Chapter Text
“So, what can you tell me about the vic?” John asks.
They’re standing in the public library of some mindless little town, seen one seen them all type. They’ve come to look at the body; the first one since they came to town. It’s the third victim in two weeks; all with the same rope marks around their necks, as if they’ve been strangled. There are, however, no rope burns, no indication of the bodies being moved and their necks aren’t broken. Hanged, but no physical evidence of it beyond the markings.
The police officer glances up at him when John asks and raises an eyebrow at Dean, who’s standing just a step behind John, looking around the crime scene with curious eyes. John flashes the officer a brief smile.
“This is my partner, Detective Beards. He’s in training.”
The officer nods as if this makes sense and tells them about the victim. It’s the same as with all the rest, nothing new, nothing that can lead them forward in their case. Of course, the local police does not know that what killed the three victims, and another two four years ago, is a ghost.
John thanks the officer and picks up his EMF-meter, confirming there are heavy readings around the body. It’s a full red line when he encounters the wall next to a door to the basement, but strangely nothing but a small blip at the actual door.
“Whazzat mean?” Dean asks, eying the meter suspiciously.
“It means there’s something in the walls”, murmurs John and strokes his hand against the cold, flat surface.
“What’s in the wall?” a voice behind him asks.
John turns around and looks up, surprising by itself. The guy’s huge. Wide shoulders, muscled arms, solid chest slimming down to a tight waist, all very pronounced by the slick suit. What catches John is the calm gaze the guy levels him with. John relaxes and offers a smile, silently turning the EMF-meter off and slipping it into his pocket.
“Detective Gibbons, this is my partner Detective Beards”, John says and offers his hand.
The other man takes it immediately. “Gibbons and Beards”, he says with a smile tugging on his lips and John’s heart leaps into his throat. “I’m agent Fuller, FBI”, he goes on without further comment. His eyes are roaming over John’s body and face, searching for something. When he notices John looking back at him, his face shuts down completely, nothing but seriousness remaining, leaving John to doubt what he saw. “So, have you been following the case from the start then?”
He presents his badge to John and Dean and holds it out up close for them both to inspect. Much longer than John could ever do, what with his being fake and made at Kinko’s.
“Just arrived, actually. With three stiffs in as many days the deputy thought it was best to send in reinforcements”, John says and wipes a hand through his hair.
He’s sweating bullets. One phone call up to the office would negate all he’s saying and FBI, the real FBI, they’re usually thorough. And never too keen on the locals trying to butt in too much on what they consider their investigation, once taken over.
“Same as me, then. Just sent down from DC this morning.” Agent Fuller looks at them and stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “So”, he says and nods at the wall behind John and Dean. “What’s in the wall?”
Briefly, John draws a complete blank. He can bullshit himself out of getting pulled in for everything from public inebriation to grave desecration, but this guy? John glances at the guy who is stood relaxed with his hands in his pockets. A small tug is playing in his lip, barely there but unmistakable, like he’s thinking of a joke only he’s privy to.
“Mold”, says Dean behind him and John casts a quick glance at him.
Agent Fuller raises his eyebrows in question. “Mold?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a small allergy and was wondering where my sneezing was coming from, and, um, yeah, it’s definitely the walls.”
No one says anything, Agent Fuller looking at Dean, flicking over to John and on to the wall. Dean shuffles a little and John refrains from smacking his head. Eventually Agent Fuller makes an interested ‘huh’ kind of noise.
“Well, let’s review what we know, shall we?” Agent Fuller says and John draws a breath in relief.
They spend the good portion of an hour going through everything they know about the victim and the events. Everything they know being, of course, heavily censured for supernatural phenome. John listens closely to whatever Agent Fuller says, realizing both that the guy is smart, bringing up theories that are both plausible and out-of-the-box thinking, and that it’s an excellent opportunity to study a real agent from the federal bureau.
Nevertheless it seems like a dead end until Agent Fuller in bypassing mentions the murder-suicide that took place four years previous, and John latches onto the gruesome details and family shame. It’s all but in the bag when Agent Fuller happily complies to print out a list of the people involved in the incident, writing off John’s interest to small town police dedication.
“Frankly I’d be stumped”, Agent Fuller says, “but I’ve actually seen something similar. We had this case back in ’89 where people kept dropping. No evidence left behind, no marks, no nothing. And they clearly weren’t suicides”, Agent Fuller explains.
“Did you solve it?” John can’t help but ask, knowing that if they are, in fact, the same, then the FBI would never have found the real perpetrator.
Agent Fuller smiles, dimples showing and it’s absurd for a grown man to look so boyish.
“It’s classified”, he says, “but off the record?” eyes swimming with mirth, “Yeah, sure did.”
He winks at Dean who looks mighty offended and stomps off. John looks after him, confused and then turns back to Agent Fuller.
“Anything from that case that can be helpful to us now?”
He doesn’t even know why he’s asking. He knows what it is and after Agent Fuller’s explanation of the events that took place here four years ago, he’s pretty sure of who, too.
“It was strange. The deaths tied back to the victims from the murder that took place years before. It’s interesting that these cold cases are brought up again. Almost like the story wasn’t quite finished”, Agent Fuller muses and John stares at him. “Take a look at this case. The sister…” the agent leans over to point in the file. “Loner type, kind but reserved. She worked in this library, back in the storage section, packing and what-not, and then one night, doesn’t come home. Her family calls the police and in the morning they find her and her brother hanging from the ceiling.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I’m thinking the brother did it. Witness accounts say they were tight, but the sister had just started seeing someone and the brother didn’t approve. Killed her, couldn’t live with the consequences and then offed himself.”
“And how does this tie back to our investigation?” John asks, even as he’s mentally compiling a list of things he need to look up.
“Still working on it”, Agent Fuller admits and snaps the file together.
He would make an excellent hunter, if he ever knew the truth of what goes bump in the night.
Finally, there is nothing left to add and they pack away. John and Dean will head to the cemetery in a couple of hours, dig up the sister’s grave, salt and burn the remains. This will be the last they see of Agent Fuller, as they’ll be long gone by morning.
~*~
8 hours earlier or 19 years later
Heat.
Blazing, overbearing. The air is so black Sam can’t see a foot in front of him. The smoke is billowing out thick, burning in his eyes. He coughs and covers his mouth with his sleeve, but it’s useless; the smoke inhalation alone will kill him and with no way out from the forest where branches are falling over him, the shrubbery creating a wall of smoldering heat, reaching towards him, he’ll burn.
The all-consuming fire surrounding him, licking at his skin, catching in his clothes, burning his flesh – the smell crawls up his nose, his throat, it takes him back to the Cage, as if he never left. He tries to scream but there is no air in his lungs. He coughs and it scratches his throat raw. His skin is bubbling, fizzling as it melts.
He blinks his eyes open, tries to see through his tears, ignores the way the smell of burning flesh makes his stomach roll, and squints through the light.
He needs to get to Dean.
~*~
14 hours later or 19 years earlier
It’s a routine salt and burn up until it isn’t.
John’s standing guard with his rifle loaded with rock salt, while Dean digs. They’ve been at it for maybe two hours already and their muscles are complaining, but they’ve made a lot of progress. They’re almost at the bottom, John can tell from the scraping coming up from the hole where Dean’s dragging the shovel across the buried casket.
John notices the cold at the same time as Dean’s yelling “Incoming!” He raises his gun and fires at the grey figure materializing a couple of feet away. He barely has time to notice the deteriorated face before she dissolves into smoke and disappears.
“You about ready to pop it?” John asks and Dean grunts.
John keeps on the look-out when Dean picks up the crowbar. Older graves usually have lower quality and the wood has already started rotting, but with this one, it’s impossible to use anything than hard metal to bend it open at the seams. He listens to the telltale groaning from the nails bent out of shape when the lid is being torn off.
The ghost of Victoria Courtney has time to materialize one more time before Dean gets his hands on the salt and accelerator. She stretches her arms out towards John and starts choking him with see-through hands and he barely has time to push her away with his iron-ringed fingers before she catches fire. She wails in agony as her soul disintegrates and John pats himself down to make sure he didn’t catch fire.
Dean’s slumped over on the ground, breathing heavily and grins when John breathes a sigh of relief. Ghost gone, case closed and another town safe, continuing their lives completely unaware of the war taking place amidst them. A sense of accomplishment slithers through his chest. He shakes his head when the adrenaline leeches from his body and he allows himself to feel the exhausting in his bones.
It’s pure temptation to sink down next to Dean and a sign of his pigheadedness when he instead starts packing up. Dean looks like he wants to protest but eventually decides to swallow his groan and gets up to help. It’s an odd combination of pride and guilt that lingers when he sees his oldest starts filling in the grave again.
As the fire dies, the cold creeps in and it takes longer than it should for John to realize that it isn’t natural. The degrees drop quickly but it isn’t until a large puff of mist expels from his mouth that he casts around for his gun. He sees it lying by the headstone a few feet away, tossed aside when the danger passed.
Air whooshes around his ears before he realizes what’s happening but he registers Dean yelling at him as he’s flung in the air. The world spins wildly when his sense of gravity abandons him and he barely has time to think damn, what’d we miss, before pain splits the back of his head and everything goes dark.
When he blinks his eyes open again he’s blissfully unaware of everything. His head is hurting and he’s swallowing grass and dirt and it’s dark enough to make him wonder if he has gone blind. Then reality crashes back and sits up fast enough to make his head spin and he almost vomits.
He swirls around to look for Dean and has to squint to make out his hazy shape through eyes that won’t seem to focus. He’s him facing off another ghost. It’s going badly. The ghost, a guy this time, is pushing Dean into the ground, hands around his neck.
He gets to his feet but they give out underneath him. He uses the headstone he was thrown against for support and looks around for a weapon. Dean’s being choked to death and John listens to his gasping breaths in desperation.
Trying to remain rational thought even as his body threatens to seize up, he sifts through his memories trying to remember if there are any suspects or if they’re just lucky enough to run into the one ghost hunt where more than one spirit was haunting the town.
Finally he locates the salt bag and he pushes towards it, but the sounds must have notified the ghost because it turns around. John has just enough time to place him as the brother, who murdered his sister, before he’s thrown to the ground by that same invisible force. His back protests the actions and he fumbles to reach for the bag, it just, there…
Dean’s whines are dying down and John makes an inhuman effort to grab the salt and his fingertips are just touching the histioid sack when the force releases him. He swivels around to see what’s happening and hears the ghost scream in anger before it goes up in flames. John watches the spot he disappeared in shock, doesn’t understand because neither of them could have done that and there is no one else that would know to.
He doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, as Dean slumps to the ground and doesn’t move. John heaves himself up and scrambles to get to him. He pulls his head up and presses his ear to his mouth, listens for breathing and almost cries in relief when a warm breath puffs against him.
“Dean, come on, wake up”, he says and checks his pulse. “It was just a stupid ghost, no need for the dramatics.”
He can already see the angry red bruising around his neck, matching the hands of a dead man. His throat will be sore for days, he thinks as he pats his cheek with a gruff hand. It’s not gentle; he’s too riled up for gentle right now.
Finally Dean’s eyelids flutter and he twitches when John keeps on patting him. He draws in a couple of labored breaths and snaps his eyes open.
“Wha’ the fuck ‘r you doin’?” he grumbles and pushes John’s hand away. “Stop hitting me, I’m awake”, he says and sits up with a groan.
John doesn’t quite have time to answer before the sound of footsteps approaching have them both tensing up. John ransacks his mind for a reasonable explanation. Even detectives investigating a case doesn’t have much place in a graveyard at night with a dug-up grave, a burnt corpse and an immobilized partner.
When he looks up the newcomer has come close enough to be distinguishable in the pale moonlight and John goes cold, because while he might have been able to talk himself out of with had it been a civilian, or even a small town cop, he won’t be able to pull the wool over an FBI agent.
“Agent Fuller”, he starts all the same, but the agent doesn’t slow down.
“Is he all right?” Agent Fuller asks and skids to a halt not two feet away and drops down to his knees.
John grapples for words and tries to squelch the instinct to put Dean behind him and take on the threat to his family. All the while, the agent puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and almost wrenches him around.
“Did it get to you?” Agent Fuller asks and it takes a second for that to register because the agent hadn’t asked what happened or if he had got to Dean. He asked if it did.
Dean seems equally bewildered but he shakes his head and rubs gingerly at his throat. “Choked me a bit, but he’s gone now. I’m fine”, he wheezes out.
Agent Fuller winces at the sound just as John does. “Thank god”, he says and sits back a bit, apparently realizing for the first time how close he’s hovered over them. “I wasn’t sure I got the right item, and you weren’t answering your phones.”
It finally dawns on John why it’s not adding up, why the agent isn’t asking the right questions. “You’re the one who got the other ghost!” he exclaims and Agent Fuller looks to him, surprised.
“Well, yeah. I got you were going after the sister but going over the notes I realized it had to be a double-job and started looking at who else could be involved”, Agent Fuller explains. “The new partner wasn’t it; still alive, happily married. But the brother, well, suicides are only voluntary when of sound mind and he was off his rockers by the end. So, yeah”, Agent Fuller explains with a shrug. “He was cremated, as per his will, so I went by the house and found out he kept all his baby teeth in a little jar in his room.”
“You’re a hunter”, John says as all that sinks in. “And an FBI agent?”
Agent Fuller laughs gets to his feet. “Hardly. Just a regular, run-of-the-mill hunter with a fake badge. Just like you.”
“You’re impersonating a federal agent?” John asks incredulously.
He can’t say if he’s upset at Agent, not agent, he revises, Fuller’s guts or at himself for not even suspecting it. Fuller looks at him strangely and John feels very self-conscious all of a sudden.
“Like you’re one to talk.”
Dean huffs a laugh at him and John cuffs him over the head.
“Yeah, a detective. Something inconspicuous that won’t raise any eyebrows or warrant a second look at my ID. How many FBI agents do you think go around investigating strangulations in a small town as this, that’s never even crossed state boundaries?”
Fuller doesn’t seem that much younger than John, might even be older given the heavy set eyes and whatever shit he’s carrying around on his shoulders, but John wants to smack him over the head for his foolishness. He doesn’t, of course. It’s not his place.
“Maybe so, but trust me when I say that people will question you a lot less if you’re from the federal bureau than some semi-local guy that no one’s ever seen before. People don’t want to be tangled up in federal things and you’re given immediate access to everything.”
It’s a sound argument and going by the expression on Fuller’s face, he knows it.
“Anyway, we should get out of here. It’ll be light soon and that church has morning mass”, he says and points to the little church up by the hill.
John gets to his feet and helps Dean up. Together they pack up their things, fill in the last of the grave and get out of there. John’s just shutting the trunk-lid when Fuller clears his throat behind him. He turns around with a raised brow in question.
“So, the case is closed. You guys did a good job, and I’m thankful for that, even if we were conducting a separate investigation”, Fuller says and smiles sardonically.
John nods. “Likewise. That was some solid research you had going and good thinking on the partner thing. I owe you one.”
“Don’t sweat it”, Fuller says but John insists.
It’s not so much a code as an understanding between hunters. “You saved my life. And if that’s not good enough, you saved Dean’s.” He pauses to let that sink in. “If you ever need anything, give me a call.”
Fuller looks at him for a long moment and John stares back, squarely. He nods. “I’m guessing you’re heading out tonight?”
“Gotta go pick up my youngest but yeah, then we’re off.”
Fuller freezes for a second before he carefully blanks out all expressions and John wonders what caused that reaction. Surely it’s not that odd to leave his kid for a few hours to go on a hunt. He knows plenty hunters with kids too young to go along.
“Right”, Fuller says weakly. “I guess I’ll see you around then.”
John doesn’t notice when Dean comes up behind him so he startles when he speaks. “What’s your name?” Fuller blinks at him, a flash of something in his eyes, there and gone in a moment. “I’m guessing it’s not Fuller”, Dean continues with his barely there voice and smiles.
“Sam”, Fuller, Sam says. “It’s Sam Wesson.”
“I’m Dean, and this is my dad, John”, Dean says and Sam winces.
“It’s nice to meet you”, he says with a thin smile.
“D’you want to come over for drinks?” John finds himself asking and going by Dean and Sam’s reaction, they’re all equally surprised. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a beer after tonight and we could probably do with a night’s sleep before we start driving.”
Sam’s eyes flick briefly to the cemetery they just left but he seems to decide, like John, that there won’t be enough evidence to tie any of them to the place enough for it to be dangerous to stick around another day.
“I’d be happy to.”
~*~
Dean is standing a few feet away from him, back turned and untouched by the fire. He’s wearing that stupid green jacket that’s been ripped more times than Sam can count and still the idiot continues to wear it. Sam has no idea why he catches onto that tidbit of information.
“Dean!” he tries to scream and is overcome by a coughing-fit when the smoke catches new flight in his lungs.
Dean doesn’t turn, doesn’t even flinch. He’s just standing there, looking at something. Someone.
Sam crawls forward on bloody hands and trembling arms, tries to reach him. Through swollen eyes he finally catches a glimpse of the other person. The black dress she’s wearing is billowing out, moving with a wind that exists only in a tight circuit with her as center. The ashes she stand on dance in a dichotomy of beauty and destruction around her feet. The forest floor still all but a foot away. Sam hasn’t seen her more than once, but he recognizes her anyway.
“NO!” he screams but his voice is broken and through the thick black smoke he’s not sure his words travel but her eyes cut to him, so dark it’s unfathomable.
Amara raises her hand and, with deliberate care, cups Dean’s face, cradling it, with her gaze still heavily on Sam. He strains to remain upright but it’s like he’s being pushed into the ground. Sister of God, he thinks, what would she be if she wasn’t powerful enough to send men to their knees in her presence? Feeling like his heart is about to explode it takes him a moment to realize he’s actually being pressed down with a force familiar enough from the innumerous encounters he has had with demons in his life.
If he could feel more pain, he would be screaming. As it is, he watches in horror as Amara takes Dean’s hand. Dean remains impassive, and though Sam doesn’t see his face from this angle, he notices the relaxed shoulders and slightly bowed head. It’s incongruous seeing such body language in his older brother who hasn’t let down his guard in years. Helpless like a little boy he lets his hand be taken and something twists painfully in Sam’s chest, something separate from the physical pain that bombards his body.
They disappear in a dark swirl of smoke, leaving nothing behind but a forest approaching its last hours as every branch and leaf have burnt and only the tree trunks still glow through the darkness as the embers strain to swallow the wood.
He closes his eyes.
His face is wet, he’s not sure if it’s blood or sweat or tears. Might be all three. He thinks he might die, might be dead already. He might welcome it.
~*~
13 hours earlier or 19 years earlier
Sam wakes up when something pokes him in the shoulder. He comes to slowly, first noticing the hard gravel that’s digging into his cheek. His mouth tastes like road dust and his body feels tender all over, like he’s been mauled over by a truck a couple of times. The sweet smell of decomposition tickles his nose along with a mouthwatering composition of coffee and something grilled in garlic. His stomach rolls and he shifts, fearing he’ll puke. The poking returns to his shoulder and he turns over to see what it is.
“Sir?” a female voice asks and Sam finally focuses his eyes on her.
Young, brunette, dressed in a dress with an apron. The nametag says Penny. Probably a waitress somewhere, Sam’s mind supplies.
He pushes a bent bicycle wheel away from him, wincing when the metal scrapes the gravel. Blinking the dust from his eyes he takes note of where he is. Brick wall, dumpster in the end of the alleyway, no windows. Going on the combination of smells from garbage and cooking, he’d put them outside a restaurant somewhere.
“Sir, are you all right?” Penny asks and her face is a mask of worry.
His muscles tremble but he grits his teeth and rises to his feet. Penny takes a step back, surveying him at full height with something wary creeping into her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, thank you”, Sam hastens to say and uses the brick wall behind him for support.
The events prior are slowly coming back. Amara, the fire, Dean... He tries to gather saliva to his dry mouth and promptly spits when all he tastes is gravel. Penny looks slightly repulsed by it but she refrains from saying anything.
“Are you sure?” she asks, clearly unconvinced. One of her hands is raised toward him in a hesitant manner that speaks of kindness without naivety. He wishes he could tell her to run. “You were completely passed out on the ground. What happened to you? Do you need me to ring the police for you?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve got a cellphone,” Sam says to which Penny doesn’t respond.
Involving the police would be bad. He’s pretty sure he’s still got his face plastered across the most wanted posters in at least half the states in the US. He sticks his hand in his jean pocket and picking up his phone. Well, one of them.
He briefly considers calling Dean when something strikes him.
“Penny, it’s Penny, right?” he waits for her to nod and continues, “Can you tell me where I am?”
Penny doesn’t answer but stares at his phone with wide eyes. “What is that?” she whispers.
Sam pauses.
No.
Surely not.
“A phone…?” he hazards but when Penny shakes her head, Sam feels his heart drop somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. “It’s a new version, not really on the market yet,” he says, hiding a grimace when it comes out as a question.
Please, dear lord, let there at least be cellphones around. He presses home and confirms there is no service. He stifles a sigh. This is not going at all according to plan.
“It’s, um, July 3rd 1997 and we’re in Little Rock, Arkansas.”
~*~
It is a long time before he notices that the heat is dissipating, and the smoke clearing out. It’s not so much that he can breathe again, that it is he becomes aware that the air struggling across his lips doesn’t taste like acid anymore.
Gingerly, he raises his head. The ground around him is black, barren and smoke is trailing up from it. It looks like the crater of a meteor, or a massive explosion. Not a single tree is left standing, not for miles.
Sam groans and tries to struggle up. He coughs again, feels the wet quality of it and looks down, sees the blood and promptly vomits more blood. Everything hurts, his insides feel like somebody took an electric screwdriver to them.
“You’re dying”, someone says and Sam can’t help but agree.
He has died a few times, different every time, but still, he’s what you’d call a fairly good judge, a specialist. He doesn’t think there are that many that can claim the same. Usually, death is permanent. Idly, he wonders when that changed.
“I’ve come to reap you”, the voice continues and Sam finally places her.
Billie.
Last time he met her, he was also dying. If she wasn’t here to collect his soul and toss it out into the Empty, he might like her. He can’t suppress the chill that goes through him now, though.
“What? Nothing to say? No arguing?”
“Dean still needs me”, Sam chokes out, but his vocal cords are broken. “Amara is still out there. I need to stop her.”
“You don’t need to do anything anymore. The joys of not being.”
Billie doesn’t sound like she’s joking, but there is a definite jovial tilt to her voice. Sam notes the lack of the words dead and alive. Right. To cease to exist is all that awaits him now. It’s all he’s fit for.
Sam scoffs and almost chokes on his own tongue. He tries to swallow and makes a wet sound. Billie takes a step closer and Sam struggles to move away.
“N-no, please”, he pleads. “I need to save him, I need to-“.
His words are cut off when a fluttering noise interrupts him. He chokes and looks over to see Castiel-, no Lucifer, standing there. Dressed in the trench coat and the ruffled hair and Jimmy Novak’s face, it twists like a knife, the reminder of Cas’ choice to let the devil in. This is the devil, the fallen angel who spent centuries torturing Sam in Hell’s most guarded prison cell. It itches like something crawling along his spine.
“I’m sorry but you really need to shut up. Don’t you get tired of listening to your own sad drivel, going on and on and on?” Lucifer says and steps closer.
“Lucifer”, Billie greets him, calm, but tension is riding her shoulders.
“Reaper”, Lucifer says with a wink. “I see you’re busy plucking souls, taking them to the beyond, like a dutiful little angel… no?” he asks but he shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “No, I didn’t think so. And I wouldn’t care, but see, this particular soul is a bit of a favorite”, he goes on and bends down into a squat by Sam’s side. “And when I’m done killing the Darkness, I intend to take some time with him.” As he says it, he strokes Sam’s sizzled hair, smiling, more of a showing of his teeth. “I know, you’d think I’d have grown bored of it but I’ve gotten strangely attached…”
Sam spits out another glob of blood, tries to struggle out of his grip, but, well, it’s Lucifer. His burnt, flayed skin trembles under the soft caress of the fallen angel. Even as Sam’s skin flares up in heat as the ghostly touch of Lucifer’s fingertips bring new fire to the mess, Sam swallows down the scream that threatens to rip out of his throat.
“He’s complicit in killing Death. I’m simply making sure he’s staying dead this time”, Billie says and Lucifer looks up at her with an enquiring expression.
“Dead?” he asks with a head tilt. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right.”
Billie stares evenly back at him but doesn’t answer.
“I know of your petty vendetta and your pathetic attempts at vengeance for your master”, Lucifer drawls. “But regrettably, I’m not letting you take Sam. Because his soul is mine.”
Sam makes a protesting sound and Lucifer rolls his eyes. He drops Sam on the ground and rises up in a graceful movement, trench coat fluttering even in the still air.
“Oh, go die in another corner of Dad’s green earth”, he sighs and snaps his fingers.
Sam flinches, his eyes closing of their own volition, expecting more pain. He experiences a disorienting feeling as the world warps around him and when it finally stills he lays very still, taking in the silence, the cold tile floor beneath him and the homey smell of books. He doesn’t dare believe it, but when he opens his eyes, he is, miracle of all miracles, in the Bunker.
He plants his hands on the stone floor, feels its cool surface almost stinging his skin, but when he looks down on them he notices that his burns have all but gone. He breathes in slowly, almost cries when the sweet air enters his body without pain.
He lets the events of the past hours course through him and then gets to his feet. His legs threaten to give out and he uses the wall for support. The book he’s looking for is already open on the table. It’s an option they’ve been considering for weeks now, but there’s a reason they haven’t gone with it. A last resort, they said. Only if there was truly no other way, they said.
Dean being taken, without protest, by the Darkness, Sam decides, God abandoning them, the world burning, their friends gone, their last attack launched without success; this is it.
When all the ingredients are assembled and his packed bag slung across his shoulder, he casts a last glance at the warning inscribed in the margins. His decision is already made, but none the less, he memorizes them, contemplates them and gets going.
Be cautious of changing the past,
for its consequences reach beyond
He picks up the white chalk, paints the necessary sigils in the table, drops the ingredients into the copper bowl and cuts his hand and lets it bleed into the mash of herbs. He starts the incantation, the Enochian words familiar on his lips.
Let me go back and fix this, he thinks desperately. Just this one thing.
~*~
Walls descend before his eyes. He wobbles and smacks his head against the wall when he tries to catch himself. Pain explodes in the back of his head and all the air rushes out from his lungs. Slowly, he slides down the wall to the ground again.
This cannot be. This isn’t even close to where he wanted to go. It’s too far. The things he wants to change aren’t going to happen for years, decades, and that’s not taking into account what his presence could do to the timeline. He’s not stupid; trouble has a way of finding him, and he won’t be able to sit back and watch it happen without trying to interfere.
Vaguely he registers Penny trying to catch his attention but he’s not ready to deal with her yet. He’s stuck in 1997 without his brother, without an angel, friendly or not, to help him back, without any kind of back-up. No one even knows he’s here, or cares, because they’re all dead or taken over by either the Devil or the Darkness. Screwed is such a vast understatement it’s not even funny.
He drags his fingers through his hair and pulls. Calm down, think, what do you have, he thinks. The pain isn’t so much anchoring as it reminds him that yeah, things could be worse. Things have been worse and, somehow, he has always, if not exactly survived, at least made it through. He can do this.
So, 1997. Well, it’s not so bad. They obviously don’t have smartphones or touchscreens, hence Penny’s disbelief, but phones were pretty common by then – by now? He’ll look into the coverage and see if he can’t get service somewhere in town.
“Do you know where I can find a cheap motel in the area?” asks Sam, slowly climbing to his feet again.
He slips the phone back into his pocket. It’s useless now anyway. He finds his bag slung into a corner at the end of the alley, almost completely hidden by the dumpster. At least he wasn’t robbed. He makes his way over to it, checking its contents. He plucks a loose lettuce leaf from it and flings it away while listening for Penny’s answer. Which doesn’t come.
When he casts a look over his shoulder he sees she has gone. He can’t blame her. He’s clearly not stable and she should stay away from trouble. Makes you live longer.
At a small café three blocks down he gets ahold of an address. He borrows a car to get there and only feels a little bad.
It’s been a while since that horrible year when they had Baby on lockdown and kept having to hotwire cars to get around. The mess the Leviathans did still have him and Dean ducking from too observant police officers as they pass through small towns.
He picks up some food and a newspaper on the way. He pays with bills that won’t be printed for another fifteen years and Sam prays they never find out.
The motel is so non-descript that Sam feels an odd burst of nostalgia. They don’t stay in motels that often anymore, not since they found the Bunker. It’s still strange how Dean declared it home. How he decorated his room, like a nesting bird. Surreal. But they still spend a great deal of their lives on the road and then, as they travel the country, most nights in motel rooms just like this one.
When he gets the key, he starts by securing the perimeter, salt, devil’s traps and angel proofing. It’s so standard these days he doesn’t even stop to think that this is years before they opened the Hell Gates and few demons roam the Earth.
He spends a few minutes going through Dad’s journal. Of all the books he thought he would need, this was the last. The Men of Letter’s library is so extensive they have hardly needed to consult Dad’s old notes in what feels like forever. Still, it’s useful for its dates and descriptions of what they were facing this year, and what Dad thought about them.
They’ve added to the pages over the years. Made new entries and corrected facts that Dad got wrong. It’s strange to think back to the days where Dad’s word was law. Even at Sam’s most rebellious age, he always trusted Dad knew what he was talking about.
Looking through the familiar entries he paints himself a picture. This is the year he and Dean and Dad hunt a werewolf. It’s before he ran away, before he met Amy, before he knew about demons even. Dad kept that card close to his chest for many more years.
It isn’t until he finds a small entry about Little Rock that he realizes they might be here. Not some random hunt in a no name town with forgettable faces and disremembered monsters, but here. Standard hunt gone sideways. Dean spent a week in hospital. Dad on a binge so long Sam had wondered if he had skipped town.
Sam had been too young to go with them, and the journal doesn’t go into specifics, but he feels the urge he always gets when nosing a case. Even the dates match. If he goes out, tracks down the crime scene, he could encounter his dad and brother.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know what will change. But he wants to. He aches with it.
He gets to his feet and picks out his fed suit.
~*~
Dean is trying not to stare at the stranger.
He drove the car after he and Dad back to the motel, parked right next to theirs and laughed, saying they have the same taste. Then he wandered off to his own room to get changed. He showed up fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in comfortable jeans and plaid.
Dean has seen a hundred hunters dressed the same way, his dad and himself included, but somehow, on Fu-, Sam, it’s different. He’s wearing it differently.
Right now he’s sitting in their kitchen, leaning back on the spindly chair that’s barely large enough for him, with his legs sprawled out comfortably. He laughs at something Dad’s saying and sips on a beer.
He drank the first one that Dad spiked with holy water without problem and happily admired the knife Dean showed him, his silver one. When he handed it back, he winked at Dean in a way that makes him think the hunter knew it was a test all along.
He seems at home here, in their motel kitchen, with people he only met virtually hours ago. It’s a far cry from the professional agent they ran into yesterday and much more relaxed than the worried hunter they met tonight.
Dean’s sipping on his own beer, swallows painfully around his bruised throat and quickly looks away when Fu- Sam’s eyes find his.
“So, Dean”, Sam says and Dean snaps back to him with a guilty churning in his gut. “How long’ve you been hunting?”
“I went on my first hunt when I was around eight, I think”, Dean says and honestly can’t remember. It feels like he has always been hunting. “Couldn’t always go what with Sammy needing someone to look after him.”
“Dean’s always been such a little caretaker”, John adds and laughs as Dean flushes. “Sammy’s my youngest, he’s asleep right now but maybe you’ll see him tomorrow.”
“He’s doesn’t go with you on hunts?” Sam asks with an odd voice and Dean looks at him.
“He’s a little nerd and prefers staying home to study”, Dean says, a teasing smile threatening to spill over his lips.
Sam’s not looking at him, though. He’s studying Dad very carefully. John seems to notice this, too, because he shrugs.
“Sam’s a smart kid. He doesn’t like hunting and I figured this was an easy enough case for Dean and me to deal with alone.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Sam asks, voice carefully neutral.
John clears his throat and shifts a little.
“Well, he’s gonna have to learn eventually, unless he leaves, and I figure I’d give him time to find something else, if that’s what he wants. I’ve never heard of a hunter who gets out, but he was born into it, and, I dunno, maybe it’s different.”
Sam nods but Dean notices the tense lines to his shoulders. He has no idea what’s going through Sam’s mind but it leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Quiet absorbs the room. Dean listens for sounds of Sammy waking up but the bedroom door is shut and with a stranger in the kitchen it’s unlikely he would come out anyway. Shy little dork, Dean thinks and takes a drag of his beer.
“Where’re you headed next?” Sam asks, breaking the awkward silence.
“We haven’t heard anything strange to check out so we’re heading north towards South Dakota. There’s a hunter that we know in Sioux Falls and the boys usually spend some time there during summer.”
It looks like someone dropped a bowl of cold water over Sam. His face pales and contorts when so many things flash across his features that Dean can’t begin to interpret them. It would look funny but it’s too painful. Sam’s clutching his beer in a grip tight enough to make Dean worry about the integrity of the glass.
“Bobby”, he whispers in a half-rumble. “You’re talking about Bobby Singer”, Sam states because it’s definitely not a question.
“Yeah, I’m not surprised you know him. The man has a net of contacts wider than the president”, John says and smiles. “I’ve known him for years; used to drive me mad, but damn if he isn’t the best hunter I’ve ever met”, he goes on and there is a warmth coating his words that takes Dean by surprise because whenever his dad’s on the phone with Uncle Bobby, it ends up in a screaming-match that rivals the ones he has with Sammy, and then walks around with fists clenched the rest of the day, muttering darkly under his breath.
“Yeah, definitely, yeah”, Sam breathes. “Bobby’s the best.”
He sounds so blown away by something so mundane. Dean briefly considers a fall-out but it doesn’t make sense that Sam would sound so surprised. If he wanted to talk to Bobby, make up or whatever, he could have just driven there, or phoned him.
“How’d you meet him?” John asks, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s not sensing the atmosphere or if he’s purposefully choosing to ignore it in favor of information.
Sam hesitates then blows air slowly out through his mouth. “On a hunt. Of course.”
“Of course”, John laughs. “Probably rolled in like he owned the place and dictated what to do, too. Like a said, a damn good hunter, but man if he doesn’t get on your nerves.”
Sam is chuckling but it’s weak and he drains his beer before standing up to go get them seconds. “Sure did, but he’s saved my life more times than I care to count, so I figure I’ll forgive him”, Sam says and pops the caps and passes them around.
“Truer words”, John says and clinks his beer against Sam’s in thanks. “To a wise fart whose wet nose is the reason we’re all still here”, he says and drinks deep.
The conversation turns pleasant after that and many hunting stories are exchanged. Sam seems to have spent much of his life hunting and tells the most hair-raising, nightmare-inducing stories Dean has ever heard. He laughs until he cries when Sam describes his endeavors with his partner and how they ended up chasing fairies, and who knew those were real? His dad and he returns with stories of witches that turned out to be cosplayers and the one time Dean was arrested for molestation when he was trying to check if it was a shifter.
They drink most of the beer and the clock ticks closer to dawn but no one seems willing to call the night over. Dean hasn’t seen his dad this relaxed in ages and there’s something compelling about Sam. Something drawing him in. Maybe it’s the kind smile or way he just seems to fit.
“So where’re you from, son?” John asks and Dean holds his breath.
Sam clears his throat and looks down the bottle of his beer as if the answer will be provided if he stares deep enough. “Born in Kansas, but my family moved away before I really got a chance to experience it.”
“Kansas”, Dad says, wondering. “Same as my boys. Lived there for many years. Would probably be there still if…” he runs out of words after that but Dean knows what would have come.
If Mom hadn’t been killed and thrust Dad into the Life, forcing him on the road, chasing every lead until he either found the bastard who did it or died trying.
Dean looks at Sam to see his reaction. He looks sympathetic, eyes so sad that Dean could have sworn he knew. Then again, Sam has his own sad story. Probably every hunter they’ve ever met has their own tragic past, that one thing that opened their eyes to the supernatural world, ripping away their normal forever.
“I’m sorry”, Sam says and it’s so emphatic that Dean can’t help but wonder.
“It happens”, Dad says, letting it go for all intents and purposes. “What about you, Sam? How’d you stumble into this life?”
Sam looks at him for a long time, face unreadable. “Raised in it”, he says eventually. “Tried to get out a couple of time, but you know…”
“You never get out”, Dad fills in and Sam nods.
The moment hangs there, suspended. Somewhere out on the highway the first truck of the day roars by. A lonely bird squeaks unattractively.
Finally they have to admit defeat and they head off to bed. There’s barely any point with the sun rising in the east over the forest, turning the day a gray orange, but they can’t safely get behind the wheel without at least a couple of hours of shut eye.
His dad ends up inviting Sam to go with them and Sam, who doesn’t appear to have any plans of his own, graciously accepts.
Late morning they get wind of a case they think might be a wendigo in Pennsylvania and head east. They never do end up going to visit Uncle Bobby and no one mentions it again.