Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
SO FAR:
Attempting to escape from his violent past, Sam Campbell is struggling to make a life for himself in a new town when a death vision of his employer's wife and son, under horribly familiar circumstances, draws him back into old ways. His efforts to protect the Winchester family are complicated by his growing attraction for the irritating but charismatic son, Dean, a music major recently suspended from college. When a yellow-eyed demon possesses John and kills his wife, Amanda, Sam is powerless to stop it - but John breaks free of its influence just long enough for Sam to carry the unconscious Dean from the burning house. Now Sam must protect Dean from the demon who has threatened his life.
NOW:
Castor's Passage, California
The silence in the car was tense and chilled. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes. There were tears standing in the woman's eyes and at length she turned to her husband a face that was at once stony and angry, yet pleading.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" she demanded.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he sighed. "I've told you I'm sorry."
"Sorry isn't enough!"
"I can't keep having this conversation! I told you, she didn't mean anything to me."
"Well, while it was going on I didn't mean anything to you, did I?"
When he answered her with more silence she turned her face toward the passenger window and stared at her own trembling lips reflected in the darkness beyond the glass. Slowly and mechanically her gaze gravitated toward the front of the car where the broken white lines disappeared under the far edge of the hood. Soon she was mesmerized by the repetitive, unchanging rhythm. She began to trace the lines back to where they stretched into the distance, into the unknown, unforgiving and inescapable future. Anxiety and fear began to constrict her chest as she stared at that distant point. She was suddenly possessed by the conviction that the road had no end, that she was being driven inexorably into the darkness of the eternal abyss. Even as the thought took shape she exhaled a breath that spilled from her lips in a frosted cloud.
Her husband spoke again and, at first, his oddly flat statements seemed to echo her own thoughts, but then they quickly ceased to make any sense at all.
"We've been on this road forever, and it was always leading us here. Whatever we did, whatever we tried to do, it was always going to come to this. This thing between us, these feelings . . . they're cursed, damned. They've made monsters of us both. There's only one way this can end."
She stared at him blankly. "What? What are you – ?"
Suddenly he floored the gas pedal and the car leapt forward.
"Wait! Stop!" But her words froze in her mouth as her attention snapped to the road ahead, at the moment that it vanished beneath them . . .
Then they were falling and falling, and she was screaming, but her cries were cut short by the sounds of shattering glass and grinding metal then the long, mournful wail of the horn . . . . .
SCENE 1
"Dean, get in the car."
He blinked for a moment then obeyed automatically. The tone of authority in Sam's voice was so uncannily like Dad's it seemed natural to do as he was told. And, truthfully, it was a relief to have someone telling him what to do because Dean didn't have a clue. About anything. At all.
Sam didn't say anything. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer condolences. He just gunned the engine, steered the car out into the road and drove. That was a relief as well. Talking was too hard. Thinking was hard. Everything was hard . . . and too bright. Dean leaned back against the head rest and closed his eyes against the glare of a world grown suddenly menacing and strange, but as his eyelids dropped it was as if the flames and the blood and the death mask of his mother's face were imprinted on the back of them, and he was instantly upright and staring ahead of him, though nothing that was before his eyes made any impression on him.
Then his cell phone buzzed. The vibration in his pocket goaded him like a cattle prod against exposed nerves. He reached into his pocket as an automaton and winced as he read the name on the screen. Chad.
No. Go away.
He waited until the call diverted to his voicemail then checked his missed calls. There were seventeen. One from Chad, one from Emily, one from Jimmy, a number he didn't recognize, one from Stan . . . he should answer that . . . but not just now . . . one from Wendy, eleven from Penny. Why did she do that? Did she think he hadn't got the first ten?
Even as he held the phone in his hand it buzzed once more, and he winced again.
Leave me alone.
It was Penny again. His thumb hovered irresolutely over the answer button then punched down grimly. Gritting his teeth, he held the phone to his ear.
"Dean! Thank god! Are you ok?" No. I'm not ok. "I've been so worried about you. I've been trying to reach you for ages."
"I'm ok," he assured her, shaking his head. "I've been talking to the police."
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line, then she asked "Do they have any idea what happened?"
Dean shook his head then remembered she couldn't see him. "They don't have a clue. They're saying accident. It wasn't an accident, Pen. What I saw – " but he didn't want to talk about what he saw again. It was insane and people didn't believe him, anyway. They thought he was insane. Maybe he was. He wished he was. "I don't think they believe it, either. They keep asking me about Dad, but I don't know where he is, Pen! And I'm worried sick about him but, because he's gone missing, I think they suspect . . . It's sick. They don't know what happened so they just . . . If Sam hadn't been there they'd probably suspect me as well."
"Dean, as soon as I can get away here I'll get the next available flight – "
"No, don't do that."
"I want to be there for you – "
"There's nowhere for you to stay – "
"So, we'll get a motel."
Then he'd have to talk, he'd have to think about her, worry about her. "Look, just wait a bit, would you please, Babe? Just 'til I know what I'm doing, ok?"
There was a pause. "I just want to be there for you, Dean."
"I know. And I appreciate it, Babe. I really do, but it's just . . . right now . . ." Leave me alone just now. Please just leave me alone. "Listen, I can't talk right now. Can I call you back?"
"Dean, I just – "
"I'll call you back later, ok?"
"Dean – "
"I'll call you back." He closed the phone and for a few moments he held it pressed against his forehead then he turned it off and threw it into the back.
After a brief period of silence Sam asked "Have you eaten? Shall I call in at a diner?"
"I'm not hungry," Dean replied hoarsely.
Sam nodded and didn't speak again.
Dean was glad to be relieved of the effort of making conversation, but even the silence that replaced it was invasive. His own thoughts – mere images and noise, but violent and horrid – assaulted and tormented him. He reached forward and turned on the radio. Even the inane chatter of the radio jock was an irritation he couldn't cope with at that moment, but it was cut off when he pushed the cassette into the slot. AC/DC blasted out of the speakers, and he turned up the volume until it was far too loud, but it drowned out the white noise in his head. The familiar chords and lyrics came loaded with their own unique baggage of association and exquisite pain but that, at least, was something he could focus on that made sense.
It hadn't occurred to him to ask Sam where they were going, yet he was vaguely surprised when they pulled into the driveway of a cheap motel on the outskirts of the town. What had he expected? It wasn't as if he could ever go home –
Sam parked in front of one of the ground level rooms and got out of the car. Dean heard the trunk open and close, then the passenger door opened and Sam stood beside it clutching a room key in one hand and holding a grocery bag in the other.
"Dean, come on."
Dean lifted himself out of the car and followed Sam into the room. He leaned against the dividing partition between the kitchenette and bedroom area, while Sam emptied the contents of the bag: milk, eggs, cocoa, fruit juice, other small unidentifiable packages, carton of salt . . .
As Dean watched he picked up the latter, walked over to the door with it and started pouring a white line in a semi-circle around the entrance. He poured a similar line along the window sills before disappearing into the bathroom, carton still in hand. Salt round the entrances . . . That comforted Dean somehow. It reminded him of something from when he was a child. What was it? . . . Salt was lucky. It protected you from monsters.
Sam was protecting them from monsters.
Good.
. . .
Dean frowned.
. . .
What?
. . .
Dean's focus began to pick out other objects that had been introduced into the room: Sam's back-pack on the bed nearest the door, a shotgun lying next to it, a jar of water with a crucifix in the bottom sitting on the nightstand, odd shells placed around it . . . Dean had a vague idea that these things should be worrying him . . .
Sam returned from the bathroom and put down the salt carton. Then he opened a cupboard, took out a plastic beaker, filled it with milk and started adding eggs and other items.
"Sam . . . what are we doing here?" Dean asked.
Sam walked over to the bed and rummaged in his backpack. He pulled out and opened a leather pouch that held a number of smaller pouches. "It's just temporary," he replied, "until we figure out what our next move is."
"Oh . . . ok."
Sam returned to the counter and poured some of the contents of a couple of the small pouches into the beaker.
Dean frowned again . . . our next move . . . ?
Sam was shaking the beaker vigorously now. Once satisfied the contents were mixed he took off the lid, added a straw and held it out to Dean. "Drink this," he said.
Dean gazed blankly at it for a moment. "What is it?"
"Basic protein shake."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need something, Dean. Just drink it."
Sam turned the straw around and pushed it close to Dean's mouth. He didn't have the will to argue. His lips closed over the straw and he took a sip. It was sweet and chocolaty tasting, and there was something oddly comforting about the action of sucking on the straw and feeling the cool liquid enter his mouth and trickle down his throat. Sam held the beaker for him throughout the process, drawing the straw away occasionally to allow Dean to pause for breath, but persistently replacing it in front of Dean's lips until he had drained the contents of the beaker. As he sucked up the last dregs he started to feel a little strange.
"Feel woozy . . ." he mumbled.
"I put something in the shake that'll help you sleep."
"Don't want to . . ."
"You need to rest, Dean."
Dean swayed. The room was going dark and blotchy. "Strong . . ." he murmured, just as Sam caught him and sat him down on the bed. He felt himself being guided down, felt his feet being guided onto the bed and his shoes pulled off, felt the softness of the pillow under his head . . . . .
He looked like a little boy when he was asleep – features softened, hair flopping over his forehead, eye-lashes fanning over his cheeks, jaw slack, lips slightly parted. He looked so vulnerable, and as Sam watched the steady rise and fall of his chest he was filled with a kind of helpless anxiety the like of which he couldn't recall having felt before, for anyone. What more could he do to protect this ill-fated ingénue?
Sam didn't believe in coincidences. He knew it wasn't happenstance that had led him to this town, to Winchester and Copes, or to Dean's home. For good or ill, the same power that sent the visions had drawn him to Dean's side, and now he felt called to help him rise from the wreckage of his blasted life. Somehow he had to prepare the hapless young man to face the threat the Demon had made against him. But what could Sam do? The confrontation with the Demon had left him with a brutal awareness of his own impotence. None of the protective charms he'd used had worked. Would the salt lines work? The holy water? The cat's eye shells? Could he count on any of the lore he'd learned, or was the Demon above it all? Still Sam surrounded them with the paraphernalia of the life he'd tried so hard to renounce, and fell back into the habits of his former training because . . . what else could he do?
While the police had questioned Dean he'd returned to the house and salvaged everything he thought they'd find necessary or helpful. In the process he'd discovered that John's "no firearms" rule hadn't extended to the basement. There he'd found a locked cache where the former marine had stored some useful weaponry. A visit to a hunting shop had supplied other necessary items, and while Dean slept he organized his acquisitions in the bottom of the Impala's trunk. If it pained him to have to return to the life of a hunter, dragging Dean into it was worse, but how else was Dean going to learn to defend himself?
He'd brought Dean's laptop as well. It took only a few minutes to crack his password and then Sam killed the time while Dean slept surfing for demon omens. He found nothing definitive and that aroused mixed feelings. He knew that Dean was going to want to find his father, but he also knew there was nothing they could do at this time to help the man, so the lack of demon sign was almost a relief. On the other hand, it was never reassuring when things were too quiet. Sam glanced anxiously at his sleeping companion. He itched to be on the road. He'd feel safer once they were presenting a moving target. But, if he hoped to gain Dean's trust he couldn't simply whisk him away while he slept (though, admittedly, the thought had crossed his mind). No, Dean needed to be coherent enough to make a choice.
Almost unconsciously Sam began to widen his search parameters and before long he realized he was no longer looking for demon omens, he was hunting for a case.