don’t give them an excuse to shoot us dead?”

“Fair enough. La Llorona?”

“Perfect, I can sing that in my sleep. Héctor?”

“Heh. I can play it holding the guitar backwards and you know it,” he said. For the first time, the fear was beginning to give way to excitement. He smiled, and Imelda returned it with one of those sharp smiles of hers. There was a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and his heart beat just a little faster. “Let’s do this.”

Imelda turned back to the men, who were sitting in a semi-circle, passing around a few bottles, and stepped closer. She planted herself firmly in front of them, ignored their jeers, and began singing.

“Ay de mí, Llorona Llorona de azul celeste Ay de mí, Llorona Llorona de azul celeste!”

She sang the first verse on her own, and she sounded so perfect – so divine, with such a powerful voice – that hadn’t it been for the fact he knew that song so well he could play it without even focusing, he would have skipped several notes. The men fell quiet all of a sudden as well and, beside him, Ernesto was staring with his mouth hanging open – but he recoiled when Imelda sharply tilted her head towards him and held out a hand.

Well, what are you waiting for?

Ernesto didn’t hesitate another moment and stepped forward, joining her on the next verse; the stunned expression was gone, leaving behind the confidence that always shone through when it was time to show what he could do.

“Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona No dejaré de quererte No dejaré de quererte!”

As Ernesto stepped forward she stepped back, and within moments they were dancing to the beat of Héctor’s music, the words leaving them effortlessly.

“Me subí al pino más alto, Llorona A ver si te divisaba Como el pino era tierno, Llorona Al verme llorar, lloraba.”

Imelda had told the truth: she could dance, and how. Her every movement was sparkling with energy and as resolute as she was, her voice the crack of a whip. Ernesto matched her every move and word, verse for verse, to the point it was hard to believe they had never practised this, never sung and danced together before that moment.

“La pena y la que no es pena, Llorona Todo es pena para mí Ayer lloraba por verte, Llorona Hoy lloro porque te vi!”

Héctor had seen Ernesto dance more times than he could count, and he knew he was an excellent dancer; he moved with smooth, effortless grace that Héctor himself could never dream to achieve, gangly and clumsy he was. He’d always laughed it off, saying he would just stick to guitar and songwriting. Now, for the first time – as he saw Ernesto and Imelda singing and dancing together like they were born to do just that – he felt a pang of something very close to envy.

“Ay de mí, Llorona, Llorona Llorona de azul celeste Ay de mí, Llorona, Llorona Llorona de azul celeste!”

The envy didn’t last, though: the next moment Imelda turned to look at him, still singing and eyes sparkling, and smiled. Héctor didn’t even realize he was smiling back, but he did feel his heart leap in his chest, and the envy was gone. She had Ernesto’s arm around her waist and her hands placed on Ernesto’s chest, but she had smiled at him.

Come on now, keep playing. They need your music to keep this going. Give them your best.

He gave Imelda a quick nod, and went back to play with renewed energy, his fingers a blur on the strings.

“Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona No dejaré de quererte Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona No dejaré de quererte No dejaré de quererte No dejaré de quererte!”

Around them, the soldiers were drinking and laughing, singing along and clapping, but suddenly they were so far away they didn’t matter at all. Héctor forgot about them, forgot where they were and why, and just kept on playing – that song, and then the next and the next. He played with all of his heart, spurred on by the voices of his best friend and this girl he’d only just met, transfixed by their every move; there was nobody in the world but the three of them and music, and it was the best feeling there could possibly be.

***

“Eeeevr’body knows… hic… Juanitaaaah… hic… her eeeyes--”

“Oh, just pass out already!”

Héctor winced when Imelda’s foot hit the soldier’s face with a distinct crack, causing him to collapse on his back, the empty bottle falling from his hand. He let out a groaning noise and then nothing more; he just stayed still and unconscious, like all the other men around him. From time to time one of them would shift and mumbled, a lot would snore, but that was all. It was eerie to look at, really: in the light of dimming campfire and that of the dawn that was just about to break Héctor, Imelda and Ernesto were the only ones still standing. He let out a long breath, and turned to glance at Ernesto, handing the guitar back to him.

“We… we did it,” he whispered, partly because his voice was a bit hoarse from singing so much - his fingers felt raw from all the playing, too - and partly because he feared he would wake up the soldiers. Not likely, considering how much they’d drunk, but still not worth risking it.

With a grimace, Ernesto put the guitar on his back before he reached for his throat. When he spoke, he sounded just as hoarse as Héctor.

“I’ll count myself lucky if I don’t lose my voice after toni-- huh. Why is she taking a rifle?”

“In case someone follows us. I’ll get a couple for you too,” Imelda replied, not really bothering to keep her voice low. She threw the rifles over her back and reached to take something else from the ground - a flask of water. She opened it, took a few gulps, and then closed it before throwing it at them. Ernesto caught it, and drank greedily as well before he handed it to Héctor, wiping his mouth dry with a sleeve. There wasn’t much water left at that point, but that was all right. Parched as his throat was, Héctor was grateful for every drop. He finally let the empty flask fall on the ground, and realized that Imelda had turned to Ernesto, gesturing towards the carts only a few steps away.

“Which one has the barrels of gunpowder?”

“This one, they’re under the-- Wait, what are you doing?”

Imelda ignored him, and took one barrel off the cart. She opened it, poured gunpowder under the cart and then began stepping backwards towards the slope, pouring more powder so that it would make a line from the cart to... oh. So that was what he was doing.

“Uh…” Héctor mumbled, swallowing nervously. “I thought we were going to leave quietly?”

“And risk them catching up with us in Santa Cecilia? I don’t think so,” was the reply. She poured the last of the powder on the bottom of the slope, then threw the empty barrel aside. “I’ll get my horse and wait for you on top of the slope. You untie all of their horses, get a couple for yourselves, and join me there. Don’t make too much noise and take a burning branch or something like it with you. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

Imelda flashed him one of those sharp smiles and marched - truth be told, she almost had to climb on its steepest point - up the slope without another word, the rifles on her back. Héctor found himself staring at her for a few moments, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Well, remind me to never make her mad. Where did you find her?” Ernesto asked, clearly impressed, and Héctor could only shrug before they started walking up to the horses.

“It’s more that she found me. She’s the daughter of Milagros Castillo - you know, the one your father helped out.”

“Oh. Right,” Ernesto muttered, and some concern began showing in his voice. “How’s the old cabrón?”

“He’s fine, I think. Just wounded. He and your mother were worried out of their minds, and… and I was, too,” Héctor added, causing Ernesto’s frown to turn into a grin before he reached to ruffle his hair.

“Ay, mi hermano! I should have known you wouldn't abandon me.”

“Of course not! It’s not like I could let you go and shoot yourself in a foot. I had to come rescue you,” Héctor grinned, earning himself a scoff.

“Don’t push it now. I had to rescue you in turn after you landed on your face in front of everybody.”

“... Heh. Right. Can we agree not to tell that part when we get home?”

“Won’t tell if you don’t tell, amigo,” Ernesto agreed, and approached the horses, calling out for his family’s own in a whisper. “Viento! Hello, boy. Stay calm, we’re going home now…”

A few of the horses huffed and shifted nervously as Héctor went to untie each of them from the fallen tree, but they didn’t make much noise or panic, and none of the men stirred. After all horses were untied - some wandered a few steps away, but they mostly stayed where they were - Héctor picked the most docile-looking one and scrambled to get on top. He did his best to ignore the utter ease and grace Ernesto showed when he swung up on Viento’s saddle.

“Are you good?”

“I think so,” Héctor said. The stirrups were adjusted to be used by a grown man and he could barely touch them with his toes, but there would be time to fix that once they were well away from there. “Let’s go.”

“You go,” Ernesto replied, reaching to break off one of the old, dry branches from the fallen tree. “I’ll get us some fire first.”

“Right. That,” Héctor muttered, and something in his stomach twisted a bit. “That… that might kill some of them.”

“Hopefully most of them, and leave the rest stuck here. That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Ernesto muttered, his voice colder.

“Yes, but--”

“They shot my old man. They burned my house down. And if this is what it takes to make sure they don’t come after us, so be it. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

We’re in this together. We all return home, or no one does.

Héctor let out a long breath, and nodded. “Right. Be careful,” he added, his voice smaller than he’d have liked, and Ernesto nodded at him.

“You too, chamaco.”

Going up the slope with the horse was mercifully quick, and Imelda was already waiting for him on top. She was holding onto her horse’s black mane, and even though he knew she could ride just fine like that, Héctor wished he’d thought of getting her a saddle and reins.

“Everything all right?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Yes. They didn’t hear us at all,” he replied.

“And the horses are free?”

“Yes.”

“Good. This way they’ll run off when they hear the explosion,” she muttered, and put a hand on his arm. “Make sure not to lose control of your horse when it happens. You don’t want to fall back in there.”

“I’ll do my best.” Héctor managed to get his horse to stand beside hers and turn back to the bottom of the slope - and there was Ernesto, riding towards it, the flaming branch in his hand. He stopped Viento, looked up towards them, and lifted the torch in a mute question. Even from up there, in the light of the flames, Héctor could see his expression was one of grim determination.

Now?

Imelda looked back down at him, and pressed her lips together tightly before nodding. Now.

Ernesto threw the flaming branch on the ground, and the trail of gunpowder ignited immediately, flaring brightly against Héctor’s eyes as Ernesto spurred his horse into a gallop up the slope. He was almost by their side when the flames reached the cart, wrapping around it like hungry fingers, and then… then…

The explosion was deafening, and the very ground beneath their feet seemed to shake. Héctor’s horse reared back, whinnying, and it took him a terrible effort to hold on, not to let it throw him off. He heard something else now, screams and cries and curses, more whinnying and the sound of several horses galloping away. Had he looked down, Héctor would have seen the horses running away from the clearing to the surrounding mountain tracks; he would have seen some men unmoving on the ground, others rolling in the dirt on fire, and a few trying and failing to get up while looking around in a confused, drunken stupor.

But he saw none of those things, because the next moment Ernesto was beside him, grabbing his horse’s reins with one hand and helping him turn it away from the slope. “Don’t look back, Héctor. Never look back. Let’s go! Hyah!”

A smack on the rump sent the horse galloping the way he had come with Imelda, and Héctor did his best to hang on. He could hear Ernesto’s horse right behind and, above all, Imelda’s voice.

“That’s for my father, hijos de la mil putas! Viva Mexico! Viva la Revolución!”

Then her horse was thundering down their same path, too, and soon they were almost side to side, all three of them. Ernesto turned his head to his left towards Imelda, laughing breathlessly. “Imelda, isn’t it?” he yelled to be heard through the wind rushing in their ears and the beating hooves. “Been great to meet you!”

She gave a fierce laugh, unlike anything Héctor had heard before, and turned to look at them. Her braid had mostly come undone and her hair was whipping in the wind; her skin was flushed, and her eyes sparkled. “Pleasure was all mine! Race you to the end of the path!”

And with a sharp kick to her horse’s flanks she was off, pulling ahead of them. Ernesto laughed, and spurred Viento to go after her. His cry - “Try to keep up, Héctor!” - was almost lost in the wind. They were well ahead of him within moments, engaged in a tight race Héctor knew he had no chance to win. But as he kept galloping towards dawn, and the end what had been the oddest and most heart-stopping night of his life, Héctor really didn’t care to catch up. He had Ernesto back, Imelda had smiled at him, and they were all going home.

In his books, he’d won everything that there was to win.

#coco #hector rivera #imelda rivera #ernesto de la cruz #pixar #heaven and earth

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