2039/Backahasten to the Future

Backahasten to the Future
Date of Scene:	16 August 2017
Location:	Beacon, NY
Synopsis:	The Backahasten begins a series of murders along the Hudson River with the aim of capturing one of the Brothers Winchester at last. Did she get a little nudge from a certain King of the Crossroads? Or is his latest offer just an attack of opportunity?
Cast of Characters:	Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Tinyplot:	Blood on My Name
Tinyplot2:	Tayaniye

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam Winchester is fresh from his weekly WAND check-in this morning, which means he's dressed in a suit with no tie. He's also distracted, sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow highlighter and a black marker, as well as a bunch of newspaper articles printed out from his tablet. He goes through each one carefully, making marks on the map, noting a time and a date next to that mark, and then highlighting between marks.

On the table, untouched, what looks like a peach smoothie. It smells like a peach smoothie too, probably because it is, in fact, a peach smoothie.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean is terrible at weekly check-in. There's no question Dean is terrible at weekly check-in. But this probably isn't a surprise to anyone. He treads in from the hall (and presumably outside?) in a mechanic-jumpsuit--just green enough to make his eyes seem that much greener. An oil stain across the front probably suggests that he's been busy taking care of work.

He shoots his brother a lopsided grin. "Decided to become a funeral director?" He whistles sharply as he slips towards the refrigerator and nabs a bottle of beer. It's not yet noon.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam ignores the barb, as Sam so often does. Instead of engaging, he just looks up rather seriously. He's even got the SHIELD badge pinned to his chest, still. "I think we have a case, something I picked up from WAND this morning." is his greeting instead. "I can't figure out what's doing it though. I've scoured every lore book I have, I've been all over the Internet. I think I know where it's going and where it will be next though."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's features tighten slightly. "Reeeeally." He's intrigued now. He pops the top off his beer and treads to where his brother is sitting. "So, what makes you think it's a case? I mean, without any of the usual features, it seems difficult confirm." He manages a flicker of a smile at that and then shrugs his shoulders.

Sam Winchester has posed:
"A series of drownings," Sam explains. "They always happen on foggy nights, always children, and there have been hoof prints at every crime scene. They started in Briarcliff Manor and they've followed the Hudson River. Every three days it seems to hit a new town. Croton-on-Hudson, Peekskill, West Point. I think it's going to hit Beacon next. Because of the Croton connection I thought it was the little-h hydra, but there were no giant snake sightings on any of the kooksites, and nobody had any acid burns. The hydra's patterns aren't so specific, either, it seems like it will pretty much eat anything that moves, so this one has to be different. It can't be another rusalka, those don't move. Can't be a kappa, because when the corpses are recovered they're in perfect shape, instead of mangled and eaten." A pause, and then a grimace. "Man, I don't know what it is with us and water cases lately."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean had taken a long swig of his beer when Sam begins to describe the case. It's unfortunate, because in an instant his face pales and he struggles to catch his breath around the fluid that's already in his mouth. In a strange chain reaction, the beer is spat back towards the sink. Dean coughs hard. He raises his hands, the universal symbol that everything is okay. "Tried to drink too much at once," he virtually wheezes.

His eyebrows draw together and he finally shakes his head. "Sounds like a Bäckahästen." His lips purse and his nostrils flare. And then with a tick of his head, he sees fit to explain further. "A brook horse. They're white, beautiful creatures that try to entice kids to ride them to their doom. They drown kids." His lips purse and he rubs the back of his neck as the bottle of beer is left to the counter and he clears his throat. As far as why they have so many water cases, "It's crazy. And weirdly coincidental."

Sam Winchester has posed:
"A Backa-whatsen?" Sam asks. And then he shakes his head. Weird. Deja vu. Only not quite right. He ignores said deja vu in favor of saying, "How did you know that, anyway?" After all, Sam has gotten used to being the encyclopedia, but he couldn't find a single thing in any of his memorized knowledge to suggest what a Backahasten was. And here's Dean, talking on it like he's some sort of expert. He frowns. "I don't think I ever saw that one in Dad's journal, either." Still, he finally sweeps up his smoothie, saying, "It's probably going to be in Beacon around midnight tonight."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's head cants to the side while he mulls the question over. How does he know that? "Uh..." that's a good question. "Maybe you don't know Dad's journal as well as you think you do." He puts the whole thing back on Sam, and not on the fact that he destroyed that tome just under nine years ago. As for where the brook horse will be, "Yeaaaah. They like fog. A lot of it. And the only way to kill them is to pierce their heart with steel. We could try to trap it, but again, steel cage."

He sucks on the inside of his cheek. "It'll aim for one of the weird kids at school too. Like the odd ones."

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam ticks an eyebrow upward, but he doesn't argue. He got a photocopied partial during his year-long hunt, but he was able to tell right away things were missing from it. Either way, it doesn't seem worth arguing about. Instead, he taps into his tablet. "There's an old steel mill right on the route," he says. "We might be able to find some useful stuff to work with there. We've got plenty of time to go see before the thing is expected to appear. 'Weird kids' might help us pinpoint the right spot on the river, too...if one of those kids has a house that's pretty close to the water, for example."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's hands clap together and his lips twist to the side. He's quite obviously considering something as he stares at Sam a few beats longer than is probably comfortable. "Right. Well we should go then." And then his eyes light up, as he offers, "I mean, unless you need to talk to your lady friend before you go. I can totally handle this if you're too relationship-y. Just saying." His lips hitch up on one side into a boyish grin.

But there's no way that Sam is taking that bait and so Dean is already shedding the mechanic jumpsuit. "I'll drive." Clearly.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam gives Dean a milder version of his irritated face. "All Fred asks is that I take back-up," he says. It's almost prim, the way he says it. But of course Dean will drive. He grabs up a few of his things and follows after his brother. And then he decides to give Dean a little shit. With the grin of mischief he only really adopts when he's giving Dean crap he adds, "Though maybe I should call her, just to find out if you count..."

Dean Winchester has posed:
There's another quirk of Dean's lips at the remark. He does up his seatbelt and hums in turn. "Nah bro, you're the back up. You didn't even know what this thing was." His grin grows as he puts the car into drive and tugs on a pair of sunglasses.

In no time the impala is cruising down a stretch of highway towards the steel mill listening to Iron Maiden. It's then that Dean turns the music down and turns his head towards Sam. "So... I've been thinking maybe you should learn how to take care of the Impala. I was working on the carburetor this morning so it would start faster." He purses his lips. "I mean, Mercy could probably teach you. Dad taught me. Kind of." His lips curve up at that.

Sam Winchester has posed:
And that is the moment that Sam Winchester starts having some real suspicions. Point of fact, he does have some minor car repair skills of his own. He's nothing like Dean, of course...he gets stumped and usually needs Dean's help. But he took care of his currently-missing Dodge Charger for all that time he was on the road. He got kidnapped, in fact, in part because he stopped to help a woman on the road. He knows basics. Spark plugs, that sort of thing. The fact that Dean floats //Mercy// to teach him even before himself sets off some alarm bells in the head of one Winchester the Younger. Something is going on. Now how can he find out what it is? "I'm surprised you'd let Mercy touch the Impala," he says evenly. "I mean you barely met her. Have you guys even exchanged a conversation? Even one about cars?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Uh-uh-uh," there's clear admonishment in Dean's voice. "I said Mercy could teach //you//. I didn't say //she// could touch the Impala," Dean objects evenly. "Just thinking aloud." He swallows the growing lump in his throat but manages an incredibly convincing all-too-smug smile when he turns to face Sam with a one shouldered shrug. "But you don't want to learn? Dude, that's entirely your thing. Just don't want you turning your life into one endless chick flick now that you're all joint at the hip and stuff."

And just for good measure the Impala speeds up. "How far the steel mill?" because the case is easy in comparison. "I'm thinking if we can find something long and sharp. Hunter's knives are pretty ineffective. I mean, it should work," his cheeks puff out with recollection, "but getting close enough to pierce it's heart? It's still a horse. There's a lot of flesh there. And touching it?" he whistles sharply. "That's when it gets you. A person can escape from that. They're stuck until..." he doesn't finish the thought, instead opting to focus on the road.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam rolls his eyes. It seems for the moment that he’s buying it, though. Or, at least, that talk of their current hunt has distracted him sufficiently to keep him from pursuing the subject. It’s a sure bet that this will come up again, though, and Dean will likely have to account for it. Because this is not the first weird thing Dean has said lately.

“What I’m hoping we’ll find,” Sam muses, “are some of those big steel poles. We could probably use some of the equipment at the mill to make them into spears. Getting in close on a horse seems like it would be tricky business, and if what you say is true we definitely want some reach. Get enough of the poles and we might be able to use them to herd it away from the river, to, cut it off from its power source somehow. Cause yeah, I think a knife sounds like a terrible plan. And we might need to throw something between the horse and its victim that messes with its power too. From what you’re saying, steel does the trick there too right? So…Poles.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Unintentionally, Dean’s shoulders relax with the relief he feels at the subject being, however momentarily, dropped. He’ll have to account later, but maybe he’ll come up with something plausible by then. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, however, as the mention of the brook horse comes up again.

The mention of the knives being a terrible plan prompts his expression change. His smile becomes masochistic. From one end to the next it has an entirely self-deprecating edge. He can feel its hints of humourlessness, even as it remains plastered on his expression and he feels thankful for his sunglasses. “Right. That seems like a good move. Anything to pierce his heart would be good and the more distance we can get from that thing the better.” And, if Sam is paying attention, he can see his brother actually tremble.

His smile falters and he shakes his head. “Alright, so we have a plan. Construct spears. Sharpen them. Wield them. Might even be able to drive it into the horse’s heart quickly.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam /is/ paying attention.

But he misreads the reason for the trembling. His expression softens. “Is this something you and Dad ran into while I was at Stanford? Did the hunt go badly?”

The steel mill is one of those rust belt casualties. It’s all locked up, with a fence all around the outside of it. This is hardly a real obstacle to a pair of Winchesters to be sure, especially as security really only consists of a big chain and padlock combo. And whatever locks are on the doors. It looks literally like the plant closed down, like there was nobody to sell anything to, and like everyone just walked away from it.

It may be serving as some tycoon’s tax write-off even now.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The question earns a strange quirk of Dean’s lips. “Something like that,” he replies as his fingers curl tighter along the steering wheel. “Solo job. Dad wasn’t there,” that’s enough. He doesn’t offer any more about the whole issue.

The car is put into park. And the engine shuts off. He can’t help but smirk at the poor security. He reaches into his pocket and extracts his lockpick. Carefully his fingers work at the mechanism until he can hear it release. With a lopsided grin he looks back towards Sam, “Child’s play,” but the irony of the words causes his chin to drop to his chest. The brook horse essentially was child’s play.

Dean tugs the chain and opens the fence. Heavy steps bring him into the steel yard and he turns to catch Sam in his periphery.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam ambles in in unhurried fashion. He does pull out his EMF meter. This place isn’t the case, but old abandoned places like this make him do such things out of routine. Fortunately, the entire spot is dead for supernatural activity, and the tall one exhales with relief and puts it away.

“I don’t know much about the layout of mills,” he admits, checking the time. “But we’ve got hours yet, so we can probably afford to explore.”

There’s just a big entry door that’s basically just locked up in exactly the same way. With a “Warning, Danger, Do Not Enter” sign on the door. The type of stuff that the Winchesters just pay total attention to all the time, of course.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean rolls his eyes at the Danger sign. He takes the lockpick to the padlock and fiddles with the mechanism until it gives. He tugs on the chain and lets it drop to the ground. “It’s not breaking and entering if you need the materials, right?” the humour in his voice is unmissable.

He trails into the main area, giving Sam plenty of time to follow. His hands tuck deeply into his pockets and he casts his brother a vague glance as he takes a long breath, “It wreaks of metal. Gotta be able to find something of use here. Gotta be.” His lips press together and he turns a corner. “Man, bet it gets hot in here fast when things are actually working.” His eyes trail the room, searching for any signs of where he might be able to find the metal.

Sam Winchester has posed:
It takes quite a bit of searching to actually locate the thing that Sam had in mind. They do find a lot of ingots and things, but Sam shakes his head. Too heavy, too bulky, and not sharp. What they finally find are long corkscrew thin, steel bars with sharp tips.

“Ah!” Sam hefts one up. “These ought to do the trick.”

It’s worth noting that they’re actually pretty heavy. And while Sam doesn’t exactly heft it up like it’s nothing, neither does he expend much effort doing it. Was he always that strong? He /is/ pretty big. Maybe that’s it.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean watches baby brother have little issue lifting the bar, and anticipates similar ease until he attempts to pluck it from the others. It’s not impossible, but it certainly takes more effort than Sam seemed to put in. His eyebrows draw together slightly, “Been lifting lately, Sammy?” Because that’s a thing that would make some sense. And then he tacks on for good measure with a lopsided quirk of his lips: “Just don’t skip leg day.” He winks.

He strolls back towards the entrance, metal object in hand. “At least it’s pointy. Someday I’m going to have to invest in a sword for this kind of thing.” His eyebrows lift to punctuate the point. “Suppose that’s a pro with that whole SHIELD thing.” His eyes roll dramatically. “The reporting and constant oversight,” his head shakes. “And the spycraft. They probably track us. Subdermally or whatever. Some kind of high tech implant they just use without anyone knowing.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam clears his throat when asked if he’s been lifting. “Uh...yeah. Seems like a good idea.”

/Note to self. Start lifting/.

But Dean goes rambling on about SHIELD, and he says thoughtfully, “I...dunno, Dean. I mean I don’t want to make you mad, but I’ve been thinking it might be simpler to just be an Agent instead of continuing to run around pretending to be FBI Agents. And the real badge would carry more weight than the consultant badge. And we could, in fact, get some real equipment. I mean I fill out the paperwork now, just so we can get paid.”

He looks away quickly and adds, “But I mean I understand all the objections you’ve raised to it, and I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it. I don’t want to abandon you again.”

A guilty shadow passes over his face, followed by a deeper, more guilty shadow, and he looks down. And gathers up another bar, because they might need more than one a piece.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“You wouldn’t be abandoning me, baby bro,” Dean replies slowly. “I’ll still be a consultant. You don’t need to worry about me. Seriously. I can take care of myself, and it’s not like we wouldn’t be working together anyways. You’d just have a wider array of people you’d work with.” He manages a small smile.

There’s a long pause where he studies Sam’s face and he exhales a long breath. “Is it that important to you? That I do this too if you take the plunge?” His eyes narrow slightly. “We’d still live together. Nothing would change except you’d be pulling your funeral director routine more often and you’d have different cases--ones they gave you instead of ones we find.” He shrugs.

“I still need to find Dad,” he offers in turn. “And it’s not because I think he’s in trouble or anything,” although he could be. “I just need the ability to do that. Not sure I’d get that with SHIELD.” Pause. “Besides,” he issues Sam a rogue smile, “if I learned anything from Star Wars it’s that the ladies like scoundrel.” He winks. “SHIELD makes a fellow too legit to quit.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“I wouldn’t abandon the search for Dad,” Sam says quietly. “I’ve been trying but...something’s blocking me. He might be out of range. I just keep getting headaches but I’m,” another clearing of his throat. “I’m sourcing a work-around.”

Dean asks his questions, and he contemplates it as he grabs up a third bar. “I guess we don’t have to do it together,” he says slowly. “I mean, I like it for all the reasons I’ve said. It gives some stability and legitimacy, while letting me live this life that...that I was born for. I don’t like stealing to finance our hunts. But I also want you to be happy, and I don’t want you to feel like I couldn’t say, dart out to California if I needed to. Actually I could, I’d just log the case and we’d be off, but...you were so opposed to it before. You seemed to really hate May.”

Is he going to weigh in on what the ladies like?

No. No he is not.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Sometimes it hurts to get what you wished for. The last few months have involved some incredible planning on Dean’s part. And it seems like it’s amounted to what he’d wanted. “I get the wanting to be paid and walk the straight and narrow. Sam, I couldn’t do it if I tried,” his eyebrows lift at that. “Not successfully.” He sniffs at that. Even so, there’s far more going on, and the pull of his eyebrow echoes with all the things he dares not speak.

His throat clears at the notion of hating May. “I don’t hate her,” he offers in return and there’s a long pause. She was his phone call when he was broken and beaten. And then perhaps more honestly he clarifies, “It’s not hatred exactly. I just think they did a shitty job of approaching you and then entrapping me. If they wanted a conversation they could’ve had it. People who demonstrate that amount of power? It worries me. Sure, you might have freedom, but within very clear confines.”

“Don’t worry about my happiness. I find that every time I eat a cheeseburger for breakfast, have a piece of apple pie, or drink a beer before noon. Happiness is fleeting. I know that.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam still looks incredibly worried. When he’d went off to Stanford he’d hardly cared what anyone else wanted. He’d been young and stubborn, a teenager in the height of teenaged self-centeredness.

Now he does, and something in the way that this is playing out bothers him. Nags at him. For reasons he hasn’t put together yet.

“I’ll hold off. I can’t unring that bell,” he decides. “We’re doing fine right now. That Hydra mess might be screwing with me a little bit. This might not be the time to make decisions.”

He turns towards the door. “Think this will be enough? We gotta get to that town’s middle school and high school if we’re going to get likely river locations. You should really stop and do your quote-unquote funeral director routine too, otherwise we might get stonewalled.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
A flicker of a smile follows Sam’s decision. “Look, don’t hold off on anything on my account. You were always different from us. You need people, Sam. Dad did this mostly alone. I don’t even know how--” he breaks the thought. It doesn’t even matter so why give it words. “Whatever. No chick flick moments.” His throat clears and he follows Sam to the doorway.

“And yeah, I’ll pull my James Bond routine. Suit’s in the back,” he notes idly with another quirk of his lips.

In no time, the pair return to the car and things are loaded up. And, whether or not Sam appreciates it, modesty has never been one of Dean’s virtues. Unsurprisingly, he changes in the open--mostly because the area seems abandoned anyways for the moment.

“Winchester. Dean Winchester,” he adjusts the collar of the suit and tilts his head to catch Sam’s eye before sliding into the passenger seat. “Let’s get this shit done,” he grins grimly, not wholly convincing, but puts the car into drive to return to the highway.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam just rolls his eyes and looks annoyed as Dean doesn’t so much as take advantage of the abandoned building to go and change in. But neither does he say much about it. Considering the number of times their Dad made them stop on the side of the road and pee in the grass, it’s not exactly like modesty is a huge family trait. As Dean is observing, he’s different.

He hands Dean his consultant badge, and looks at the clock. “Okay,” he says. “You take the high school, I’ll take the middle school. They’re right down the street from each other. We make a beeline for the counselor. We find out who the troubled kids are who fit the profile--” Because Sammy does have the newspaper articles to look at for more than ‘weird’, and he just assumes Dean knows the profile, “get some addresses, and then we’ll see who lives closest to the river, who might make a good target of opportunity. Cause otherwise we’re going to end up driving up and down the riverfront all night hoping to spot something at the right time.”

So much more prepared this time. So much more focused, with a much better plan. Last time they did at least have the makeout spot to guide them.

This time, surely, it’ll all be fine.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“At least we’ve still got time,” Dean offers. He follows the routine of the hunt. Formulate a plan, gather information, execute the plan. But this time he’s reasonably certain the brook horse will also be hunting him. He robbed them. Theft isn’t something they take lightly.

Regardless, he goes through the motions. Yet even as he leaves the car, Sam might sense something is off. Dean normally dives right into the grifting routine, but this time he’s a little less easy about it.

He enters the high school and flashes his fake FBI badge at the counselor. Even if he could flash a consultant badge, somehow it feels less official than the fake FBI one. Old habits die hard. “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m Agent Dale Cooper. I have a few questions about some of the students at your school if you have a moment.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam, at least, makes no comment on that whatsoever. He just heads for the middle school with a confident stride. Since Dean has already confirmed his solo hunt for this thing went bad once, he chalks up any signs of uneasiness to that alone. As it is, he’s focusing on the hunt, now, and not so much the bits of the conversation between them that struck him as strange.

The counselor is a pretty black woman with high cheekbones and a short, natural hair cut. She’s dressed in a green pantsuit. She examines the badge, furrowing her brow faintly. “Agent Cooper. What can I do for you?” She looks more confused than guarded, at least, which is something. She pauses in the act of using one of those massive paper-cutter blades that only the educational set ever seems to bother with, the ones that are kind of creepy to have in classrooms because they could legitimately slice someone’s hand off.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean arches an eyebrow at the paper cutter, but manages a polite smile for the counselor anyways. “I’m working a case. There have been a series of drownings across multiple cities in this area. And it seems that the pattern brought us here where we think our unsub will strike next. We suspect these are not accidental deaths,” his eyebrows lift expectantly. “Our killer seems to target troubled kids.” His chin drops and he tries to clarify what he means, “Those with few friends. Maybe they have strange hobbies or unusual beliefs. The kids that are far from popular.”

He cringes slightly. “I’m hoping you can help me save lives today by providing me with a list of these kids.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
It’s a good pitch, and the counselor’s face softens. “I heard about some of those deaths,” she says.

She thinks about it for a moment, then says, “There’s a little club of kids that like to play Dungeons and Dragons and stuff,” she says slowly. “And then there are the ones that like to pierce their face and smoke weed behind the bleachers. And there’s at least one who says she’s Wiccan, but she’s just trying to piss off her parents and anyone who tries to argue with her. Do you want all of those or just some of them? Oh, and the gender-fluid kid, they have a bit of trouble making and keeping friends here too. It’s a small town.”

She herself seems to be rather fond of everyone she just named, even the weed smokers, and genuine worry dances in and out of her tone as she names them.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Names and addresses of all would be helpful. To be honest, we’re going to narrow it down to anyone that lives near the river. The unsub chooses victims of convenience. Befriends a kid and then,” Dean’s expression turns grim. He emits a soft sigh and offers, “Regardless, we’ll be on patrol keeping an eye out for the lot, but it’d be helpful to know where on the river bank the unsub might find a victim.”

His lips press together tightly. “I know what it’s like to lose someone that young. Believe me. I… I get the worry. More than you probably can imagine.” It’s a rare moment of genuine empathy, and he’s thankful that Sam isn’t here to see it. “We’ll look out for them and we’ll do our best for them. All of them. I promise.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Okay. Let me get them all for you,” the woman says. It takes her about five minutes to pull all the enrollment files and to copy them for him, but she comes back with a list for Dean. “Should I call their parents and warn them not to let them out or something? Because I can, especially with an-- an unsub?-- in the area?”

Obviously in her mind unsub now equals serial killer.

Dean Winchester has posed:
There’s a flicker of a smile that follows. “Yeah, that’s a great idea, actually,” remove the element that could blow the entire thing--the element that blew it last time. Dean shoots her an easier smile now, “It’s good that you’re so willing to be helpful. We’re really trying to protect people here.”

He takes the list and gives her a small nod of his head. “I’ll be off and checking in on some of these areas. And thanks. I appreciate it.” He manages another smile before treading back to the door with the list in hand.

In short order he’s in the driver’s seat of the Impala again.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam is already there, and he had less success. Dryly he says, “Mr. Addlestone is of the opinion that all middle schoolers are weird,” he says dryly. “Once I clarified what weird meant, I got a list of about ten possible kids though.”

He’s already programming their addresses into his GPS. “Any luck on your end?”

He checks his watch again...the counselors and such do work late, and it’s pushing on towards 5:00 PM. They still have quite a bit of time to use if they want it before the horse is likely to appear, to be sure. On the other hand, it might just be one of those long stretches of nothing that are also common to hunts.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean passes the list to Sam. “I’m pretty sure I convinced the lady that there’s a serial killer on the loose drowning kids,” his lips purse at that in a sorry-not-sorry kind of pout. His head ticks to the side, “She’s going to call the parents and request they keep the kids in tonight. That said, high schoolers are what they are. They’ll do what they want despite their parents efforts.”

“Not sure how close anyone is to the river though.” His tongue rolls over his lips. And then, sucking a sharp breath, he suggests, “We should get a burger. Big one. And a milkshake. And pie.”

And even before Sam can object, the car lurches backwards as it’s put into drive to find the nearest drive thru. “So any of the addresses close to the water?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Three of them,” Sam says, frowning. “Triangulating them gives us an area of about a mile. That’s not unmanageable though, especially if we find some good surveillance points.”

He makes no objection to the suggestion of dinner. Hunting on an empty stomach is dumb, and the diners are tradition. At home, these days, he’s been trying to vary up Dean’s diet a little...cooking roast chicken and vegetables, and meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans, remembering that he’d heard John and Dean rhapsodize about Mary Winchester’s meatloaf once. But out in the field? He has few objections about the fare.

“You know what? I might even have a burger this time myself,” he says thoughtfully. Because now, of course…

Now he’s free to worry at the problem of Dean’s strange statements again. He sounds rather distracted as he opines that he might indulge in one of his very rare cheeseburgers.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Excellent!” Dean actually beams at the prospect. He eats like a manchild, but it’s not often that he can convince anyone to join him. The Impala pulls into the parking lot of a greasy spoon diner--real American classic--and Dean hops out of the driver’s seat.

In short order, the Winchesters are seated at a booth near the back. The diner looks typical for the area and has a very real 1950s theme. The tiles on the floor are in a black and white checkerboard pattern. The booths white. Everything about it is clean, spotless, and speaks volumes to the quaint place they find themselves.

When the waitress takes their order, Dean goes for the motherload, “Bacon cheeseburger, fries with gravy, large strawberry milkshake,” not his usual, but milkshakes aren’t generally his fare, “and after that’s all done, apple pie a la mode.” He winks at the woman.

Bzzzzt.

Bzzzzt.

Bzzzzt.

In his pocket, his phone rings. Apologetically, he reaches for it and then looks at the name. A small not-quite-convincing smile pulls the edges of his lips as he brings it to his ear. “Hey. Twice in one week, you either miss me or I’m a real pain in your ass,” his voice softens and he actually turns away from the table, moving like he might go stand somewhere else. But he doesn’t. For the moment he’s stuck in place. “Yeah, we’re already on the hunt for it… a Backahasten… no not terribly common. Scandinavian in origin… no I did not hear that from Sam… ask him yourself…” he actually smiles smugly before hearing the caller backpedal. “Yeah, yeah… so anything else… Yeah, I’ll be there. Next week… won’t forget… yeah, you too.” He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam tilts his head at the conversation, but this sounds like…

He flashes one of those insufferable grins that he so often flashes when he wants to tease his brother, along with that quick chuff-laugh that he sometimes offers. “Got yourself a girlfriend?”

He orders a regular cheeseburger, waffle fries, a chocolate shake, and a coconut cream pie. It seems he really is going to join Dean in his culinary debauchery this evening. They’re both going for things that aren’t entirely their usual.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Sam’s teasing earns him a sharp furrowing of his brother’s eyebrow. “That was Jo. Definitely not a girlfriend. Wanted to know what was up with these cities and their drownings. Or her mom did?” He shrugs. But it’s not so easily brushed off. “Look, she did me a solid when the whole thing with the Winter Soldier went down and I owe her. That’s all.” He rubs his nose with his sleeve.

“You’re the one with the girlfriend. Freddie seems cool. A bit… different. But cool enough.” At that he shrugs again, attempting to brush off any thoughts about him and his relationship status. “Besides, the rules stand for me. No ties. Occasional friend or friendliness, but nothing so…” his hand rocks in the air uncertainly.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Harvelle? I met her and Ellen while I was looking for you this year,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. Because he had, of course, been following Dean’s trail. “A lot of the other Hunters at the roadhouse, too.”

But Dean brings up Fred, and he smiles fondly. He touches his coat, as if to make sure Feigenbaum is still there. Feigenbaum is.

“She got sent to a Hell dimension,” he says quietly. “Five years. She figured out how to get this explosive collar off herself. Lived off the land in a cave. Needed a little external help to get out, but she’s a survivor. She was a physicist student before that. But I think I really fell for her when I watched her rig medical supplies into-- no lie-- a vampire-killing machine gun.”

He swallows and says, “I’m in love with her, Dean. I’m in love with her, and all I can think is I’m going to let her down the way I--”

/The way I inevitably let everyone down, always./

And as if on cue...another hunger starts up, one that can’t be alleviated with milkshakes. But he ignores it for the moment, draining his ice water instead.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Yeah, Harvelle,” but even as he says her last name, tinges of fondness colour his expression. “She calls me Dean-o. Like the Flintstones’ dog.” He rolls his eyes. “But her and her mom are good people.”

“You won’t let her down,” Dean replies easily. He leans back in his seat and his eyes lid. He wets his lips and he looks towards the calendar on the wall. His eyes train there a few moments. “Geez Sam, we’ve never been stable. I been thinking about,” he swallows and looks towards the calendar, “time lately. A lot actually.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and his jaw works around this idea.

/I’m going to die a year from tomorrow./

“Do you remember the ridiculously hot summer when we were in the south? You were twelve. I was sixteen or so.” He sniffs loudly fighting back his impulse to just release the secret that haunts him. “I think about it a lot. The way we lived on peanut butter and jelly. How Dad was gone… pretty much always. It was the first summer I finally got it.”

He sniffs again and forces a stiff smile. “You don’t let me down. If you want to join SHIELD, join SHIELD. It won’t disappoint me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” His teeth toy at his bottom lip. “I don’t hate them.”

He inhales a deep breath and holds it for a second.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Got it. The desire Sam had developed to just be normal.

He looks down and frowns. Because he’s thinking of another night.

//Five Years Ago//

They’d been in Kilgore, Texas for almost a month now, going to the same school. John’s cases take him farther and farther out, and arguably the two boys can take care of themselves. Even if he hasn’t given Dean the Impala yet.

Sam has disappeared after school every day. He hasn’t joined a club. He hasn’t found a girl. He isn’t even at his go-to, which is the library. At 17 he has sprouted up like a weed, no longer the tiny but fierce little kid that he was. He’s about Dean’s height, with flippy hair and cheekbones that the girls sigh over. He barely ever seems to notice the last part.

Somehow, he is still a straight A student. An average of 14 schools per year for their entire educational career, and he has managed a 4.0 GPA. It’s summer. It’s nice and hot. He wants to walk the graduation stage. He intends to do so come Hell or high water.

His after-school forays, though, take him to the UPS store, where he has rented his own PO box. He carefully checks it, holding his breath. And withdraws a thick brown envelope.

Dean Winchester has posed:
It’s enough to make the elder Winchester suspicious. While Dean doesn’t always seem the sharpest pencil in the box, he notices more than he lets on. The disappearances after school had been noted. And, after some weeks of them, he finally gave into curiosity. He’d taken off early from work at the mechanic’s car repair that he’d taken a legitimate job. Learning a trade seemed important and useful--especially one that would be so helpful on the road.

Following Sam had been easy enough. While some families talked about things like the desire to move on, the Winchesters are quite the opposite. Why have a discussion if you can avoid it altogether and just spy on each other?

He trails behind his brother, pausing outside the UPS store to spy through the window. His eyebrows draw together and he feels a frown pulling his lips downwards.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam doesn’t even look at the window. He tears into the envelope with the haste of one who has been waiting and waiting to see one just like it. He reads the letter at the very top of a thick pile of papers, a grin of triumph bolting over his features. He flips quickly through the rest of the pile. It looks like forms. Brochures. His eyes are bright with pleasure, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

Then he stops, and his face falls. He goes to that little bar that’s ubiquitous in every UPS store ever, the one where people can quickly stamp their envelopes or pack their packages. He doesn’t do either. He just leans against it, shaggy hair obscuring the top half of his features as he lets his head dip forward, his mouth a hard slash of indecision.

The trash can is right there.

He picks up the papers, holds them over the trash for a moment, his jaw settling into a firm line as he steels himself to rid himself of all of it.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean frowns. Openly frowns. In a way that a mother might say his face will one day get stuck like that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the next, and then with a duck of his head, slips into the UPS casually as he possibly can.

The grifter’s smile, practiced and nuanced, pulls at each corner of his expression as he slides beside his brother and clears his throat. “Come here often?” his eyebrows lift expectantly, nearly challenging as those green eyes speak to something he won’t articulate.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Dean!”

Sam doesn’t really jump high enough to hit the ceiling, but it could seem an awfully near thing given his sudden shock. One of his greatest weaknesses in the field is one of his greatest strengths when researching their various problems on the road: he can, and often does, focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else, killing his situational awareness. It’s landed him in more than one hostage situation. It’s landed him in more than one scenario where his brother has had to pull some monster right off of him. And now? It means that Dean manages to get right next to him before he can hide any of it.

/Congratulations, Mr. Winchester,/ the letter reads. /Stanford University is proud to inform you that your application for admission has been accepted. In addition, in light of your SAT scores and academic achievements as well as your moving personal statement, we would like to offer you the Thomas B. Gardner Academic Excellence Scholarship, an $225,000 annual scholarship which will cover your tuition, fees, room, board, books, and incidentals during your four-year course of study with our university provided you maintain at least a 3.5 GPA and at least 12 credit hours per semester every year you are enrolled. Please read the enclosed agreements carefully, sign, and return them no later than August 1, 2021, in order to accept this scholarship and claim your place.//

The rest is a bunch of fluff which talks up the university, as if the Ivy League California school really needs it. It’s signed by the University President of Admissions.

Sam swallows. His hand had twitched, like he intended to whip it behind his back. “It’s nothing,” he mutters. “I mean it’s something, but I mostly just…”

He trails off. Clears his throat.

“I just wanted to see if I could do it. Get in, I mean. And now I know.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
The grifter’s smile remains--nearly feline--because Dean really is the cat that caught the canary. He inhales a long breath as Sam explains each of the things, and in many ways, the older of the two just tightens his jaw. He swallows hard and his lips purse like he’s sucked on a lemon.

“...right.”

Unwillingly, his arms cross over his chest. In a way, it’s a defense. “I’m probably supposed to congratulate you.” Or something. This was not remotely something he anticipated, but in the moment he feels like he should’ve seen it coming. His chin drops to his chest, and silence rules the day. “From the looks of it you more than got in,” he observes coolly.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Guilt twists over Sam’s face, and he looks down, the papers clutched in his hand, his hand falling to his side. He lets his hair shadow his eyes again.

“The scholarship application was just part of the main application,” he mutters. “It’s not like I filled out separate paperwork. It was college day at school and I just…”

School, of course, hasn’t been one of Dean’s problems for two years now, but Sammy still goes, and he doesn’t ditch things like assemblies, career day, college day. He throws himself into them, taking them seriously. Before, it was almost all just a fantasy, a way of grabbing onto something normal for five minutes, ten minutes, an hour. But a teacher had encouraged him, and he’d impulsively grabbed a pen.

His hand twitches again, like he’s going to go ahead and toss it. But something stubborn firms his jawline. He’s been pushing against John since he was thirteen years old. He didn’t really start pushing against Dean until he turned 16, but lately if Dean wants something it seems like he can guarantee Sam will eventually begin argument for the opposite thing. Dean just gets the polite version. John gets the sarcasm and silent treatment.

Normal enough. Normal enough when Dean has been Sam’s parent. Probably not any easier to live with, though.

“You don’t have to congratulate me,” he says, in that way that says anger is starting to wash over the guilt. “I know you think stuff like this is lame. But it’s a good opportunity. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And you know what? I want to take it.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean actually blinks, but his lips still pucker like he’s sucked on a lemon. He hums uncertainly and his chin tucks to his chest. In a way he looks more like a punk kid than his brother in this posture. Head lowered, arms over his chest. After a few beats he shakes his head, “You aren’t normal. You weren’t raised to be normal.”

His gaze darkens. “Or did I fuck that up too?” It’s not angry. It’s defeatist. His head tilts to the side and something flashes behind his green eyes. His nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath, assuming the silent brother stance.

He rubs the back of his neck, allowing his posture to change. “We weren’t built for that life, Sam. You know we weren’t. Dad never raised sons. He raised hunters.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Dean’s defeatist unhappiness instantly switches Sam’s attitude. It almost always does, activating his natural empathy and bringing that to the forefront instead of defensiveness or anger.

“Dean, you didn’t fuck anything up,” he says, ever so earnestly. “But I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t want this life. Just because someone was raised to be something doesn’t mean that’s where they have to end up. And you just said it yourself. Dad was trying to raise Hunters, but he didn’t raise anyone. You raised me. And you raised yourself. And I get that you love this life, you feel at home in it, but I--”

He drops his gaze again.

“I just feel lost.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean can feel the tension build in each of his muscles. His hands shove into his pockets--it’s retreatist and safe, and he’s all too aware that he takes it whenever he enters a more pensive place. His chin lifts and he stares towards the window. He loves this life, he feels at home in it--both remarks he can respond to: “Wouldn’t be worth thinking about some other future,” that will never come to fruition. “And no point in trying to sugar coat it. I failed. You and Dad, it seems. Dad because he wanted us to be one thing and one thing only. You because you haven’t learned the first thing about family loyalty.”

His gaze lifts, “Give me six years,” because that’s all he has left. “Six years and then you can walk away from all of this, no argument from me.”

His throat clears. And his eyebrows draw together sharply. “I promise no argument. And that’s a promise I can keep.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam flinches as if punched when Dean makes that comment about /family loyalty/. His cheeks flush and his jaw firms. His nostrils flare.

“Wanting something different-- wanting my own life-- has nothing to do with loyalty. And...s- six years? This will be long gone by then!” He holds up the letter, incredulous.

“You want me to walk away from a million dollar education to...take the Hunting lifestyle for what, a test drive? I think the /nine/ years I’ve already been at it is more than enough to have taught me how bad I hate it. Or even the 17 years, since the going to 140+ schools, the crappy food, the hours and hours on the road, the paranoia, the--”

Realizing he’s still standing in a UPS store of all things, Sam snaps his mouth shut before he can start his rant about their life of crime. Instead, he glares defensively at his brother.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for /any/ of this. And frankly? Neither did you.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
The ache deep in the pit of Dean’s stomach barely registers on his face. He blinks. Hard. His shoulders tighten. He heaviness in his chest exacerbates with the tightness of holding his breath. And it’s only the tightness that registers in his mind.

/Breathe/.

He inhales a sharp breath. “Fine,” there’s strength in resolve. “Six years is nothing,” he finally manages. “Hell, ten years is /nothing/. But I guess at sixteen it feels like an eternity.” He finds that strange stoicism he learned from his father. “If the life we’ve given you is so awful, then leave.” The dryness of his mouth won’t be so easily abated. The moisture has disappeared. But even in spitting sawdust, he manages to find some venom, “You know what Sammy, if I’ve been so awful to you, consider this done. You’re grown enough. Hell, I started raising you when I was what, four? Seems like you can finish the job now. You want out, fine. But someone needs to do something about those things that go bump in the night. Someone. You want to be like everyone else? Go ahead. But you know better. I know better.”

He turns on his heel and treads to the door.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“None of that is fair!” Sammy snaps. “I didn’t even say any--”

But he gives up. He hangs his head.

And then, defiant, he signs the papers, his own heart aching, tears hitting the page. He mails it then and there. 2 weeks later he will stride across the stage of his graduation. He’ll be on the bus that afternoon. John will refuse to go to the graduation but will show up to the bus station one more time.

John will snarl, “If you get on that bus, don’t bother ever coming back.”

Sam will assume he speaks for both himself, and Dean. Their voices are, so often, one.

It will be the last time he sees John before…

//Present Day//Sam Winchester’s eyes narrow. Patterns are his strong suit.

“Six years are almost up,” he says softly. “And you mentioned ten years the day I got my acceptance letter. And you mentioned a deal with Hell in the hydra pit.”

His voice is soft and dire. “Dean. /What did you do?/”

Dean Winchester has posed:
For the first time in nearly a decade, Dean can’t dodge this. He inhales a long breath and presses his hands to his face, letting his fingers rake through his hair as he does so, slowly sliding them to the back of his neck as he forces his gaze back to Sam.

His lips twitch and his eyes glisten before he finally looks away towards the window, and plays the rest of this conversation in his mind. And as he does so, Crowley’s voice echoes. Twelve year olds shouldn’t remember hell. His jaw works around the thought, but for the moment, the question is met with silence.

/Take care of Sammy./

His mouth opens and then shuts again, and that nearly masochistic expression is traded for something almost good humoured. His best guarded secret has become undone in a matter of weeks. Evidently guarding it has become harder the closer he gets to that expiration date.

When he finally speaks, his voice is gruff, raw, and wholly unconvincing, “It’s not important.” He manages a flicker of a smile at Sam before it fails. He rubs his face as the humour drains from it. All signs of teasing and lightness fade from it. His cheeks puff out with an exhalation of air, a kind of exasperation at finally being called out after literal years of secret keeping. His eyebrows draw together and his eyes hone in on the table, “I need to find dad.” There’s a pause that follows that, “And you need to join SHIELD.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
He’s lying.

Sam knows he’s lying.

His mouth tightens. His hazel eyes go flat.

And then, guilty. Because Sam is also lying. He knows before they leave this diner he’s going to go into the diner. He’s going to take a vial of blood he withdrew from his captive demon just this morning and he’s going to jam it into his arm so he can concentrate tonight.

For a moment, he considers telling Dean about it so that he can shake loose his brother’s secrets. But a sick wave of shame passes over him, and he drops his gaze, lets his hair cover his face.

Maybe if he’d listened to Dean and avoided Stanford none of this would have happened. Jessica would still be alive. He’d still be as clean as it was possible to be. He might never have met Fred, but how long? How long before he lets her down like he’s already let Dean down in 1,000 ways?

“I’ll help you find Dad,” he promises softly. He sounds like there’s a lump in his throat. “And I’ll talk to Agent May.”

And then:

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Because he’s got a really bad feeling. A bad feeling which says whatever Dean did was //his// fault.

He’s got to figure out what it is. It sounds like a deal with a crossroads demon. He might be able to summon one. Fix this.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean blinks hard again. He sniffs, choking back emotion that he can’t quite process. His teeth worry his bottom lip, and when he speaks again, he manages another flicker of a smile--fleeting, but present. “Don’t be,” his breath escapes in a near laugh. “You didn’t do anything.”

His eyes lid, he leans back in the seat, and inhales a long breath, steadying his emotions and nerves. His hands fold on the table in front of him and for a moment he considers speaking it. But he doesn’t. Not really. “Look. Sam,” he leans forward and levels a look at his brother, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine awhile longer. I made a choice. And it’s not one I regret. I’ve had nine years to regret it. And I haven’t. It was the right choice. And for some damned reason, I’m getting sentimental. And maybe it’s dumb but I want--” he frowns before cutting himself off.

He swallows the growing lump in his throat. “--but never apologize for something you didn’t do. That you had nothing to do with.” His lips press together tightly and his eyebrows knit together in the process.

And then more honestly, he offers, “I was vetting Agent May. I got myself pummelled to see--” he lifts a hand, the details aren’t important. “She’s good. You can trust her. And I trust her to look out for you.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
This is as much as admitting that he’s going to die.

Sam decides then and there he’s not going to stand for it.

He’ll just have to be stronger. To prevent it. “I’m not taking this lying down,” he tells Dean, ready to shake his fist at heaven, hell, and everything in between. “And you’re not either.”

He stands up.

“I have to go to the bathroom. And so help me, if you take off and strand me in this stupid diner before I get back I will kick your ass.”

He’s not usually given to those sorts of threats, but anger and helplessness and shame all do the proper number on him to make sure of it. He fixes Dean with a hard, hazel-eyed gaze.

Because as much as Dean believes it’s his sole job to look out for Sam, Sammy rather believes it is their job to look after each other. And if he’s the one who has failed to watch Dean’s back again and again, that doesn’t mean this needs to be a pattern that continues.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s expression turns pained. “Sam. Don’t. There’s nothing to be done,” his lips curve on one side. “Don’t think about it.” And then, likely more desperately than he intends, he breathes, “/Please/.”

Sam’s exit to the bathroom does leave Dean with a choice. He looks out the window towards the Impala and clamps his eyes shut. “Why am I such an idiot?” he mutters to himself. After the case is solved, he resolves to get piss-drunk. It’ll turn off his brain for awhile and keep the demons at bay. Maybe.

Eyes still lidded, he struggles against the burning sensation behind them. A tear trails down his cheek. And, of course, at that moment the food arrives. The awkward smile he gives the server doesn’t distract from the brush of his knuckles against his face to rub any moisture away.

While tradition says he should start with the burger, Dean reaches for the apple pie (which wasn’t even supposed to come out at the same time) and jabs his fork into the pastry.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Dean indulges his addiction.

Sam indulges his. He locks the door tight behind him and swallows, looking himself in the eyes for a moment.

He can’t.

He pulls out the needle and the vial. He takes off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeve. The track marks that are already there are livid and dark. He’s been lying about them to Fred, saying it’s SHIELD, taking samples.

He’s going to have to find a better way to handle that soon.

He jams the needle straight into his vein and depresses the plunger, gasping against the warmth spreading through him. It washes away the sadness. He can do anything like this. He can stop Dean from getting Hellhounded. He can protect Fred. He can protect everyone. He can find Dad and Claire. He just needs to get a little stronger.

He withdraws the needle, so used to pain that it doesn’t even phase him. He blots at the little blood spot with a paper towel, sick shame rolling through him even as the euphoria dances underneath his skin. He tosses that, rinses the vial, discards the needle. Rolls his sleeves back down.

He is relieved when he walks out of the bathroom to see his brother sitting there, even if he is eating dessert before dinner like a giant child.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Giant child or not, Dean Winchester’s emotions are firmly locked down by the time Sam returns. He shoots his brother boyish lopsided grin as he downs the pie in far too few bites. And with a kind of veiled humour, he offers, “Not bad. Had better. Had worse.” Pause. “Made worse.” His eyebrows lift, “Do you remember that time I tried to make apple pie? I was what--twelve?” He laughs easily, “We were sick for a week.”

Dean pretends the last conversation never happened. Ignorance in this case is bliss. He eyes the burger but seems to have lost his appetite (maybe to pie?), pushing it away from him before shaking his head. “You know maybe vomiting stories aren’t that funny. Especially when eating.” He actually shudders at that.

His eyes drift to the window and his gaze lingers on the car. “So…” his lips twist to the side, “the Impala needs a light touch. I’ve done my best to keep most of the original parts, with the exception of the suspension--definitely made easy work of the last one when a horde of changelings were in pursuit. I think she’ll need a new timing belt in the next couple years. Been starting to click a bit. Thought about replacing it,” his head waffles back and forth once over, “but it’s still early enough.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam listens to Dean spill out this sort of verbal Last Will and Testament when it comes to the Impala. It sparks anger in him, but not necessarily at Dean. He isn’t hungry either, but he picks at his own food just the same. He’s already fortified himself with what he needs to get through the evening. At least the vomit story won’t touch on that.

“Why didn’t you replace it?” He simply asks that question. “It’s not like you to let even the slightest click slide.”

His tone is dull, weighted by the things they’re not saying, weighted by the secrets between them, but he seems willing, for his brother’s comfort, to entertain his need to get his affairs in order, so to speak.

Even though he’ll be //damned// before he allows there to be an actual need for any such thing.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Honestly?” because honesty isn’t really the Winchester’s forte. Dean smirks at the question, “Combination of things. I was aiming to do it in Virginia, but time got away from me.” Including prison time. “And,” dismissively he waves a hand, “I’ve had other things to do.” Like go get his ass kicked by the Winter Soldier.

“I’ll probably get to it. Soon. Just thought you should be aware.” He manages to sound casual when he says it.

He stiffens, however, when his eyes trace beyond the car. Fog rolls in. His eyes deaden. So much deja vu.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam was of course paying enough attention to know what the fog means. He pushes his pie aside and drops money to pay for them both.

At the very least, there’s no tension in doing this. There’s no questions. There’s no hesitation. They both know what to do, so he simply moves to go and do it, heading out to his side of the Impala with a focused look on his face, dropping every last uncomfortable matter in favor of putting his game face on.

It’s time to hunt something that preys on others. That’s all that matters right this second. Everything else can be put on hold. Everything else can wait until this is done.

He programs the spot he picked out with his triangulation into the GPS, then starts the program for Dean. “Let’s go get it then,” he says.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean slides from his seat and treads to the Impala. But he’s distracted--about everything unspoken that relates too solidly to this case. /Walk it off/. He laughs a scoff at himself, drawing a coy smile in the process when his hands grasp the steering wheel.

“Yeah, let’s kick some brook horse ass,” he falls into his role well, and allows himself to embrace it fully as the car pulls away from the diner.

And then, as what will likely come off as a strange reminder, he sees fit to add: “Just don’t touch the damned thing.”

The Impala speeds to its GPS-determined fate.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Yes, I remember,” Sam says, with some annoyance. But it’s distracted annoyance. He pauses to rub at his head…

But doesn’t really give any indication as to why.

Meanwhile, the fog comes rolling in, thick and white. The GPS and the headlights make it possible to follow towards that destination, but barely.

“It’s early,” the Moose comments, frowning out into the night. “I mean it’s only just now getting dark, but the patterns from the other drownings said that they all happened later. Ten PM, midnight. So why is it so early?”

It’s definitely here though. Dean can almost smell it, thick in his nostrils. Wet horsehair and the smell of the deeps. It’s not possible to see it yet, but he can sure smell it.

The GPS pipes up. “You have arrived at your destination.” Which is really just a parking spot on the riverfront.

Dean Winchester has posed:
A frown tugs the edges of Dean’s lips when Sam rubs his head. “Hey. You okay, man?” And then, quickly he adds, “If not, I can handle this case.”

The note about the time though prompts Dean to visibly twitch. His eyes remain fixed on the road despite having parked might give some indication that he knows something more than he lets on. He clears his throat. “Probably found an early victim,” he manages to sound nonchalant.

But even the best liars struggle to control things like complexion. And for the moment, the elder Winchester looks pale. The driver’s side door opens and Dean slips out. He treads to the trunk and extracts one of the large poles. “We need to get moving. It normally coaxes victims, but I think it’ll be an aggressive predator today.” He hopes his apparent expertise about the Backahasten will be enough to answer the /why/.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam simply nods and unleashes /his/ signature phrase.

“I’m fine.”

He will always and ever say that, just as Dean will always say walk it off. But he stubbornly takes the other two poles, carrying them a bit like a Roman centurion might carry a pair of javelins.

The first thing Dean will notice is that there is no weird kid standing anywhere near the water. No high schoolers or middle schoolers of any kind. At least, not moving towards the water.

However, the great white shape of the brook horse is standing half in, half out of the water just as Dean remembers him. And as they approach the river, well…

*You took my new child away from me, Dean Winchester.* The horse whispers into Dean’s mind. *The family has come to take him back.*

The Hudson River boils. And one by one, they step out. Spirits. Waterlogged spirits, their hair straggly and low, their clothes running the gamut of time periods dating clear back to the 18th century, all seemingly young. Dozens of them, marching towards the Winchesters like a small army.

Sam speaks in a low, concerned voice. “Uh. Dean?”

Dean Winchester has posed:
There’s a quirk of Dean’s lips. Self-deprecating, juvenile, and guilty. But instead of replying to his brother, he looks towards the horse, “And my family has come to take you out,” plain and simple.

His head turns towards Sam, “Yeah, we’re boned.” He tugs on his brother’s arm to pull him to the back of the Impala /quickly/--more provisions are definitely needed. “I may have left a few details out--”

The trunk of the car opens and the array of equipment presents itself. He nabs the large box of salt, and possibly to Sam’s surprise begins to create a circle of it around his brother. “They want you,” he levels a look at his brother--one that suggests he means business. “Fucking ghost children,” he mutters to himself. He plucks the iron crowbar and shakes his head. And then, in the event that Sam hasn’t clued in, “This thing miiiight have a vendetta against us,” but even as he says the words, he’s releasing more salt on the ground.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“What the-- so I’ll get the salt shotgun and we’ll take them out, you can’t possibly think I’m just going to stand here in safety while you risk your life. I’m not a kid anymore, Dean. I’m a Hunter in my own right.” Sam says, aggrieved.

/Just like you and Dad always wanted,/ comes the dark, unfair thought, but he lets it go, far more concerned with protecting Dean than with nursing old resentments.

He in fact moves swiftly, turning back to the Impala. Long legs carry him right back out of the circle to go after the self-same piece of weaponry he just named, even as the children start stepping closer and closer, dripping all over the muddy ground, flickering in and out of the fog.

He breaks it open to double check for the pellets, working fast to load the weapon when he realizes it’s out. “And then after we’re done here? You can tell me all about it.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Exasperation flashes behind Dean’s green eyes. His shoulders slump. The crowbar clatters to the ground and with a tinge of regret he treads back towards his brother. “I can’t,” tell him about it, “and.. I’m sorry.” He winces before winding up with a punch to deck Sam as hard as he can manage.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Dean has always managed to deck Sam pretty hard. Sam, for his part, has always decked pretty well right back, but if there’s one thing Dean knows how to deliver it’s a good knock-out punch. That’s actually something Sam has never managed, even though he’s bigger; he usually just whales in.

He drops like a big sack of Sammy-potatoes, slumping with his back against the Impala. It is fortunate that certain parts of his nature are not entirely done asserting themselves, or Dean might not have had it so easy. But for today, the elder Winchester gets what he needs. A Sammy safe in salt. A-salted Sam.

And then? There’s a Drowned Child right in front of him, plunging her cold hands directly into his body, sucking life force out of Dean’s body. It’s cold agony, a searing burn that rockets through every one of his veins.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The apology doesn’t disappear from his expression and for the first time in nine years, his regret washes over him. But it’s not the regret he’d anticipated. He should’ve stayed to kill the Backahasten. How many kids died because he was so selfish? But the question doesn’t even get full consideration as the life begins to be sucked out from him. The steel bar clangs to the ground. His fingers can’t hold onto it, and his grip fails. Everything fails as his own life swirls across his vision.

The agony Dean feels has his knees buckling. He can’t stand through it as he curls into himself, drawing to the ground where his hands, quite luckily, make contact with the iron crowbar. His arm flails upwards, with the iron in hand, mercilessly cutting across the ghost.

Even momentary reprieve will suffice. When his breath returns to him, raking against his throat, he twists back to Sam. A glance is given to the shotgun, but there are far too many child-ghosts to handle with one shotgun while still needing to take out the brook horse.

His tongue moistens his lips. And he mumbles to himself, “The only way out is through.” He bends down to grab the steel bar once again, takes a deep breath, and with steel in one hand, and iron in the other, he moves forward, bearing the iron as a bat towards the ghostly kids.

Sam Winchester has posed:
The ghost, of course, disappears in a shower of sparks as Dean rips through her. The kids press forward hungrily, but the iron bar does a fine job of keeping them at bay. They’re coming in from all sides though, in a way that might make Dean have some cause to regret turning down his back up.

Meanwhile, the horse decides to stop standing there. It breaks from the river, showing it’s perfectly capable of doing so, and comes thundering at one Dean Winchester full speed ahead. Her mane flows like a white, sparkling flag.

*If I can’t have him, perhaps I’ll just take you! The waters will have their due!*

Even at the attack she is a thing of beauty, and her voice cajoles him.

*Death with me will be kinder, Dean. You will never be alone. Your new family will always be loyal. You will escape Hell. You’re going to die anyway. Why not let it be now?*

Dean Winchester has posed:
As the horse moves towards him, Dean moves the crowbar to hang at his hip. He wraps both hands around it and poses it defensively like a spike on the edge of a turret. The words, however, cause the fight to drain from his face. The pole remains in place, but consideration colours his expression.

His throat aches with ragged breath, and he struggles to find words. The taunt works perfectly and gets to the heart of the matter. “Would they always stay?” he asks aloud.

But even in deals of life and death, John’s voice echoes.

/Take care of Sammy./

And then vaguely he continues his line of questioning, “Would you all leave him alone? Forever?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
*He will have nothing to fear from us,* the horse soothes.

And instead of trying to run him down or attack him, instead of flinging herself onto the polearm, she draws to a stop and prances a little bit. A watery wind ruffles through Dean’s hair.

*We could run together beneath the waves, Dean. You could learn the songs and the secrets of the waters, and they would never bring you pain again. It is not a bad existence. And you’d have so many more siblings to take care of. You’d be the oldest, still. They’d all look up to you.*

She lowers her head, almost inviting a stroke to her nose.

*-They- won’t let you down.*

Dean Winchester has posed:
With the horse keeping her distance, Dean actually feels his lips curve upwards. There’s acknowledgment there. A sign of thanks for power and decisions made. And the pole, for better or worse, is lowered. Dean slowly rests it on the ground before standing once more.

“Family,” he says lowly, “is the most important thing. Ever.” His head ticks slightly to the side. His left hand is raised--empty, and he holds it out, a strange sign of surrender. He inches forward cautiously. “But I seem to be the only one who thinks so.”

“And what about you. You loyal to your family?” his eyes squint. His right hand tucks back into his sleeve. It is awfully cold.

Sam Winchester has posed:
*My family is everything to me,* the horse whispers. *Come and see, Dean. Come and ride with me. I will make you my Knight, my champion, and your family will grow. An eternal family.*

All the children sort of form a circle, holding hands with one another, looking hopefully up at Dean. Gazing at him like they look up to him. Like they /need him/ on every level it is possible for a kid to need a brother. Protector, teacher, playmate, comforter. They still look eternally wet, but not so terrifying as all that. They just look like kids. Lonely kids who needed someone, who found someone.

The horse prances a little closer as Dean lowers his weapon, crooning into his mind, now.

*And I will be the mother the demons took from you.*

It’s funny, in fact, how much she sounds like Mary Winchester.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s head ducks down. It’s a sign of assent. His paces continue, slowly. His family is everything to him. He manages a lopsided smile. “You’re not what I expected.” With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he finally asks an important question, “Was Sam ever in Hell, or was he with you?”

He’s not likely to get an answer as he finishes closing the distance between them. “I’m supposed to get on,” he notes with a sad smile. “And I’m so tired. Geez, I’m so tired.” His eyes turn up to the fog.

And then left hand still out, he inhales a defeatist breath. “Family is everything to me too.” He swallows hard as his right hand, still curled in his sleeve finds the hilt of the very hunting knife he’d wielded that night. His breath puffs out coolly.

The motion is quick. The hunter’s knife with all of its deep jags, cuts upwards towards the horse’s heart. And for good measure, Dean braces his other hand on its back. To outsiders looking in, it might appear that he’s hugging the horse, ready to take that deep plunge. He has no idea if such an action will seal his fate with this beast, but he wants to ensure its gone. “But you will never be my mother.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
The horse screams. Light flashes in and out of its form as Dean finds its heart with the unerring grace of a master hunter. The kids scream, and become light, spirits zipping up and away one and all.

He does not, in fact, get an answer as to Sammy’s final destination for the days that he was dead. She might have kept him. The demons might have claimed him. Uncertain. It’s reapers who decide where souls go, and only souls that hang around and choose to stay can be caught as ghosts. There’s no telling what 12-year old Sammy would have done, or why. Sammy himself can’t say.

The fog is just instantly gone even as the horse becomes nothing but a sort of slimy water, which just soaks Dean down from head to foot. But that’s all that’s left. Now it’s a beautiful, well-maintained touristy riverfront at night. With the fog gone, street lights twinkle merrily overhead.

Sam stirs, starting to wake up faster than he’s ever woken up in the past…

But then a man in a black suit is there, pointing down at him. “Shhh,” he says, and...Sammy’s out cold again.

“Hello, Squirrel.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s gaze turns back to where the man in black and his brother are. He sniffs loudly and with heavy booted steps treads to the Impala. “I prefer Dean,” he hisses.

He sniffs again as he makes his way to the trunk to wipe the knife to get anything extra from it. There’s irony that nine years ago to the day this horse bested the Winchesters. He’ll think about that more later. As he mills about the trunk, returning items to where they belong, including the crowbar and the shotgun, he mutters “What do you want, Crowley?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Crowley gives Dean a tolerant smile.

“Well. I couldn’t help but notice that you were engaged in a lot of mopey nonsense. Last wills and testaments, take care of Sammy, very touching sorts of things. But then, it /is/ getting close to time for one of my pets to drag you off into Hell.”

He nudges Sammy with his foot a little bit, thoughtfully. “Twenty-one is still so young, isn’t it? Adultish. Especially Sam here. Still seeing the good in everyone, and letting himself get stabbed in the back for it. He’s still a bit of a kid, really, isn’t he?”

He tap taps his finger against his jawline, as if thinking over what could be done about that.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Touching that you noticed,” Dean returns with feigned sweetness. He steps towards his brother and reaches to draw Sammy to the passenger seat of the car. “Don’t touch him,” he says gruffly. “Geez Sam, what do you eat?” he murmurs with his brother’s dead weight against him.

“Whatever. -I- was raising a kid well before twenty one,” he offers in return. But his thoughts on the matter aren’t particularly veiled. He didn’t even let Sam help with this one, and actions speak louder than words.

And then finally, Dean looks back towards Crowley. “What’s your point?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“The point is this. I’m here to offer you what we in the high-end sales business call a ‘modification of terms.’”

His smile widens.

“You see, souls are useful, and I certainly have a quota to meet, but I’m upper management and our numbers are up. Sometimes living people are more useful than dead, tortured ones. And you’re more useful than most. And so I’m going to give you a first right of refusal to keep right on living past your ten year deadline. As long as you perform the occasional task for me whenever I ask, you purchase more time. Until the next time I need you. So long as you don’t refuse, and you get it done, you need not worry about Fluffy or the rest of the pack.”

He pat pats an invisible head right next to him. Something lets out a low, menacing growl. He’s got one of the hellhounds /with/ him, it seems.

“Often, my requests won’t be particularly onerous. Information. Occasionally finding a bauble or too. Or killing someone who has it coming, but who doesn’t have a deal to put them into my purview. There are rules, you know.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s eyes darken. The last time he made a deal with this fellow, it was impulsively. But that was nine years ago. And teenaged fervour has become even a bit tempered with experience--as much as it can be.

His lips quirk and his head shakes. “I’m not sixteen anymore,” he offers in return. His hands shove into his pockets. “I’m not blindly entering a new contract.” His eyes roll. “But it’s helpful to know that you thought that would work.” His eyebrows lift at that. “How much more time per task? And can I refuse a task?”

He rubs the back of his neck and emits a long-suffering sigh. “This probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but you don’t exactly inspire confidence.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“No. You refuse a task, I reserve the right to kill you. And I don’t have to inspire confidence, Dean. I have you over a barrel. Because you don’t really want to die.”

Crowley tilts his head, smiling. “Because you know, of course, that Hydra’s not done with your brother yet. They cared enough about snatching him to send the Winter bloody Soldier. You don’t think they’re going to try to make another run at him? Are you sure Agent May and Luna Lovegood can handle whatever it is they want with him?”

He steps back, letting Dean cradle Sam all he wants without interference, and adds, “To say nothing to what’s going on inside him. Visions. Telekinesis. That’s probably not going to end anywhere good.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Or you’ll kill me anyways. I’m not going to become one of these things we hunt.” Dean’s nose wrinkles, “If I did, tonight would’ve been it. That horse thing didn’t seem so bad.” He shoots Crowley a smug smile. But all the bravado in the world can’t conceal his feelings on the matter. He’s terrified.

But mention of Sam, as usual, changes everything. Dean’s expression deadens. “What did they do to him?” Because the eldest Winchester isn’t playing. “I still have a year,” he rasps. “He could be on solid ground in a year.”

“May is good,” he offers in turn. “The woman carries an arsenal with her all the time.” He twists to eye Dean in the front seat. “He might be fine.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Mmmm.” Crowley says. “I understand. You don’t want to do anything too terribly evil, and you don’t want to become a supernatural creature.”

He points at Sam. “I don’t know all the details of what they did, but I will tell you what I do know. We’ve already covered how Sammy got a big bottleful of a Duke of Hell’s blood as a baby. Not his fault. But it means he stopped being human. Your baby brother has been a half-demon from the time you pulled him out of that fire. It’s why, barring extreme circumstances, they won’t ever accept him in Heaven. They don’t care that he’s the nice one. They don’t care about all his empathy. Or how he’ll sacrifice himself for others again and again.”

Crowley sounds like he has nothing but empathy himself at this moment, though he can’t ever shake that slight, superior air that follows him around at all times.

“Azazel showed up again and got him all stirred up when he sacrificed Sam’s fiancee. Their doomed betrothal made him perfect. That’s when the powers start, right? Sympathetic magic. Blood tying to blood. A perfect line from the past to the future, plus a hearty dose of negative emotion to spark the whole thing off. But the powers need fuel, which is why, up until Hydra got him, Sam was in terrible pain every time he got the visions, or tried to use his telekinesis.”

Crowley’s smile is sardonic. “He needs a steady supply of demon blood. Why didn’t the injections show up on the tox screen, Dean?”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s green eyes cinch shut. He curses lowly.

Slowly his brain plays catch-up. His eyes remain closed as his paces shuffle around the car, granting himself a bit of grounding with the motion.

“He’s still doping on the shit… isn’t he?” the revelation comes as a question but it isn’t one. “He’s not lifting. He didn’t stay down as well as he should’ve.” His hands press to his face. “What do they want with him? Azazel, I mean.” Pause. “And what was Hydra doing getting him amped on demon blood and then letting him--” he stops mid-sentence and frowns. Sam is not okay. Nor is he going to be okay. Ever.

He falls silent.

His eyes finally peel open. “I need a week to think it over.” And then he adds, “And there need to be terms on my side. One being that you never talk to Sam. Ever. That you don’t touch him. That you don’t even breathe on him or his vicinity in this life and the next.” He stares at Crowley.

His eyebrows lift expectantly.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Crowley spreads his hands. “It’s likely. Imagine, if you will, that someone has forced a heroin addiction on you. Now imagine that parts of you literally need that substance as badly as a human needs food. Now imagine trying to stop on your own.”

Dean says he needs a week to think about it. “I can certainly arrange to leave your Moose alone. He doesn’t factor into my plans, other than my desire to block other people’s plans for him. Azazel is a madman. He’s got visions. I like the bloody status quo. I’m in sales, for fuck’s sake.”

But Dean says he needs to think about it, and Crowley’s smile is magnanimous. “I understand. You need to think about it. Just remember, a lot can happen in a week, and you never know how equations might shift and change. I can’t really guarantee that I’ll be able to meet your needs seven days hence. So if you’d like to go ahead and do this deal now, I’ll throw in something else: I’ll remove a bit more of Sam’s memory, unless you like him having figured most of this out. We’ll call it my same-day incentive. Would you like to go ahead and take care of this right now?”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Actual humour pulls at Dean’s features for the first time since this conversation started. “You obviously don’t know Sam. He was going to put it together eventually. I just relied on adolescent naivety to make it work early on. He grew out of that.” He swallows hard and then casts Crowley another long look.

“No. I need a week.” He coughs. “Besides, maybe I should just accept my fate. Maybe.” His head drops towards his shoulder. “We’ve been doing this dance awhile, you and I.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Crowley’s purr is almost flirtatious. “When the partner is worthwhile you dance as long as it takes, darling.”

But he shrugs. “You know the Crossroads summoning spell. My entire department knows to leave your summons to me. Do the spell in one week if you’re interested. Believe it or not, I do have other things to do.”

He snaps his fingers, and is gone.

Sam’s head rolls a little against Dean’s chest. “If you’re dead I’m going to kill you,” he mutters, obviously well aware that his brother decked him to keep him out of that fight. And if the statement is a little nonsensical, well. There it is.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“That’d be a year early,” Dean replies with just enough humour in his voice as he slides into the driver’s seat. He sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes hone on the horizon and the humour in his tone vanishes: “We--we need to get a drink. You need to get a drink.”

It’s been nine years and Sam is finally piecing it together. It would be so easy to unburden himself now. It would be so easy to leave all of their secrets bare at the foot of a liquor-laden night on the anniversary of when it all started.

But Dean Winchester, for better or worse, has become more of an island over the last five years. Between John’s constant back and forth, and Sam going to school, Dean has managed on his own. And on top of that, he was alone in the ocean without anyone taking notice.

His own secrets.

His own burdens.

And so when he speaks again, it references one thing only: “We need to talk about where you’re getting the blood and how to get you help...”

He sniffs and blinks hard as the car lurches into drive.

“...and about the night you died.”

2039/Backahasten to the Future

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