Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He said, “I’m gonna buy this place and burn it down
I’m gonna put it six feet underground”
He said, “I’m gonna buy this place and watch it fall
Stand here beside me, baby, in the crumbling walls”

A Rush of Blood to the Head by Coldplay

Chapter 1: Hey Jude

November 2, 1983

“ - the fucking dishes, John, I swear to God - “

“ - work all day and you want me to come home and work more - “

“ - like taking care of the kids is a fucking picnic - “

A troubled cooing noise drew Dean’s attention away from the fighting downstairs. Remembering why he’d run into this room in the first place, he stepped towards his brother’s cradle. “It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean whispered, giving the cradle a gentle shake. “They’ll be happy again tomorrow. They won’t stay mad. They never stay mad.”

That wasn’t true. There was always tension in the air the next day, tension in the rigid line of his mother’s shoulders as she cooked breakfast, tension in the volume of his father’s footsteps as he marched around getting ready for work. These were things Dean wasn’t supposed to notice. He knew he wasn’t because his parents always pretended they weren’t real when Dean asked about them. Sometimes he liked to pretend they weren’t real too, that they did love each other like parents were supposed to. But that, he knew, was just wishful thinking.

Sammy whimpered again, and Dean went up onto his tiptoes and leaned over as far as he could to brush his fingers against his baby brother’s. “I bet they’ll be happy again tonight,” he said hopefully, “because Mom has to give us our goodnight kisses, and giving you a goodnight kiss will cheer her up!” This was not a certainty, but it was a strong likelihood, Dean thought. Sam always cheered Dean up when he was down.

Soon enough, the sounds of shouting receded from Dean’s ears. In relief, he realized he hadn’t even heard shattering glass or loud thuds throughout the argument. It would be a good night then. No one would have to spend extra time downstairs cleaning up whatever had been thrown. Good nights had been more common since Sam had come home from the hospital, which just furthered Dean’s belief that Sammy simply made everything better. Everyone just seemed happier. Most of the time.

A few seconds later, a gentle thump-thump-thump indicated that their mom was making her way up the stairs. Dean realized he was going to get caught in this room when he was supposed to be in his own room and panicked. Thinking fast, he ran to the closet and tucked himself away, quietly shutting the closet door just as the bedroom door swung open.

“Hi, sweetie,” his mom cooed as she stepped inside. Dean peered through the slits in the closet door, watching his mom approach the cradle and carefully ease Sam into her arms. “It’s bedtime. That’s right, bedtime!” Her voice took on a wry note as she added, “Not that that matters to you, you little devil. You’ll be waking me up in a few hours anyway, huh? But that’s okay. Mommy loves you anyway. Yes, she does.”

“Dean?” The boy in question started as his dad’s voice echoed through the room. He hadn’t even heard the man come up the stairs, focused as he’d been on not making a sound from his hiding place. Evidently it had been for nothing, however. “I know you’re in there. If you’re not in bed, there’s only one place you’d be.”

Sheepish, Dean pushed open the closet doors and crept out between them. “Sorry,” he said.

His dad didn’t even seem mad. Just tired. “That’s… That’s okay, son. Just don’t do it again, alright? You know you’re supposed to be in bed at this hour.”

And you’re not supposed to be fighting at this hour, Dean thought, but managed not to say. “Yes, Dad.”

“Wanna say goodnight to Sammy, Dean?” his mom asked sweetly, a sharp contrast to the harshness of her voice downstairs.

“Yes please!” Dean walked closer and smiled at Sam’s sleepy pout. “Goodnight, Sammy. I love you.”

His dad ruffled his hair as he led him away from the crib and towards Dean’s own room.

Moments later, Dean was waiting in his bed when his mom entered his bedroom. “Goodnight, Deanie,” she said, bending over to kiss him on the forehead.

“Goodnight, Mommy,” Dean yawned, his eyes sliding shut. “When I’m older, I’ll do the dishes for you, okay?”

A stifled silence filled the room. Dean cracked one eye open to see his mom staring at him with an unreadable expression.

“Sorry,” he muttered, uncertain of what he was apologizing for but certain that it was the thing to do.

“Don’t apologize,” his mom corrected him kindly. “It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to do the dishes, okay, sweetie? I’m sorry you had to hear that. We’ll… We’ll, um, talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean mumbled.

As he settled in to sleep, his mom began to sing softly, as she did sometimes when he was distressed. He found it strange, as he wasn’t distressed. Maybe she was.

“Hey Jude
Don’t make it bad
Take a sad song
And make it better
Remember
To let her into your heart
Then you can start
To make it better…”

Hours later, Dean listened numbly as his dad tried, amidst the sounds of fire truck sirens and extinguishers, to explain that his mother would never sing to him again.

May 24, 1984

As far as temporary homes went, Dean liked staying at Miss Ellen’s house so far. She had a nicer home than Mister Archie’s, which had just been a glorified trailer. She wasn’t as mean as Mister Ben, who had always been shoving Dean around and taking Sam’s pacifier whenever their father wasn’t around. She wasn’t as chatty as Mister Isaac had been, constantly talking at Dean even when Dean was trying to sound out the words in the books his father brought home from the library. That was the closest Dean came to speaking these days.

“Hi Dean,” said Ellen’s daughter Jo, a slight lisp to her voice. Dean glanced up from his book to see her waddling up to him. She held her arms out. “Lap?”

Dean sighed, but set his book on the couch next to him and scooped Jo up and onto his lap. She was about a year older than Sam, and once she’d seen how often Dean had Sam on his lap, had started requesting a seat on his lap herself every day after her mom went to work. She had asked his father a couple times, too, but the man had thus far never obliged her, awkwardly turning away from her each time she asked and brushing her off onto Dean or her mother.

Jo picked up the book and started babbling as she pointed out pictures and words. Dean nodded and smiled each time she turned to face him expectantly, and she seemed thrilled each time, giggling at him and sometimes prodding him in the face.

“Dean.” His father had emerged from the guest bedroom where all three Winchesters slept, a rare occurrence for him. “Come with me.”

His father turned and started walking away without waiting for an answer. In his defense, though, Dean wasn’t likely to give one, at least not verbally. Quickly but carefully, Dean put Jo back down on the floor and scampered after his father.

Once he entered the guest room, he was amazed at what had cropped up seemingly overnight. A corkboard was stood up on the dresser and leaned against the mirror. Pinned to it were several strands of yarn in various colors and an assortment of pictures of things ranging from normal people and items to strange, frightening monsters.

“I figured out what happened to Mommy, Dean,” his father said in a calm voice that belied the manic gleam in his eyes. “And we’re going to make sure it never happens again.”

February 6, 1985

“You’re six years old now, Dean, you’re old enough to learn a few things.”

Dean thought he already knew a few things. He knew how to add and subtract, and the differences between mammals and reptiles. He knew to put a ring of salt around Sammy’s bed if it was chilly, and to hang cat’s eye shells everywhere if the lights started flickering.

His father held out a gun, and Dean’s stomach dropped. Oh. That kind of learning. He had seen his father use guns a few times by now. They made loud noises when they were used, and something nearly always fractured into a million little pieces afterwards. Dean had been cut more than once by shattered glass after stray bullets had hit mirrors or windows. If only ghosts were cor… corpor… cor-por-e-al, Dean sounded out in his head, then bullets wouldn’t hit other things so often. They would just hit the ghosts. But ghosts were in-cor-por-e-al, so bullets went right through them like magic.

Dean didn’t want to use a gun. He knew that if he used a gun, he would break things just like his father did, and if he broke things, his father would get mad. Really mad.

“Don’t worry, son,” his father said at the look of dismay on Dean’s face. “It’s not a real gun. Not yet. This is just a BB gun.”

“What’s a bee-bee?” Dean asked.

“It’s… like a toy. Well, no, it’s not a toy. Definitely not. But it’s like… a training gun. It doesn’t do as much damage.”

Dean perked up. “So it won’t break things?”

“Well, no, it’ll still break things,” his father laughed, ruffling Dean’s hair. “But that’s fine while you’re just starting out.”

Dean understood. He had a limited window of time in which it was okay to break things with this toy - no, this training gun, and then it would be back to punishments. He got it. He would have to learn quickly.

His father showed him how to hold it and how to aim it as well as a few other tips, and then set him up with a row of empty cans on an old picnic table back behind the motel they were staying in. After Dean finally got two cans in a row, his father said proudly, “Attaboy, Dean. You’re getting it.”

Dean glanced at his father hesitantly. With his father in such a good mood, maybe now was a good time to ask… “Hey Dad?”

“Yeah?”

The bright reply bolstered Dean’s spirits, and he asked boldly, “When are we going to see Miss Ellen and Jo again?”

It had been nearly a year since they’d left the pair, following a screaming match between his father and Miss Ellen. Something about Dean, the young boy was sure. And something about that corkboard. It had evolved over the months, becoming more elaborate and more organized. But Dean still didn’t understand it, and he didn’t understand its connection to his mom’s death.

Dean had asked this question many times. He missed the older woman, and, though she’d annoyed him at times, he missed Jo. And he missed the house. It was the last stable place he could remember living. Maybe, he dared to hope, this would be the last time he had to ask. Maybe he’d done such a good job that his father would take him and Sammy back there again, and Dean wouldn’t have to set traps at the door every time he went to sleep while his father was out hunting.

His father scowled at the question, his good mood evaporating at once. “We’re not,” he snapped. “And I’m sick of that question. I don’t want to hear about Ellen and Jo ever again, do you understand me?”

Dean nodded vigorously, sensing the change in tone. “Yes, sir,” he promised. It would be the last time he asked that question, then. If his father didn’t want to hear about something again, then he wouldn’t hear about it again. Period.

“Good,” his father said sharply. “Now keep practicing. It’s been hours and you can barely hit a can. You gotta get better at this if I’m gonna teach you to use the real thing.”

In his heart, Dean laid Ellen and Jo to rest right beside his mother.

December 23, 1989

Dean knew, deep down, that his father didn’t care about him in the slightest. But he’d thought some part of the man cared about Sammy. He guessed he was wrong.

“Christmas is in two days!” Dean shouted. Normally he would never shout at his father, but right now, his indignation was overriding his instincts, which were screaming at him in a suspiciously familiar voice to shut up and sit down. “You can’t just - just walk out for a hunt and leave us with Bobby!”

“Don’t you raise your voice at me, young man!” his father shouted back. “Don’t you ever raise your voice at me! Do you hear me?”

“Well, why not?!” Dean snapped. “Since we’re all just doing whatever we want now! If you’re gonna walk out for Christmas, then I’m gonna - “

SMACK!

Dean stared at his father in shock, his left hand instinctively coming up to brush against his face. Against his will, tears formed in his eyes, drawn by the stinging in his left cheek.

His father continued to shout, but he could have been saying anything. All Dean heard was a buzzing sound, somewhere between static and a lawnmower in terms of volume and pitch.

“Hey!” His father grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. “I am talking to you! Are you even hearing me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean blurted out, struggling to hold back sobs.

His father looked at him more closely, then backed off, lowering his voice a touch. “People are dying, Dean. Maybe you’re too young to understand that, I don’t know. Lord knows I’ve tried my hardest to make you. But I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do, and vamps don’t wait for holidays.” He scratched the back of his head, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he might think he saw a glimmer of guilt in the man’s eyes. “You know I love you boys and I’d do anything for you, but I can’t just let innocent people die for sentimentality. You’ll understand that when you’re older.”

Dean nodded, barely taking in what his father was saying in his rush to agree just to get himself out of the conversation. He wanted to be alone.

Fortunately, that was when his father walked out the door - something that had been transformed from a curse into a blessing.

Unfortunately, seconds later, just as Dean was about to let himself burst into tears, he heard the doorknob rattle.

Bobby!

Terrified, Dean darted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut just as he heard the front door open. “Dean?” Bobby called into the house. “Saw your father headed out. Didn’t look like he was goin’ to get eggnog. What’s happenin’?”

Dean focused all of his energy on keeping his voice steady. “Dad left for a hunt,” he said, and was horrified to hear his voice tremble regardless. He was almost eleven, for crying out loud. He was too old to be sobbing like some kind of baby.

There was silence, blessed silence for a few moments as Dean looked at himself in the mirror and tried to assess the damage. There was a big patch of red on his left cheek where his father had slapped him. No way Bobby wouldn’t notice if Dean walked out of the bathroom looking like that.

He couldn’t believe it had happened. He was used to spankings, sure. Smacks on the hand, smacks on the back of the head, and smacks on the shoulder were all perfectly normal. Even the occasional shove wasn’t unheard of, especially when his father had been drinking. But never, never in his life had his father struck him in the face before now.

On the bright side, he didn't feel concussed. He had been concussed once before, when he had been kidnapped by a vampire to be used as leverage against his father. It had been terrible. But he could think clearly right now, which meant he was fine.

On the downside, there was a mark on his face. The most he could hope for was that it would fade before he had to face Bobby. As long as he could keep Bobby from prying….

In the midst of it all, Dean didn't even realize that panic had completely overtaken his initial urge to cry.

“Are you okay in there?” Bobby asked gently from much closer than he’d been before.

“I - I’m fine!” Dean stammered out. “Just - uh, I just… wanna be alone, okay?” He winced at how pathetic he sounded.

“...Alright. You just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Bobby.”

Dean waited nearly half an hour for his face to (thankfully) return to his normal skin color. Then he crept out of the bathroom and into the bedroom he was sharing with Sammy.

“Are you okay?” Sammy asked immediately.

Dean wondered how much Sammy had heard. “Why do you ask?”

“I heard yelling. Dad was real mad.”

Dean relaxed. “Yeah, well, that’s just Dad. Don’t worry about it.”

Sammy nodded, but still looked troubled. “Is Dad really not going to be here for Christmas?”

Dean shrugged, trying for a nonchalant demeanor. “Maybe. But Bobby and I will be here. It’ll be fine.”

Sammy nodded again, looking a lot more convinced than Dean felt. “Okay.”

“Now get into bed, Sammy. You’ll feel better when you wake up. We all will.”

Sammy scurried over to their bed and climbed inside, throwing the covers over himself with gusto. Then he frowned.

“What is it?”

“...Will you read to me?” Sammy asked in a hushed voice, like it was a secret.

Dean felt a pang. At their last motel, they’d been within walking distance of a library, so Dean had read to him on a daily basis while their father was hunting. Through an unspoken agreement, neither of them had ever mentioned it to the man. Perhaps they had both sensed that their father would find it unnecessarily childish.

He would love to read to Sammy again, but he doubted Bobby had any entertaining reading materials, and it was winter break, so Dean didn’t even have books from his current elementary school to read.

“Can I sing to you instead?” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah!”

Sammy wriggled around like a caterpillar, getting comfortable under the blankets, and Dean settled in beside him, sitting up against the headboard.

“Hey Jude
Don’t make it bad
Take a sad song
And make it better…”

June 12, 1993

Where Dean was driving to in his stolen car, he didn’t know. He just knew that he had to put as much distance as he could between himself and that shitshow of a hunt he’d just been on with his father - and, somehow, Sam. The youngest Winchester wasn’t supposed to be involved in these things. But a hunter’s family was never truly safe, and that was proven by Sam getting mixed up in this latest series of ghost attacks. Now Sam had a knife in the back of his leg and their father was in the Impala breaking all kinds of speed limits on the way to the hospital.

That was going to be hard enough to explain to the doctors. The gunshot bleeding sluggishly in Dean’s abdomen would only have made that harder. Therefore, bandaging up his wound as best he could, Dean had hotwired the nearest vehicle and hightailed it out of there. His father had told him to get himself to safety - but Sam had just been at their motel, and he’d still gotten attacked before they managed to get rid of the ghost. What else could possibly be safe? So, Dean’s best bet at a plan was to drive aimlessly into the distance until he felt like he’d escaped Sammy’s pained whimpering.

After a couple hours’ drive, Dean was both surprised and unsurprised to see that his hands had steered him to a familiar old salvage yard. Resigned, he pulled up to Bobby’s house. He guessed if that wasn’t enough distance, nothing would be. Dean dragged himself first from the shitty blue sedan he’d driven there, then down the long walkway to the porch, and finally up the porch steps to bang his fist in a rhythmless refrain against the door before his whole body collapsed against it.

Shortly after, the door swung open. “Dean!” Bobby burst out, dropping his newspaper to yank Dean’s arm up and around his neck. “Jesus Christ, kid, you look like death warmed over. What the hell happened?”

“Gunshot,” Dean slurred, struggling to keep his feet beneath him as he was guided into the house. “Hun’ wen’ wrong.”

“Yeah, clearly. And where the hell is your thrice-damned father? How you even managed to drive in this condition is anyone’s guess.”

“Sammy’s… Sammy’s hurt. My fault.” The whole fight had blurred now, all except one crystal clear moment: the moment that knife had gone flying across the room. If Dean had just reacted a second sooner, he could have gotten Sam out of the way. Hell, he could have just thrown himself into the way. Anything to keep Sam from getting hurt. But it hadn’t gone that way.

Bobby tutted at the short explanation. “Yeah, I’m sure it was.”

Dean felt that like a boot to the chest. It was bad enough to know it, but something else entirely to hear it confirmed by Bobby of all people.

Bobby eased Dean onto his couch.

“‘m bleedin’,” Dean protested.

“Never mind that,” Bobby huffed. He pushed up Dean’s shirt to examine the bandaging. “Not bad work here,” he said, sounding the slightest bit impressed. “For a rush job, at least. Still, I’d better fix you up proper now that I’ve got you here. I bet you didn’t even get the bullet out.”

Bobby shuffled into his dining room, where he kept his medical supplies. He returned with gauze, medical tape, alcohol, a stitching kit, and a belt.

“That drink for me, doc?”

Bobby scoffed. “You’re too young to drink.”

Tell that to Dad, Dean thought.

“Bite down on this,” Bobby instructed, an undertone of deep concern woven through his voice as he held the belt out to Dean.

“Kinky,” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of leather.

“Oh, stuff it, sunshine. You’re not gonna be crackin’ jokes in a few seconds. Now, you’d better hold still. This is gonna sting.”

Fifteen minutes later, as the world around Dean began to blur from pain and blood loss, Bobby started to speak again, voice rough and raspy. “Did I ever tell you about my first drink? I was about eighteen years old…”

September 22, 1993

Dean didn’t know why none of this was sitting right with him. Sam was, after all, the same age Dean had been when he first started to hunt. In fact, for the life of him, Dean couldn’t think of any reason why he and his father hadn’t started training him months ago. Well, no, he could - the reason was him, of course. Every time his father had broached the topic, Dean had managed to brush it off and change the subject before a conclusion could be reached. He would never dream of disagreeing with his father, of course, but a little verbal sleight-of-hand never did anyone any harm.

Maybe Sam just didn’t need to be hunting. Dean and his father did the hunting. Wasn’t a third person, like, superfluous? Did any monster-hunting party really benefit from having a third person? Besides, Sam was just such a wuss about things sometimes. He got so mushy and emotional about people and their problems. It was something that annoyed the hell out of Dean. He’d swear he wasn’t like that as a kid. Sam probably didn’t have the stomach for hunting. People got hurt in their line of work, in some very gruesome ways (Dean tried not to think about Sam getting hurt in those ways) and Sam would have to find some way to cope with that.

Unfortunately, there was no getting himself or Sam out of this one. After the knife scare with Sam a few months ago, their father was adamant that he learn how to comport himself properly on a hunt. And Dean couldn’t have argued with the logic in that even if he’d wanted to.

Hours later, Dean wished he had thought of something, anything to push their father off a little longer. “Just hold on, Sammy,” he barked, darting through the corridors of the old asylum with Sam draped over his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

“Dean, I’m scared,” Sam whimpered. “I don’ - I don’ wanna be hurt again.”

Dean winced, the statement constricting his heart like a noose. “I know, I know, buddy,” he said desperately. “I’ll fix you up, I promise. You’ll be just fine.”

“Would you - Would you sing to me?”

Dean reeled. Sam hadn’t asked him to sing in years. “I would, buddy, but I - I gotta save my breath for runnin’, okay?”

“...’Kay,” Sam bit out through gritted teeth, his pain clear in his voice.

Dean finally burst through the exit and made a break for the Impala. “Hold tight here, okay?” Dean panted, sitting Sam down in the backseat. He went for the trunk, snatched a cannister of salt, and spread a circle around the car. Then he grabbed the medical kit and hopped in the other side next to Sam.

“Uh - Uh - “ He struggled not to be overcome by panic. Bandaging up his father was one thing, but Sam looked so pitiful, lying there with a jagged shard of glass embedded deep into his shoulder. His father was tough, he could take shit, but Sam was Dean’s weak spot, always had been.

With shaking hands, Dean stripped himself of his belt and held it up to Sam’s mouth. “Bite - Bite down,” he instructed. “It’ll help with the pain.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dean cooed, running his hands through Sam’s hair. “Hey, you asked me to sing, right?”

“R-Right,” Sam sniffled.

“Hey Jude
Don’t make it bad”

As he pulled the shard out, slowly to prevent further internal lacerations, Sam screamed, a ragged sound that made Dean want to start crying himself like he was a little kid. Once the glass had been fully withdrawn from the wound, Sam broke into scratchy, tearful gasps. He glanced over at the bloody glass shard, whimpered again, then slumped over, unconscious. Dean took in a deep breath, set his trembling jaw, and continued to work on him.

“Take a sad song
And make it better…”

August 18, 2002

“Rem’mber
T’let’er into your heart
Then y’can start
T’make it beeetterrr…

Oh, come on - ”

Dean landed on the floor beside his bed with a hard thwap, his hand flying right past the motel’s obnoxious alarm clock on his descent. He’d only just settled into bed, drunkenly singing himself to sleep. It seemed he would just stay intoxicated on this Saturday. Good thing he and his family were between hunts.

No. Not him and his family. Just him and his father, now.

Dean winced at the memory of some of the voicemails he’d left on Sam’s phone last night as he stood up to turn off the alarm. It was mostly a blur by now, but he could remember bits and pieces - and by bits and pieces, he meant some very choice curse words that he should probably take back. Sure, Sam had disrespected their father. Sure, Dean felt betrayed. Sure, Dean felt abandoned. But to leave things like that - to leave Sam thinking he couldn't come back -

"You walk out that door, you don't come back, y'hear me?!"

Dean froze, fingers partway through dialing Sam's number as his father’s words echoed in his head. Could Sam come back? What would Dean do if Sam came back?

He shook off thoughts of having to choose between his father and his little brother. Surely if Sam came back, his father would change his mind. Family was everything to his father. Well, no, the hunt was everything - but the hunt was for and about family. His father would have to change his mind.

Mind made up, Dean finished dialing and held the phone up to his ear. "Hey, Sammy." He paused for a moment. "Uh…." What should he say? He could apologize, but he wondered if that would invalidate what his father had said, which he just couldn't do. After all, his father had been right to be upset. Sam was being selfish. And he couldn't say that he wanted to see Sam again or that he wanted Sam to come back because - well, his father had said the exact opposite. He couldn't directly contradict his father.

A sharp beep jolted him from his thoughts. Dean jerked his head away from his cell phone and realized that the call had ended.

“Damn.”

Well, maybe that was for the best. Dean just needed to take some time, sort out his thoughts, and figure out what to say. He would just call Sam in a little while and leave that voicemail….

October 29, 2005

Three years later, Dean never had left that voicemail. But with his father having gone radio-silent just days before the anniversary of his mother’s death, Dean figured it might just be time for an in-person reunion.

Chapter Text

I’ve tripped again and things are starting to get interesting
Don’t give me choices ‘cause I can’t decide
My mind is soaked in words
I’ve come to terms with all my insecurities
And purity’s no friend of mine

Consider This by Anna Nalick

October 31, 2005

“You know, you really don’t have to do this,” Sam protested for a billionth time, rubbing the back of their neck uncomfortably.

“Oh, come on. I never really liked Halloween anyway,” Jess teased, tossing a beer to them. “Those horrifying costumes - blech! Who wants to see vampires and werewolves and ghosts running all over the place?”

“What, you don’t like candy?”

“Well, I do,” Jess admitted. “But I’m an adult now, which means I can buy my own candy.”

Sam shook their head. “Ah, yes. The one true hallmark of adulthood: buying candy.” They snorted as Jess plopped down onto the couch beside them and cracked open her own beer. Then, out of the corner of their eyes, they cast her a considering look. “Seriously, you wouldn’t rather be out there having fun with Mark and Brady and everyone? Doing whatever dumb shit normal college students do on Halloween?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Because I’m sure there’s still a costume for sale somewhere - “

“Sam!” Jess picked up one of the pillows from the couch and swatted them over the head with it. “I said I’m sure!”

“Okay, okay!” Sam raised their hands placatingly. “Just… I don’t know, seems like a shame. Misery doesn’t always love company, you know.”

“Yeah, well, tonight, misery is good enough company for me.” Jess snuggled up to them, wrapping both her arms around their left arm. "Now put on the most kid-friendly movie you can find, okay? And not for your benefit!" She briefly removed one of her hands to jab them pointedly in the shoulder. "I'm no horror fan, you know that."

"I do know that," Sam said sheepishly. "Alright, one Disney princess movie coming up."

Hours later, Sam was startled from their slumber on the couch by the shattering of glass. Alarmed, they shook Jess, who was still wrapped around their arm as she snored. “Jess!” they hissed.

Jess started awake. “Wh- “

“Sh!” Sam covered her mouth. “Someone’s breaking in.” Jess’s eyes widened as Sam slowly released her. “Call 911, and go hide.”

Jess nodded, pulling out her phone, then hesitated with her fingers on the numbers when Sam started to get up. “But - what are you gonna do?”

“I’m just gonna look around.”

“Sam - “

Sam snatched the phone, dialed 911, and pressed it back into her hands. “I’ll be fine,” they insisted, then tiptoed towards the sound of a door creaking open in the dining room.

A figure stood in the doorway, taking muted footsteps into the house Sam shared with Jess. Sam darted forward and rammed the figure, taking them off-guard.

“Oof - !” The figure grappled with Sam for a moment, then flipped them onto the ground. “You’re rusty, Sammy.”

Sam stared up in recognition, scoffed, and twisted their legs to flip their older brother Dean onto the ground with them. “Says you.” They stood up and offered a hand to Dean, pulling him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, man, you scared the shit out of us.”

“‘Us?’”

Sam turned towards the living room. “Jess, cancel the cops! It’s just my asshole brother!”

Dean huffed at that, but didn’t disagree. “Who’s Jess?”

“My girlfriend, and if you make a move on her, I’ll kill you.”

“Whoa there. Insecure much, little brother?”

Sam winced, facing away from Dean. Little ‘brother.’ Starting college - starting over - as an open, de-closeted genderqueer person had been one of the greatest joys of Sam’s life, and part of the reason they’d never contacted Dean after the fight they’d had with John. They couldn’t imagine cramming themself back into that closet now. But at the same time, with some of the things they’d heard their father say over the years, they couldn’t imagine ever coming out to their family.

“What did you say?” Jess stepped around the corner. “It’s who?”

Dean whistled. “Well, hello.”

Sam smacked him in the arm. “Dean.”

“Oh, come on, that wasn’t a move! That was just being polite! Geez, Sammy, where are your manners?”

Sam rolled their eyes. “Jess, this is my brother, Dean. No need for cops.”

“You had her call the cops?” Dean made a face. “Why, so they could get here after you two’d already been gutted and stand around gossiping about what a tragedy it was?”

Jess stared at him. “Huh?”

“Ha, ha,” Sam said dryly. “Jess, ignore him. He’s got a weird sense of humor.”

“Oookay.” Jess glanced nervously back and forth between Sam and Dean, a question clear in her eyes every time she glanced Sam’s way: Do you need back-up?

“Jess, could you actually, um, could you give us a second to catch up?” Sam asked. Dean wasn’t their father. They didn’t need back-up…, they hoped.

“Yeah, sure thing, sweetie. Just give me a shout if you need me, alright?”

“Of course. Thanks, Jess.”

Sam and Dean watched Jess walk away and out of earshot, then turned to each other. “So, um…” Sam tried to figure out what to say. After all, ‘I’m happy to see you’ wasn’t exactly accurate given their last interactions, and especially given that Dean had broken into his freaking house in the middle of the night on Halloween. ‘What are you doing here?’ felt too unfriendly, though.

“Yeah, yeah, no need to get mushy,” Dean said, cutting Sam off before they could say anything at all. “I’m not here for fun. I, uh…,” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “Truth is, I need your help, Sammy.”

Sam felt their good will towards Dean snap in that moment. “Oh, of course you do,” they sneered. “God knows that’s the only reason you’d want anything to do with me.”

Somehow, Dean looked genuinely shocked at that. “What? What the hell, Sammy? You walked out on us!”

“Yeah, and I clearly wasn’t welcome back again!” Sam shot back.

Dean didn’t have anything to say to that, and Sam knew why. After all, their father might have been the one to say 'don't come back,' but Dean's voicemails from that night had been none too amicable. Even his final voicemail from the morning after, three minutes of vaguely confused silence, had certainly not left a good impression on Sam.

"I don't know why you even bothered coming here," Sam continued. "You know John won't accept help from me."

"Oh, so it's 'John' now? Real mature."

"Actually - “

“And by the way,” Dean continued, “‘John’ doesn’t even know I’m here.”

That threw Sam for a loop. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Because the guy isn’t answering any calls, texts, or carrier pigeons right now. He’s gone completely off the radar.”

“You’re kidding. Dad finally went out for cigarettes and never came back?” Sam cocked their head to the side, considering. “You know, he might’ve done us a favor and done that a bit earlier.”

“Jesus, Sam, this isn’t a fucking joke,” Dean growled. “Our father is missing,”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Sam rubbed their face, exhausted by all the fighting. “Dean, I don’t know. I’ve got classes, I’ve got a law school interview on Friday - ”

“Law school?” Dean didn’t look like he knew what to make of that. “So you’re gonna be a bigshot lawyer, huh?” For the life of him, Sam couldn’t tell if Dean was mocking them or genuinely impressed. But knowing Dean, it was probably the former.

“Yeah, Dean.” Sam went for a firm tone.

Dean recoiled slightly at that, and then Sam felt bad. Maybe Dean had been impressed after all.

“I, um…, yeah,” Sam finished lamely, trying and probably failing to correct their previous tone.

Dean rolled his eyes. Clearly a failure, then. “Well, your fancy classes and your important interview will have to wait. Dad needs us.”

Sam folded their arms. “Call someone else. Daniel. Or Caleb. Or - “

“Sam, I’m not gonna trust anyone but you on this!” Dean exclaimed indignantly.

Sam hated how that one statement could test their resolve. It was touching that Dean still trusted him above anyone else after all this time. It really was. That didn’t mean Sam could put their life on hold for a man who had never put his life on hold for Sam or Dean.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean pleaded. “It’s our dad. Look, I’ll - I’ll get you back here by Friday, alright? Just take one week off of classes. You can do that in college, can’t you?”

“Well…, not really…,” Sam said, thinking of their stricter professors. The longer they looked at Dean’s bizarrely endearing puppy dog eyes, though, the more they felt themself relenting. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go with you to look for Dad. I’m doing it for you, though, not him.”

“Sure, sure,” Dean agreed hastily, and Sam was sure that their meaning had not been taken in the slightest. “Thank you, Sam. I’ll leave you alone to your white-picket-fence life soon as I can, I swear.”

Sam frowned. They wished Dean wouldn’t talk like that, but that was a problem for another day. It was already late enough. “Whatever you say, man. I’ll get you set up on the couch for tonight. We can take off tomorrow.”

November 1, 2005

“And why can’t you just contact the police?” Jess asked, setting the coffeemaker to brew.

Sam sighed as they poured pancake batter into a pan. “You know how I told you John was involved in some shady stuff?”

Jess furrowed her brow. “Well, yeah, but I thought you meant ‘hustling pool’ shady, not ‘can’t call the police when he’s missing’ shady.”

“Oh, no, he hustles pool too.” Sam snorted. “Yeah, John is a piece of work. I mean….” Sam thought about how much of their life John had dedicated to hunting down monsters and saving people’s lives. “I mean, he’s not all bad. He does good things too. Just - “

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Jess put a finger to Sam’s lips, narrowing her eyes at them. “Remember what the counselor said. Don’t make excuses for him. He abused you and your brother; don’t let yourself forget that and start talking about him like he’s some saint. There’s no excuse for child abuse.”

Sam nodded. “Right. You’re right. I just mean, there have been reasons for the things he’s done, and they weren’t all evil reasons.”

“Well, that’s a shining recommendation,” Jess drawled. She frowned. “I just wish you could tell me more about your past. I know you have your reasons, but I just wish you could tell me more. That’s all.”

Sam cupped her face in their hands. “I will, okay?” they promised. “When I get back from this… trip with Dean, I’ll tell you everything. Okay?”

Jess pretended to think about it. “Alright,” she sighed exaggeratedly. “When you get back.”

Sam smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

“That so?” Dean stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “Gonna tell her everything, Sammy?”

Sam lowered their hands and straightened their back. “Yeah, I am. You got a problem with that?”

Slowly, Dean shook his head, expression unreadable. “Not at all.”

Jess turned to face him. “Dean Winchester.”

Dean threw her a smirk. “So you’ve heard of me. All good things, I hope.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

That seemed to catch Dean off-guard.

“Except for the part where you cursed Sam out and never called again,” Jess finished.

At that, Dean winced. If Sam didn’t know any better, they’d say Dean looked guilty. “Admittedly, that was not one of my finer moments.”

“So you regret it?”

Sam saw where she was going with that immediately. “Oh, no. It is too early in the morning for you to be playing family therapist, Jess.”

Jess pouted, but nodded.

“Anyway, Dean, coffee is there - “ Sam pointed out the coffeemaker - “and I’m almost done with breakfast.”

“Ooh, he cooks now?” Dean asked teasingly, stepping forward to sniff breakfast like the mannerless hooligan he was.

‘He?’ Jess mouthed questioningly behind Dean’s back.

Sam nodded vigorously while Dean’s head was bent over the stove. If they were ever ready to come out to their family, it would be on their own terms, not sprung on them like this. In response to Dean’s question, Sam said sarcastically, “He does.” They had to restrain a wince as they misgendered themself on purpose. It felt like taking a huge step back after all these years spent out of the closet, but it was better than the alternative.

“He cooks well, by the smell of things,” Dean said approvingly as he leaned back. “Thanks, Sammy. Looking forward to trying it.” He moved to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. “So, Jess, what are these wonderful things my brother has told you about me?”

“Oh, just that you pretty much raised him and gave up having a life of your own in order to give him a good childhood,” Jess said off-handedly, but Sam read in the quirk of her eyebrow that she knew exactly what she was doing: playing family therapist. Again.

Dean sputtered for a few seconds. “That - That’s not entirely - I had a life. And I didn’t - Sammy didn’t… Dad was there too! You know…, mostly.”

Sam snorted. “Whatever you have to tell yourself. It’s okay, Dean. I know you don’t like, uh, ‘chick-flick moments.’ We don’t have to talk about it, Jess.”

Jess coughed awkwardly. “Sorry!”

Once they got a move on, there was surprisingly companionable silence between Sam and Dean for a long stretch of road. Save for the hard rock that Dean had blasting in the background, anyway. Naturally, it couldn’t last.

Dean cleared his throat, and Sam knew, immediately, that it was the beginning of the end for their peaceful road trip. “So, ‘bout what Jess said earlier - “

“Look, man, can we not?” Sam interrupted. “I get it. You’ve got your view of John, and I’ve got mine. Let’s not fight about it, alright? I’ve already agreed to help you. What more do you want from me?”

Dean raised his eyebrows, looking amused. “Hey, now, you’re the one who brought him up. I wasn’t gonna say anything about the old man.”

Sam looked away, embarrassed. “Then, uh…, what were you gonna talk about?”

Dean sobered. “Just that - well, she asked me ‘do you regret it?’ and I didn’t really get a chance to answer.”

“And?” Sam said, though they thought they already knew the answer.

“And, well, of course I regret it. You’re my little brother, Sammy. That’s a bridge I’m never gonna burn, no matter what.”

Except that you did, Sam thought, perhaps uncharitably. They weren’t quite petty enough to say it out loud, at least. If this was Dean extending the olive branch, which was uncharacteristic of him in the first place, the least they could do was accept it. Even if there wasn’t a real apology in there. Small victories. “Yeah, okay.”

Dean waited a few seconds, then said, “Well?”

“‘Well’ what?”

“Aren’t you gonna, I don’t know, apologize for not reaching out or something?”

Sam scoffed. “Uh, no? Why would I reach out after those voicemails? I’m pretty sure you were cursing me out in different languages at some point.” Dean was silent after that, and Sam could sense him stewing in unfounded resentment, as he did. They sighed. “Look, Dean, if I’d thought for a second that you’d be - I don’t know, reciprocative, then I’d have reached out immediately. But you gave me no reason to think that. As far as I could tell, you were on John’s side about the whole thing.”

“I was on Dad’s side,” Dean said immediately.

Sam threw their hands in the air, nearly brushing the roof of the car with their fingertips. “So what the hell are you even talking about? What do you even regret, Dean?”

“I did regret the voicemails,” Dean protested. “I didn’t want to burn that bridge, Sam, I meant that when I said it. Just - That doesn’t mean I thought you were right to be walking out on us.”

“It didn’t have to be personal,” Sam said. “Just because I wanted a different life for myself - “

“But you know about the things out there, you have a duty - “

Sam held up their hands. “Stop. Listen, I don’t want to fight, alright? What’s done is done, we clearly have different opinions about it - let’s just let it go, okay? We’re on the job here. Why don’t you tell me about where we’re going?”

Dean stewed a few moments longer, then said, with great effort, “The last voicemail I got from Dad told me to meet him in Jericho to investigate a case of missing children. He didn’t give me much more than that to go off of, so I’ve got no idea if we’re dealing with a changeling, or a shtriga, or who knows what. All I know is to go to Jericho and investigate some missing kids.”

“How long ago was that?”

Dean shifted in his seat, tightening his hand around the steering wheel. “About two weeks ago.”

Sam frowned. “Where were you? Don’t you two always hunt together? Were you… doing some research or something?” The idea of Dean doing research was foreign to them - for as long as they could remember, that had been their job. Maybe Dean had taken it up after they left, though.

“Yeah, research,” Dean agreed just a touch too quickly.

Sam narrowed their eyes. “Oookay. What were you really doing?”

Dean sighed. “Look, there’s… this girl - “

Sam held up a hand. “Say no more. Another day, another girl, right?”

Dean hesitated. “...Pretty much.”

Sam frowned again. They still felt like there was something Dean wasn’t telling them, but this early in rebuilding the relationship, they didn’t want to push their luck. “Alright, so what happened next?”

“I called Dad a couple times on the way from Missouri to California, asked him for more details about the case. Radio silence. When I finally got to Jericho, I called him again - hell, I must’ve called him about a thousand times, just trying to figure out where to meet him. No word, none whatsoever. I asked around as best I could, but no one had seen him. Even called hospitals and morgues and shit.”

“So what’s the play?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. “Figure out what case he was working. Work it ourselves. Try to catch up with him somewhere along the way.”

Once they hit Jericho, they discussed first steps.

“So, I’m a little rusty at this,” Sam said. “Where do you want to start with this case?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dean said. “Normally Dad and I start at the crime scene or the police station, right? Start at the beginning, get as many clues as we can. But we don’t even know what case we’re working today. So I’m thinking we gotta start at a library. What do you think?”

“Yeah, that makes sense to me.”

So their first stop was the library, in which Sam and Dean sat across from each other at computers and started researching recent cases of missing children. And came up with…

“Zilch. Nada. Squat.” Dean slapped his hands against his knees, discouraged. “What the hell? Why was Dad calling me about missing kids in Jericho when there are none from the past five years?”

“Let’s spread out,” Sam suggested. “Check nearby areas.”

Another half-hour of searching yielded several missing kids reports from surrounding counties within the past few years. “Always two kids, always boys, always found dead within a couple months,” Sam mused, tapping their fingers against the table. “And all centered on Jericho. So something in this town is kidnapping kids, but not from Jericho, only around Jericho. Have you ever heard of something like that? Something that only attacks nearby areas and not the place itself?”

Dean shook his head. “That’s just weird. Almost like something is protecting this place. Maybe it’s a curse? Curses have strange rules sometimes.”

“Could be. Should we talk to the victims’ families first, or research curses first?”

Dean hesitated. “Uh….”

Sam waited patiently.

“...Victims’ families first, maybe? Establish a pattern, make sure they’re all part of the case?”

“Alright, sounds good. And hey, maybe that way we’ll run into John or at least someone who’s run into him themself.”

Sam and Dean approached the first house. As they walked, Dean kept fidgeting with his suit.

“Dude, what’s the matter with you?” Sam whispered, restraining a laugh.

Dean mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said I’ve never done this without Dad, alright?” Dean hissed. “He’s usually the one who takes the lead on these things.”

“Dean, you’ll be fine,” Sam reassured him, vaguely comforted that there was still something in this world that could make Dean nervous. Even if it was a simple if deceitful conversation, and not a witch or a djinn or a banshee. “You’ve done this a million times with Dad. Just… pretend he’s here, and say what he’d say.”

They reached the front step. Dean took a deep breath and knocked on the door before Sam could keep going.

A slight, dark-skinned woman with her hair pulled back in a bun answered the door. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m Agent Plant, and this is my partner Agent Bonham,” Dean introduced them, flashing a badge as Sam did the same. “We’re with the FBI.”

The woman stared at them, dumbfounded. “O…kay? And what brings you here?”

“We’re following up on a missing persons report that was filed two weeks ago on Peter and Cody Wright.”

The woman brought a hand to her mouth. “You’re investigating my boys’ case?”

“That must make you Mrs. Courtney Wright,” Sam inferred.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.” The woman held her hand out, and the siblings shook it one after the other. “Please, please, come in. My husband is at work right now, but he should be home within a couple of hours if you need to speak with him too.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary.”

She led them to her living room. “Why is the FBI interested in this case? I thought this was a state case.”

“It was, but, uh, there’s a chance that there’s a connection to other cases,” Dean said, stumbling over his words a little. “So we’re just following up to, y’know, make sure it’s not a matter of - of national importance.”

Courtney didn’t seem to notice, accepting his words easily enough.

“Can you tell us what happened, in your own words?” Sam asked, giving Dean a breather. Their question was scripted, practically part of the Winchester bible, so it came naturally to them to ask.

Courtney launched into her story.

At the end of the day, Dean drove them back to Jericho to the cheapest motel they could find. “I know we’ve only talked to less than half of the families,” he said, “but I feel like we’re establishing a pattern here, Sammy.”

“Nearly all of them were taken in their sleep the night of the youngest’s tenth birthday,” Sam mused. “Doesn’t get much more specific than that. So, how are we paying for this?”

Dean flashed a credit card.

“Nice,” Sam said dryly. “Let me guess. Robert Plant?”

“Wrong, actually,” Dean said smugly. “Jimmy Plant, and Dad is John Plant. Don’t wanna be too obvious, Sammy.”

“Hey, you learned subtlety!” Sam said in mock surprise.

Dean half-heartedly swatted them on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

They entered the motel, and Dean slid his card forward to pay for the room.

“There a family reunion or something in this town?” the receptionist asked idly. “Plant ain’t that common a name, after all.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

Moments later saw Sam standing guard as Dean picked the lock at room 163. “A-ha!” Dean said triumphantly, stepping back as the lock clicked out of place.

“Nice,” Sam said.

As soon as they stepped inside, they were doused in cold water. Spluttering, they shook themself off and yelped, “What the hell?”

Dean burst into laughter. “Oh man, that’s hilarious.” He wiped tears of mirth out of his eyes as he gradually sobered. “Weird, though. Dad’s not exactly the pranking type.”

Sam looked around with wide eyes. “Uh, Dean, I don’t think this was a prank. I think this was a demon trap.”

Dean followed them inside and inhaled sharply. “Wow.”

They took in the motel room in all its glory. Photographs, newspaper clippings, and scholarly articles were plastered all over the walls, connected by assorted colored strings. Lines of salt blocked demons and ghosts alike from crossing the threshold of the doorway or the 1-foot radius around the bed, and hex bags hung everywhere. A devil’s trap was even painted on the ceiling.

Beside them, Dean shivered.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just… deja vu. Don’t worry about it.”

The two of them scoured the room for clues about the current case, but none of it seemed related to the missing persons cases. Mostly, Sam just saw the phrase ‘yellow eyes’ everywhere.

“You ever hear about this?” Sam asked, pointing it out in one of the clippings.

“Yellow eyes?” Dean said. “No, I’ve never heard of that. What kind of creature has yellow eyes?”

“Beats me. It doesn’t say anywhere. But John sure is convinced that something has them.”

“Speaking of things we didn’t know existed, have you heard of a ‘prince of hell?’”

“What? No.” Sam cocked their head to the side. “You think that’s the thing that’s got yellow eyes?”

“Could be. Or it could be some other thing that he’s chasing.” Dean traced a red strand to another picture, and when next he spoke, it was with a tone of astonishment. “Holy shit, Sam - Dad thinks he’s figured out what killed Mom!”

If the rest of the scene had failed to capture Sam’s interest, that certainly would have succeeded nonetheless. “Really?” they said, and then couldn’t help adding, “Only took him twenty-two years - “

“Stuff it, Sam.” Dean sounded unusually serious, and Sam reined themself in from starting a fight. They knew how important their mother was to Dean. Now wasn’t the time.

“Sorry. Tell me more about the thing that killed Mom?”

“I don’t know, I can’t really make heads or tails of this mess, but he’s got other house fires up here. He must have made some kind of connection.”

To Sam, that sounded like wishful thinking; John had investigated other house fires before, but never made a connection to their own. Still, in combination with the rest of the disarray, maybe there was something to it this time.

Sam started going through drawers. They were empty, as per usual; John rarely stayed in one place long enough to unpack. This just meant that he must’ve left shortly after calling Dean, so about two weeks ago. His trail was going cold already, and they’d barely begun the search.

In one of the drawers sat John’s journal.

“Dean! Look at this!”

“Oh, that’s not good,” Dean said, striding across the room to take a look. “Dad doesn’t go anywhere without his journal.”

Sam looked around again, growing uneasy. By the looks of it, whatever John had been working on had attracted the demons’ attention, and John had either made a speedy getaway, so speedy he’d left his most prized possession, or… well. And there was no point in saying any of this to Dean; Sam could see in his eyes that he’d already reached the same conclusion.

They heard footsteps then, approaching the door from outside. Sam darted up to the door, fastened the barrel bolt lock, and held their breath.

“Mr. Plant?” The receptionist’s voice rang through the room as he knocked firmly on the door. “You were paid up through last week, but your rent is due for this week.”

The man tried the door, first by turning the knob, second by unlocking it and then turning the knob. The door rattled against the barrel bolt lock. “Mr. Plant, I know you’re in there if the second lock is bolted.” He knocked again. “Mr. Plant? Mr. Plant!” He knocked harder, then grumbled, “I’m getting security,” before storming off.

Sam turned to Dean once the footsteps were out of earshot. “We gotta go, now.”

“But what about - ?” Dean gestured to the walls of functionally unintelligible evidence, then shook his head. “Damn it!” He scooped up John’s journal, snapped some quick pictures with his phone, and followed Sam out and around the corner to their own room.

November 2, 2005

“These pictures all came out blurry,” Dean bemoaned the next morning. “Damn it. Frickin’ camera phones, my ass.”

“Just because you can’t take a decent picture to save your life doesn’t make them worthless, Dean.” Sam ran a hand through their hair. “Maybe we can just break in again later and I’ll take the pictures?”

“No can do. When that guy called security over, they broke in, made a big fuss about the weird ‘satanic’ crap, and cleaned it all out.” Dean slammed a fist against the table, causing Sam to flinch. “Damn it!”

Sam considered whether or not it was worth it to ask Dean not to do anything sudden and violent, then decided against it. That was a fight for another day. And it would, they were sure, be a fight. “It probably doesn’t matter,” they consoled, hoping that was the right angle to play. “It all seemed like nonsense to me. I’m sure it wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean we were ever going to figure out how to interpret it. I really doubt we were.”

Dean was not consoled by this. Angrily, he swiped John’s journal off of the table. “Useless piece of shit!” he snapped, and Sam couldn’t be sure if he were referring to the journal or himself. Knowing Dean, it was probably both.

“Listen, man - “ Sam paused in the act of picking up the journal. A piece of paper had fallen out. It read, ‘DEAN 35-111.’ “Hey, what’s this?”

Dean leaned over and swiped it. “Looks like coordinates,” he said in surprise. “A clue from Dad, maybe?”

Sam plugged the numbers into their laptop’s search engine. “Yeah, they are. Awesome. So we have a lead on John’s location.”

“Fantastic.” Dean picked up the journal again and leafed through it, bad mood gone. “Let’s see if he left us any clues for this case…. Alright, this looks like something. Pairs of boys, ten and older, taken in their sleep. Sound familiar?”

“What kind of information does he have?” Sam asked eagerly, pulling their chair around so they could lean over Dean’s shoulder. “Anything useful?”

“Yeah. Dates from before the past five years, as well as census data on gender ratios in this town. Apparently there aren’t many men in this town… because if a boy has a brother, he’s about guaranteed to get kidnapped on his tenth birthday or his little brother’s tenth birthday.” He smacked himself in the forehead. “Sam, we’re dealing with a Woman in White.”

“Oh, of course!” Sam clapped their hands together in excitement. “Hey, aren’t there multiple ways of getting rid of that one? Like with Mirror Ghosts and Death Omens?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I always just salt and burn the bones.

Sam rolled their eyes. “Except when you can’t.”

“Well, let’s see if we can this time before resorting to extremes.”

The two of them researched the case late into the night, and concluded that the ghost was named Constance Welch, and that she had been born, raised, and buried in Jericho. It turned out that her burial ground was her own backyard, which made things both simpler and more complicated; after all, she wasn’t buried in public, so they were less likely to get arrested, but a new family had moved into her old house, so they had to get them out somehow.

After they and Dean had researched the family a bit, Sam made the call.

“Hello?” a deep, tired voice answered.

“Hello, sir. Is this Jacob McIntosh I’m speaking with?”

“Yes, it is. Who is this calling my family at eleven o’clock at night?” Jacob asked irritably.

“Sorry, sir. This is Robert Bonham with FDM Utilities. I’m afraid there’s been a natural gas leak in your area. For your safety, we ask that you vacate the area while we turn the gas off and work to resolve this issue.”

“Vacate the - ? I’ve got work in the morning!” Jacob exclaimed, aghast.

“We understand, sir, and we’re sorry for the inconvenience. If you would please vacate to Vertex Motel, just let the clerk know that Jimmy Plant is covering the rooms. That’s a colleague of mine.”

‘What the hell?’ Dean mouthed at them indignantly.

Sam grinned and flashed him a thumbs-up.

“Jesus Christ…” Jacob went on to bemoan his tragic fate for a few more minutes before finally hanging up, hopefully to get his family packed up.

“There we go,” Sam said.

“Yeah, on my dime,” Dean grumbled.

“No, it’s on Jimmy’s dime,” Sam reminded him, patting him on the back. “You’ll figure out another scam when this one runs out, Dean. You always do.”

“Looks like we’re clear,” Sam said, squinting through a pair of binoculars at the house Constance Welch had once lived in.

“Awesome. Let’s go.” Dean pulled the Impala up to the house and got out.

Sam was close behind him, but before they could open the door, it locked. “Uh, Dean?”

Dean turned just in time to watch his own door slam shut. “What the hell?!”

Sam tugged fruitlessly at the lock. “Dean!” they shouted, pounding on the window as their heart started to race. “I can’t get out!”

“Just stay calm, Sammy!” The panic in Dean’s voice belied his instructions. “I’m gonna get you out of there!” Dean ran behind the car, hopefully to get something useful out of his trunk.

In the interior driver’s mirror, Sam saw Constance materialize in the backseat. “Stay away from me,” they snarled, squeezing themself backwards against the dashboard as they tried to mask their fear.

She did not oblige, instead crawling forward towards them. They launched themself out of the passenger’s seat and into the driver’s seat as she practically crawled on top of them. “He might’ve looked like you when he grew up,” she said sadly.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said genuinely. “About your kids.”

She shook her head. “There’s no need to be sorry, Sam.” She reached forward and wrapped her icy-cold fingers around their right wrist.

“Let go of me,” Sam pleaded, straining to remove themself from her grip as their skin started to break under her nails, digging in like claws.

“You look more like my son than those boys in the mausoleum do,” she went on, face shifting back and forth between that of a serene mother and that of a skeletal, under-pigmented humanoid.

Her sons! Sam thought urgently, clarity bringing them a brief reprieve from their panic.

“Won’t you be a good boy and come with me? We’ll take your brother too….”

“Try again,” Sam said.

That gave her pause. “What?”

An adrenaline-fueled grin spread across their face. “I’m not a boy.” With that, they stepped on the gas and sent the Impala flying into the house in front of them.

CRASH!

An airbag slammed into Sam’s face as they slammed into the front of the car, leaving them disoriented. When they came to, ears ringing and hands shaking, Constance had been pulled from the now-unlocked car by two young boys, probably around ten and twelve. “My boys,” she sobbed. “I found you. I finally found you….”

Sam watched as the three of them were sucked through the ground into some other dimension. Whether this was a happy ending or a tragic ending, they couldn’t tell. But at least the family was together again, they supposed.

Then they thought of John and wrinkled their nose. Not all families were meant to be together.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy!” Dean snapped as he ran towards them. “Don’t ever do that again!” He checked Sam over for injuries, a ritual Sam was very used to from their childhood and held a sort of nostalgia for. (Though they did wonder what kind of messed up childhood could leave one nostalgic for getting checked for injuries.) Then he ran his hands over the Impala. “Oh, Baby, he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it. Oh my god, Sam, what did you do to her, you monster?”

“Only saved our lives and the lives of two kids and a lot of future kids, but, you know, no big deal,” Sam said mildly as Dean continued to fuss over the car.

November 3, 2005

Sam and Dean visited the nearest mausoleum that night and found two boys who were convinced that a spectral wall was keeping them locked inside. Sam didn’t know how the pair were still alive after so long without food or water, and they didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that the kids were safe now.

The next day saw them back on the road headed for Stanford, which they reached by early evening. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Sam said with what they knew to be a remarkably stupid level of optimism. “John can handle himself. He was doing it before you learned to hunt. He can do it now.”

“He’s in trouble, Sammy,” Dean countered, thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I can feel it. What else explains the no-contact and the cryptic message with the coordinates? Something’s wrong.”

Sam shook their head as they got out of the Impala. “Well, at least call someone else for help. What about Bobby?”

Dean hesitated. “I don’t know. He and Dad were on the outs last we spoke. Not sure what he’d think of me showing up now just to ask for help finding the old man.”

“Well, at least stay for dinner,” Sam said, thinking that would give them more time to convince him he was on a fool’s errand.

Dean waffled about it for a few moments, then nodded. “Sure, what the hell. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in…, well, too long, anyway. Count me in.”

Sam led Dean into the living room and left him there to drop their things off in the bedroom they shared with Jess. “Hey, Jess! Where are you? I’m back!”

Sam was back. But Jess was gone, forever. And Sam was going to find out who killed her if it was the last thing they ever did.