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Ghost Dance by Ruth - Not a rock, I'm just Ruth — LiveJournal
All Me, no apologies
Ghost Dance by Ruth
Title: Ghost Dance
Author: Just Ruth
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Bobby, Trickster, (mentioned) Ruby, Sarah Blake, Lenore, Bela Talbot, Victor Henricksen and original characters
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: Supernatural and the characters are the property of Eric Kripke and the CW.
The Red Headed Stranger belongs to himself and goes where he pleases.
The "funny dressed fellow with the British accent" belongs to BBC Productions.
Characters/Situations are being borrowed for entertainment purposes only. You think anyone would pay me for this?
Spoilers: "Mystery Spot", "Jus in Bello" mentioned "Provenance" and "Bloodlust" Dean's quote is from "Devil's Trap."
Summary: AU "Mystery Spot" ending that doesn't involve rolling back time. Much of this was written before the S3 finale
WARNING: Character in Hell, Angst
With thanks to: maychorian and fhionnuiscetine
Word count: 5031

"Please, " Sam Winchester pleaded tearfully. "Give him back. Please."

With a snort of derision, the Trickster froze time before reversing it. Leaving the tall young man standing in a frame of reality that only showed his head and torso, he stepped back into the corridor that was between now and then; a grey, misty place lined with doors of possibilities.

"Now, wait a minute," said the stranger behind him.

The Trickster spun around. "What are you doing here, Digger Cade?" he demanded.

"My Daddy wondered what was going on in Broward County and asked me to go take a look. A lot of things are all off-kilter there." The older man had an a long braid of grey-dappled red hair. He wore a leather jacket with a tee shirt and jeans; a guitar in an ornate, tooled case rested at his feet. Digger folded his arms. "Plants, animals, wildlife, people – you kept them in the same time loop as you kept Sam Winchester and now they're all messed up. You should have known better. He's a Winchester. Father and son, they're all stubborner than a hungry mule in an apple grove."

Trickster rolled his eyes. "Must you use hokey metaphors?"

"You go take a hungry mule, you put him in an apple grove with a lot of windfalls and then you try to get him out again." Digger shook his head. "You have been hanging around intellectuals on college campuses for so long, you've forgotten how to deal with just plain ordinary folks."

"Oh, come on, some of it was funny. That desk for instance. . ." Digger didn't smile and Trickster sighed. "I wonder about you sometimes."

"Now? You're just going to go and erase six months of time for the whole world?" The old man shook his head again. "You just can't do that. You know what's going to happen. That funny dressed fella with the British accent is going to get all riled up and you know how bad things got the last time you and he got into a shouting match."

Trickster hemmed, hawed, grumbled and scowled before he turned and glared at Digger. "And just what do you suggest?"

"Pull it all back twenty-four hours; don't call him as Bobby and let this old son of a ki-oat show you how its done."

"Fine." Trickster snapped his fingers.

The drive on the night highway was long and lulling, broken only by Bobby Singer's voice mail; praising Sam for the vampire nest in Austin and complaining that he hadn't heard from him Sam in three months.

Sam arrived at the Bounty motel. Glancing around the empty parking lot, he opened the trunk to remove his first aid kit. The chaotic storage area was now organized; an assortment of weapons resting in foam casing. Inside the room, he grimly cut off his shirt to pick out a bullet and stitch himself up. He went to the lounge and returned with a chicken dinner, which he ate methodically while examining the research on the Trickster he'd tacked up on the wall.

"Sad," Digger sighed. "That is just sad."

"And you're so sure you can fix this?" asked Trickster.

"Oh, yes. Just got to wait for the right moment," Digger rubbed his chin.

Sam sat up the next morning and began to meticulously make the bed. He finished brushing his teeth, staring at the mirror, empty-eyed.

"Like . . . now." The old man nodded.

Sam gave a start and jumped back from the sink. He stared wide-eyed at the mirror, then reached out and touched it. He touched his chin and shaking his head, resumed his routine.

"I don't get it." Trickster turned to Digger as points of Sam's day began to meld into each other. "What did you do?"

"He looked up and saw his Daddy's face looking back at him." He smiled with satisfaction. "Like he's going to do right now."

Sam gave a start at what he saw reflected in the window of the small gun shop. He swallowed hard before he went in.

"I don't see where this is going." complained Trickster.

"Well, I'll tell you." Digger shifted his stance so he could keep one eye on Sam and the other on Trickster. "I'll swear you any oath that Sam Winchester loved his Daddy, but you've got to admit – there is a whole lot about John Winchester that a lot of people, including his sons, just plain did not like. Sam starts seeing his Daddy in himself, he's going to be seeing a lot of what he doesn't like."

Sam drove down the long highway, alone and silent.

"And one more for the road," Digger nodded. Sam glanced into the rear view mirror and started once more – almost going into a swerve. Shaking his head, he signaled for the next exit.

"Here's where I leave you," he pulled a cowboy hat from a peg on the wall that wasn't there a moment ago. "I'll catch you later."

"If he gets his hands on something sharp and goes postal, I won't bail you out."

"I know better than to expect you to." Picking up his guitar case, Digger opened a door and stepped through.

Trickster frowned again and rubbed his chin. He pointed at the frame and made the picture bigger and clearer. He called up a stuffed leather lounge chair, a side table with a tall, frosty beverage and settled himself. He shifted his shoulders right and left a couple of times. Shaking his head, he snapped his fingers. A gorgeous brunette stepped to the back of the lounge chair and began to rub his neck and shoulders in a slow, sensuous massage.

"Nice." Trickster purred, conjuring a monster tub of popcorn into his lap. "Ok. Entertain me."

Sam's hand shook as he started to pour a cup of coffee for himself in the convenience store of the truck stop. The hot beverage splashed over his fingers. He dropped the cup with a curse. He sighed and rubbed his eyes before grabbing a handful of napkins, kneeling and mopping at the spill on the floor.

Tired. That had to be the reason, he was just tired. Why else had he started seeing John Winchester's grim, weary face instead of his own?

Stubborn, obsessed, bastard. . . He thought grimly. Dean's angry voice suddenly echoed in his head. "Well, you and Dad are a lot more alike than I thought, you know that? . . . You don’t care about anything but revenge!"

"Well, I'll be a son of a ki-oat!" said a familiar voice. "Sam Winchester!"

Still on his knees, Sam turned around. "Digger Cade?" he blinked. "What are you doing here? I thought you were still back East." He stood up and shook Digger's hand.

"Found people fool enough to pay money to hear me sing." Digger slapped him on the back and looked him up and down. "Boy, have you been growing?"

"No, no," Sam smiled without meaning to. The older man was about ten inches shorter than he was. "I'm still the same size I was the last time you saw me."

"That's big enough. I was real sorry to hear about Dean. It must be hard on you." Digger continued giving a soft pat where he had just slapped.

"You have no idea." Sam's face darkened.

"Well, look, Lady Bird and I. . ." Lady Bird was the name Digger gave to his guitar. "We're short a ride. Tell you what, you hungry? Got to be hungry. I'll ride shotgun and give you directions to the best barbecue you have ever eaten. I guarantee, those ribs will just melt in your mouth and once you eat their corn bread, you'll never want cake."

"Digger, I shouldn't. I'm not hungry and . . ."

"I'm paying, Sam, and I'm not about to take no for an answer."

Sam sighed and nodded.

"Now, you be honest." Digger took the top off his second beer. "Is this not the best barbecue you have ever eaten?"

"You've got me there." Sam wiped his mouth. "This was marvelous, Digger." There was an impressive pile of bones and cornbread crumbs on a platter between them. "I can't eat another thing."

"You sure about that? Their pecan pie. . ."

"No, really, Digger. I can't." Sam shook his head. "And I better not have another beer. I'm going to be driving most of the night."

"Get us some coffee, will you, sugar?" Digger gave a smile to the weary-looking waitress who cleared their table. She smiled back and seemed to perk up. "Where you headed, Sam?"

Sam sighed and began to peel the label off his last beer. "I'm looking for someone, Digger. Ever hear of a being called the Trickster?"

"Old Man Ki-oat?" asked Digger, frowning.

"No," Sam scowled. "Old Man Coyote helps people. This one -- he's short, balding; looks like a janitor and talks like a used car salesman. He torments people for his own sick pleasure. We ran into him last year at Springfield State University; killing people for his own kicks. He showed up at Broward County. He killed Dean."

The world froze.

"It wasn't like that at all!" called Trickster from his easy chair. "And I do not look like a janitor."

"Man's entitled to his opinion." Digger shot back from the screen. "Now, hush up and let me work."

Trickster uneasily ran his hand over the top of his head. "I'm not balding, am I?" He turned to his masseuse. She shook her head "no." He snapped his fingers and the world started up again.

"He killed Dean." Sam finished pulling the label off and started to shred it. "I've got to find him."

Digger nodded. "And then what?"

"Make him give Dean back." Sam piled the shreds on a napkin. The waitress dropped off their coffees and took the napkin away. "I kept . . . I kept waking up over and over and over again on Tuesday at the Mystery Spot. He kept making me watch Dean die. Then I woke up on the Wednesday and it was true and Dean was really dead and . . . I want it to be over. I want to wake up on Wednesday again and have this nightmare over with!" He put his hands over his face.

"Then, they'll die."

Sam started and blinked. "Die? Who?"

Digger leaned back from the table. "The little girls from the first communion class; Pilar, Marisol, Rosanna, Juanita and Corazon. As will Father Esteban." His face went grim. "They'll all die because you won't have trouble sleeping. You won't be watching the live mass that early, early Sunday outside Tallahassee and see the wrongness in the priest's performance that sent you down to that church to find the shapeshifter's den."

Sam looked away.

Wide, terrified eyes stared up at him over the gags and a chorus of muffled sobs rose as he opened the door. "Shh. Shh," Sam soothed. "It's all right." He freed the children as quickly as he could, dispensing comforting hugs between questions as to what had happened.

"Senor Enrique took off his skin!" cried Corazon in Spanish. "He took off his skin and he was Padre Esteban."

"He dragged the Padre over that way. . ." Pilar sobbed, pointing to an ornate gate that led to a crypt under the sanctuary.

"Hold hands, all of you." Sam ordered. "No one let go. When you get up those stairs, you run as fast as you can to the nearest policeman."

He found the Father, quickly untied the older man and headed up to the main altar.

Digger sipped his coffee. "Good job, that. You caught him with your knowledge of Latin and then bashed his head in with that heavy silver altar cross. Made a mess of the altar cloth but Father Esteban forgave you."

"How do you know that?" Sam demanded.

"People talk, Samuel. And, if you hadn't saved Father Esteban; you'd have never gone with that church group to New Orleans and there you met Sarah Blake."

Sam looked away again

He carried the boards on his shoulder, sweating despite having stripped down to his tank shirt. He handed them over and heard one of the church women call "Lemonade's here!"

Gratefully, he turned to see the jugs of cool liquid being set out by the ladies from the back of a van from one of the hotels. There was a new helper with them. There was something familiar about her stance and her long black braids. She turned and her brown eyes opened wide.

"Sam!" she cried in delight. “Sam Winchester!"

“Sarah!” He held her off when she tried to hug him. “Don’t, I’m a mess. What are you doing here?”

“I was on a walking tour of the French Quarter and we passed a fortune teller’s shop. She came out, looked right at me and said, “go back to the hotel and volunteer to serve lemonade.” So, here I am.”

“I have more to do . . .”

“Fine! I’ll help here until you’re done.”

"Nothing happened to Sarah!" Sam exclaimed.

"The man she was supposed to meet for her father's gallery never showed up." Digger pointed out, "New Orleans is better than it was, but it's still not the safest place for a lady alone."

"She's not helpless."

"No, that she is not." Digger gave Sam a wicked smile. "Admit it son; that night she was a drink of water to a mighty thirsty man.”."

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” but Sam could feel himself starting to blush.

Sam looked at the floor, just holding the glass of wine rather than drinking it. He had never felt so vulnerable, not even with Jess – because Jess didn’t know the truth about who he was and what he had done. Sarah knew much more about him than Jess ever had. She was the first person he’d spoken to about Dean’s death. "Sarah, please, the last woman I was with . . . ." He couldn't continue. They were back in her hotel room after a long, hot day of satisfying work, a cool shower and a wonderful dinner served in the room. They'd stopped talking and started kissing.

"So you think death is following you around again?" Sarah smiled. "I'll take my chances, Sam Winchester."

God help him, he had been a thirsty man and she was the water he couldn't stop drinking. . . .

"I have my ways," the old man grinned. "But after putting Miss Sarah on the plane the next day, you disappeared from sight until you showed up at Austin. Mind you; Johnny, Wayland and Kristoff were mighty glad you showed up and while those three grizzled old hunters might have fought and killed that nest without you – the fact that you were with them brought Miss Lenore in. Them fangs were hunting her family and she trusted you and only you, Sam Winchester, to help her protect them."

Sam stirred his coffee.

"Something happened between New Orleans and Austin, son. What was it?"

"You know so much, Digger." Sam put his elbows on the table. "Have you ever heard of Bela Talbot?"

"A dangerous woman who plays some dangerous games. Steals special objects for folks better off not having them." Digger frowned. "Heard you boys cut her trail in Buffalo, but not since then."

"She stole the Colt, Digger."

"The Colt? The Colt? Daniel Elkin’s 1835 Colt, the one that can kill anything? I heard your Daddy was looking for it."

"He found it. We killed the yellow-eyed demon with it. He messed with my family for the last time."

Digger nodded. "And Bela Talbot stole the Colt from you?"

"I overheard something in the airport that put me on her trail to Monument, Colorado." Sam sighed deeply. "It turned out to be a FBI trap."

Sam raised his hands in surrender as the sheriff and deputies burst in the hotel room, fully armed. He put up no struggle as they threw him to the carpet and cuffed him.

"Hello, Sam Winchester," Special Agent Victor Henriksen smiled at down him. "I've been waiting for this for a long time. Where's your brother?"

"I told Henriksen Dean was dead but he didn't believe me." Sam shook his head.

"Stubborn man."

Sam nodded sadly. "Things got worse. . ." He paused. "Digger. . . " He took a deep breath. and looked into the depths of his coffee cup before taking a sip.

"One of the demons that escaped from the Gate is Lilith. For some reason she wants me dead. She sent thirty demons to kill me while I was in the jail." Sam turned the cup in his hands. "We were under siege. I saved Henricksen from being possessed. Someone - Ruby - fought her way through and said there was only one way to stop them."

He was silent for a long moment. Digger waited.

"She said there was a spell; a witch's spell that would blast any demon within a mile back to Hell. It involved cutting the heart from a virgin."

Sam fell silent again. He breathed hard, tears welled up in his eyes.

"Her name was Nancy Fitzgerald and God help me, she agreed. She was willing to die to stop the demons. And I let Ruby do it. Ruby was blasted to Hell with all the demons but. . ." He shook his head. "I let her do it. I let her kill that girl. . ."

"And that's why you want to find the Trickster?" Digger broke in.

"I have to! Not only to get Dean back but to find some other way. Dean would have found some other way!" Sam's cup slammed down with enough force to crack the saucer. "I have to fix it!"

"Six whole months of the world? It won't be just your life or Dean's or Nancy Fitzgerald's life affected. Sam, it will be the lives of every single living thing on the entire planet." Digger looked at him, his blue eyes intense. "Are you really that selfish?"

"Yes, I am." Sam faced him squarely.

Digger shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, son. I truly am."

"So, please," Sam rested his hands on the table. "Give Dean back."

"What?" Digger blinked. "Me? Sam, you think I'm the Trickster?" He rose from the table.

"Give him back." Sam stood up, his jaw set and his eyes grim despite the tears on his face. "After Monument - there was an exorcism. The demon told me, laughed about Dean being in Hell. About him being tortured -- I can't leave him there. Give him back!"

"Son, I wish I could, but I can't." Digger took a step back from him. "I'm not the Trickster."

"Then you must know where he is! All those things you know about me and what I've done . . . You have to know where he is!"

"No, Sam. I don't."

Sam stared at him a long moment. Digger's gaze never wavered. Sam slammed his fist on the table and looked away, breathing hard.

"I have to make this right." He finally said.

"You want to make things right? Come to these coordinates," Digger scribbled on a napkin. "In two weeks it's going to be the new moon. You be there just after sunset and I'll help you make things right."

Sam scowled at the coordinates. "These are somewhere in South Dakota."

"That's right. It's a place called Wounded Knee."

"Wounded Knee." Bobby Singer frowned. "Site of one of the last and most unnecessary massacres in the whole so-called Indian War. It's also the site of the last Ghost Dance."

"Ghost Dance?" Sam repeated. He was sitting in Bobby's book-cluttered living room in the same rope-scarred chair he'd been tied to while his brother and Bobby exorcised a demon from him. He'd driven straight to South Dakota after he left Digger Cade at his destination.

"Created by a Paiute mystic called Wovoka." Bobby scrubbed his beard. "It's original purpose was to contact the dead and bring comfort to those left behind and to bring peace between the Indians and the whites. Among the Lakota there was a shaman named Yellowshirt that changed the ritual. He claimed that the dance would turn back time to before the whites ever came to the Black Hills."

"At any rate; it was a five day dance. At Wounded Knee, the dance was interrupted because the local Indian Agent got nervous and called in the army. The result was the massacre on December Twenty Eight, Eighteen Ninety. One hundred and forty seven Lakota were killed, most of them women and children; not even the most jingoistic newspaper editors could stomach that."

"Digger Cade wants me to go to Wounded Knee." Sam mused. "Maybe he's found a way to change things."

"Digger Cade is a strange old coot, and I don't say that lightly." Bobby shook his head. "I don't believe half the stories about him. I'm just glad he's stopped you from breaking your heart hunting Trickster." He patted Sam's shoulder. "You were starting to scare me.”."

"I guess I'm my Father's son." Sam sighed, "but I'm not giving up on Dean."

"No one's asking you to."

Two weeks later, just as the sun dipped to the horizon, Sam and Bobby pulled up into the parking lot of the monument. Digger was waiting for them with a classic Harley, Lady Bird riding in the sidecar.

"Bobby Singer!" Digger shook hands. “Been a spell since I’ve seen you. Time's been kind to you, son.”

"You haven’t changed a bit, Digger.” Bobby frowned and shrugged. “I figured Sam needed someone with him. What have you got in mind?"

Digger brought out a bundle from the sidecar. Unrolled on the hood of Bobby’s truck, it was a long leather shirt with a design of beads and quills, a necklace of silver and bone and a hand drum.

“The Ghost Dance.” He said.

He had stripped to his jeans and covered himself with the leather shirt. The necklace clicked to his dancing. His hair had been gathered back into a short tail at the back of his neck and tied with leather. His face had been painted with grey and white stripes.

Bobby adjusted the bone necklace, frowning. "Sam," he lowered his voice. "When I said Digger hadn't changed a bit since I saw him last, I meant it. He hasn't changed - not in at least twenty-five years."

"He says he's not Trickster."

"I heard that," said Digger. "And I'm not. Bobby, I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm a son of a ki-oat. The son."

"The son of ki-oat." Bobby repeated and went a little paler.

Sam wondered what that meant, but put it aside. He had to dance. If Yellowshirt was right he could turn back time; if Wovoka was right, he could reach to the other side and find Dean. The last of the sun faded to the deep, deep blue of the night with the spangled road of the Milky Way stretching overhead.

"Wahkonda di diu, wah pah din a ton hie. . ."

The song rippled from Digger Cade's throat as Bobby tapped the beat. It was a song of the Ghost Dance. It had to be sung and Sam couldn't sing; not to save his soul or Dean's. He could dance though. A simple circle dance, round and round the spindle of the monument.

"Wahkonda di diu, wah pah din a ton hie. . ." God, a man in need, I who sing am that one.

Sweat gathered under the leather. He breathed harder through his nose but kept dancing. His feet ached but he kept dancing. He could feel the paint on his face streaking as the sweat ran down his face. He kept dancing.

"Wahkonda di diu, wah pah din a ton hie. . ."

A whisper of other voices joined Digger's. He could see moving shadows out of the corner of his eye. A woman carrying a baby on her back, her long braids reminding him of Sarah, danced beside him, her voice lifting in a sweet counterpoint. An older man with long white hair and an ornate robe became clear. More shadows took form, became clear - the people who had died at Wounded Knee. He danced and they danced with him. He couldn't feel his feet anymore, but he kept dancing.

"Wahkonda di diu, wah pah din a ton hie. . ."

"Who are you?" demanded a younger man dancing to his right side through the others, he was dressed and painted as a warrior. "Why are you here, white man?"

"He's fighting for his brother," said another man, dancing up beside the warrior, he was also dressed and painted as a warrior, but with long red hair and pale, freckled skin. "Even as I did in life." He grinned at the other man who snorted and slapped his back.

Sam felt his eyes widen. "Tejan!" he whispered, remembering a story told him on the Texas-Oklahoma border of a red-haired warrior who chose the Indian family that raised him over the white men that tried to claim him.

There were more than just the dancers of Wounded Knee here. He could feel them. A crowd beside him, behind him. The chill of their presence cooled the sweat on his body.

"We all dance," said the old Indian. "Cherokee, Sioux, Cheyenne, Apache, Comanche, Crow, Navajo and many others. We dance with you. You are leading the dance. Where do you lead us?"

"I -- I don't know." Sam breathed through dry lips. He thought he recognized the old man - the mystic Chief Crazy Horse?

"Think well," said the old man. "Because where you lead us, we will not return from."

Sam stared ahead, his vision blurry.

"Wahkonda di diu, wah pah din a ton hie. . ."

They were beside him. They were behind him. Their presence carried him, strengthened him. A scrap of light grayed in the east. The pillar of the monument seemed to be holding the sky connected to the Earth.

His vision blurred again. He seemed to see a doorway before him. A door full of smoke and darkness. He knew he could open that door and storm within. The power of the Dance would carry him through to where he wanted to be. . .

"Where you lead us, we will not return from."

But he would reach Dean with the power of the Dance, he would free Dean with the power of the Dance.

"Wahkonda di diu, wah pah din a ton hie. . ."

A sweet little piping made him look to one side. It was a little boy, holding a smaller child's hand.

"Where you lead us, we will not return from."

They were already dead. . ..

But did they deserve to go to hell?

Was he really that selfish?

To the right of the door of smoke and darkness there was a sparkle of white light. It grew bigger as he looked at it.

He had told the dead to go to the light. He changed his direction. He headed for the light.

He heard the crowd give little cries as they saw it. He slowed his pace, letting them stream past him. Their voices raised in joy as they entered the light. He finally stopped, sobbing as they streamed around him. The woman with the long braids kissed his cheek like the brush of a cobweb.

"Good," praised Chief Crazy Horse. He was the last to dance past Sam.

The doorway of smoke and darkness faded. The sun lifted above the horizon with a blinding flash. A figure wavered in the light. Sam's eyes watered as he tried to focus on it. Recognition dropped him to his knees, sobbing.

Bobby and Digger ran to him.

"She forgives me." Sam sobbed as the two men tried to lift him to his feet. "Nancy. She forgives me."

"I knew you were a good man, Sam Winchester." Digger's voice was hoarse, but full of pride.

The world spun and faded to black.


Everything ached. His legs and feet throbbed to the beat of his heart. He remembered; as the door of smoke and darkness faded a single cry had echoed from inside it.

"Somebody help me! Anyone! Sam! Sa-am!"

He was dimly aware of voices; Bobby and Digger. They must have brought him back to the nearest motel.

"What are you doing?"

"Sewing the boy some moccasins," said Digger. "His feet are going to be a mess for a few days and you won't find anything to fit them clodhoppers of his at the trading post."

"How old are you Digger?"

There was a long silence. "My Momma was a blue-eyed Shoshone who claimed her Daddy was Merriweather Lewis. Old Man Ki-oat met up with her at a Spring Gathering – she tricked a kiss off him and got me. I don't have the powers of my Daddy but I know a few tricks. I take care of things. Try to keep things in balance."

"Ain't much of a balance now-a-days, Digger."

"That's why I try to help out where I can to boys like you and Sam. There. We'll rub some of this grease on his feet and then put on the moccasins."

"Sam," Bobby's hand gently shook his shoulder.

Sam sat up slowly. He flinched as Digger's gentle hands rubbed a brown, strong smelling ointment into his feet. While Digger wiped his hands, Bobby worked the soft leather moccasins over his feet.

"You need to rest yourself and let those feet heal." Digger put on his hat. "I need to get on the road again. Take care of him, Bobby. Take care of yourself, Sam."

"I know. Thank you." Sam nodded. "I'll be all right." His jaw set grimly. "I have work to do."


13 comments or Leave a comment
snakewhissperer From: snakewhissperer Date: February 8th, 2009 07:25 am (UTC) (Link)
yep, it sounds like he has. Nice. Thanks.
just_ruth From: just_ruth Date: February 8th, 2009 06:58 pm (UTC) (Link)
You're welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
arliss From: arliss Date: February 8th, 2009 06:52 pm (UTC) (Link)
This AU is fascinating, how you've woven Southwestern myth and SPN canon together. Will there be a sequel? A resolution?
just_ruth From: just_ruth Date: February 8th, 2009 07:00 pm (UTC) (Link)
I'm glad you like it. I think so. It's part of a sort-of-series in my head with "Unquiet Grave" and "Hoofbeats of Yesteryear" - Josh and Lucas are coming back in the ideas I'm jotting down to join with Sam, not quite "jelled" yet.
cindyg From: cindyg Date: February 9th, 2009 01:48 pm (UTC) (Link)
Have I ever mentioned how much I am loving this? Haven't had time to read much of anything, but this I had to make time for - it's beautiful.

Well done, and look forward to seeing the rest!

just_ruth From: just_ruth Date: February 9th, 2009 04:58 pm (UTC) (Link)
I'm flattered you're taking the time to read this and thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it.
mangacat201 From: mangacat201 Date: February 12th, 2009 12:40 pm (UTC) (Link)
Huh... I have the feeling that I missed something but at the same time everything was there... strange
just_ruth From: just_ruth Date: February 13th, 2009 02:20 am (UTC) (Link)
I'm sorry you feel that way.
mangacat201 From: mangacat201 Date: February 13th, 2009 07:42 am (UTC) (Link)
Oh, don't be it's not like that is a bad thing... Just an observation. I really liked the idea though of time not reasserting itself *g*
ophite68 From: ophite68 Date: February 12th, 2009 09:48 pm (UTC) (Link)
So happy for the freed, so sad for those still bound.
just_ruth From: just_ruth Date: February 13th, 2009 02:21 am (UTC) (Link)
Thank you.!
fish_echo From: fish_echo Date: August 7th, 2009 04:23 am (UTC) (Link)

ghost dance (spn, gen, sam-centric)

(Here via your link at the spngenlove Wednesday fest thing. Gah, but that's a long whence.)

I loved this. Is there a continuation which shows how this Sam gets (or doesn't get, as the case may be) Dean out of Hell?
just_ruth From: just_ruth Date: August 9th, 2009 09:38 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: ghost dance (spn, gen, sam-centric)

There is a sequel in the works. I'm glad you liked it!
13 comments or Leave a comment