What a Wonderful World

What a Wonderful World

A Supernatural story by Jennie @DeanIsntFine

Here's my entry in the #SPNWishList fic and art challenge! I responded to the prompt: "Sam playing around with Rowena's spell stash, hilarity ensues!" Well, if you know me, you know I can't have hilarity without a nice heaping helping of PAIN. So huddle up, fam. Let's join together, say the magic words and celebrate the rise of Witch!Sam. This story is set after Episode 15.6 "Golden Time." -- Jennie

The stench of burned witch still hung in the air.

Even though he knew he was safe, Sam stepped carefully over the threshold into Rowena’s apartment.

He was back for the first time since they’d dispatched the three witches, since they’d found the spell meant for Mary that had brought back Eileen.

Dean was off renting a UHaul trailer to hitch up to the Impala. It was time to clear out Rowena’s stash of magic -- which, astonishingly, she had left to Sam.

Dean had said it, but with none of the disdain and contempt that Sam had once heard underlying his older brother’s voice, when Dean had made Sam feel like a monster, a freak. 

Since then, they’d been through too much. Together. So this time, without judgment, Dean had said: “So, what, are you some kind of witch now?”

Sam supposed he was. And if magic was what it'd take to beat Chuck, well…

Sam tugged on the false-wall bookshelf to reveal Rowena’s hidden room. 

Last time, before he and Eileen had been so rudely interrupted by the witch and her daughter, they’d packed up only what they’d needed for the Ex spiritu incarnatum spell. 

But there was still so much more to go through -- centuries’ worth of arcana… herbs, crystals, potions… worn and dog-eared texts in dozens of languages, alive and dead… not to mention Rowena’s journals… 

Sam felt the panic rise, and took a deep breath to settle himself. His anxiety had been getting the better of him lately. One step at a time, he thought.  

He chose a leather-bound book at random, opened it.

The faded text looked like Scottish Gaelic. It wasn’t one of his stronger languages, but Sam recognized some of the words: bòidhchead (beauty), nàdur (nature), ghlòir (glory). And something about “the most burdened heart”? 

At the top of the page, in bigger, fancier lettering, it said: Abair saoghal iongantach. Below that, in what looked like Rowena’s own hand, the translation: “What a Wonderful World.”

The ingredients seemed harmless. Lavender, rosemary, orange blossom, clove. And there were just a few lines to recite.

Well, if I’m supposed to be the great Rowena MacLeod’s protege, I guess I’ve gotta start somewhere, Sam thought. This spell seems simple enough. And safe.

“Just a half batch,” he muttered to himself, as he pulled various jars off the shelves, mixing the herbs and flowers in a tall brass bowl, grinding the ingredients into a coarse powder.

Carefully, Sam spoke the incantation: 

Faic am bòidhchead timcheall

Bho speur ag èirigh gu talamh iriosal

Tro lionsan de ròs chì thu an saoghal

Mar a tha nàdur na ghlòir uile air a sgaoileadh

Bidh eadhon an cridhe as eallach aotrom

Nuair a thèid a h-uile càil fhoillseachadh don t-sealladh aige 

He set a match to the mixture, just as he heard the clomp of Dean's boots in the tile hallway. Dean called out “Sam!” because his brother was tucked in the hidden room, out of sight. 

Sam looked down into the bowl. No spark. No glow. No pop. Just a wisp of smoke and a fruity, floral smell that spiced the air. 

In a memory unbidden, and uncontrolled, the scent conjured up in Sam’s mind the sachets that Jess had used in her underwear drawer. 

Christ, he thought. Leave it to me to find the one aromatherapy spell in Rowena's stash of ancient, evil magic, amassed in a centuries-long quest for power and revenge against her enemies.

Well, at least it covered up the stench of burned witch.

“Sammy?” Dean called again from the other room, more weakly this time. “Man, I don’t feel so good. Head drain. I’ve gotta sit down…”

Sam put the bowl down and crossed over to the opening in the wall. He saw his brother lying on the couch, knees tucked in, clutching a boldly patterned throw pillow to his chest.

“This pillow…” Dean began, suddenly enraptured. He lifted the square cushion to his face and studied the whorls of color, stroking the fabric with his hand, then rubbing it against one stubbly cheek. “It’s… it’s gorgeous. Like a rainbow!” 

Sam stood, mouth agape, in the threshold between the main room and the hidden closet. Gone was his brother’s gravelly rasp, replaced by a softer, younger-sounding tone. Dean’s voice overflowed with emotion -- and what sounded like awe.

“And so soft,” Dean continued. “It reminds me of your hair! Not now, of course, but when you were a baby. Remember, when I used to give you a bath? And that smell! Ahhhh. Have you ever even smelled a baby’s head, Sam?!” 

As Dean rhapsodized about babies, green trees and red roses, Sam’s thoughts raced, his eyes darting from the bowl to his brother and back again. What the hell was happening here?

“It smells like cloves in here,” Dean gushed, still lying on his side, still clutching the pillow. “Mmmmm. Are you baking a pie, Sam? You know what tastes great in a pie? Nutmeg… What even is nutmeg? Whatever it is, it’s amazing.”

Sam thought back to the name of the spell. What a Wonderful World. Clearly Dean was feeling the effects. But why him and not Sam? The most burdened heart… Of course. 

Dean was still waxing poetic about pie. “And the apples, when they’re still a little crisp? And they pop in your mouth? And the swirls of cinnamon. They look like constellations. Like galaxies! Remember when we used to take Baby out into the fields, Sam? Just to look at the stars?” Dean’s eyes misted over, his forehead unlined. Not only younger, he looked somehow... lighter. “Or the clouds at sunset?”

Sam plopped down into a winged armchair across from the couch. He blew out a stream of breath and wondered how he was going to get Dean out of this fix -- and, briefly, whether he even wanted to. 

“You know, God might be a dick, but the world is just... beautiful,” Dean continued, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s beautiful, Sammy. Wonderful. I’m so glad we saved it.”

A tender look crossed Sam’s face, and he smiled. “Yeah. I’m glad too, Dean.”

Just then, Dean blinked and cleared his throat. Sam watched, a bit saddened, as his brother’s trademark frown set back in. Dean sat up and looked, mystified, at the pillow in his lap. 

“Uh,” Dean began, then coughed. His voice deepened to normal. “Uh, Sam? What the hell was that?”

Sam Winchester, witch, shot his brother a sheepish grin.

“Magic,” he said.