Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buhl, Minnesota

"Mr. Dean?"

His attention was on cleaning his Colt, but Dean Winchester was quite aware of the boy soft-footing up to his booth at the Black Rock Diner.

The Hunter looked up, feigning surprise.

"Mr. Davidson Lake Hall," he said. "Watcha doing in these parts?"

"It's me, Davy, Mr. Dean."

The boy grinned. It was a game they had played before.

Eleven years old, a towhead with mint green eyes, paler than Dean's. Dungarees, black gym shoes, and a blue and grey plaid flannel shirt over a t-shirt with a Vikings logo. He carefully held–two hands for beginners, his mom would tell him–a large white coffee cup of freshly brewed dark roast.

Besides being respected Hunters, Davy Hall's family had run the diner in Minnesota's Iron Range for decades. Davy's mother Martha, her two sisters, Gloria and Christina, and brother Andrew were the current owners. Standing by was an extended family of cousins, spread across the northern tier states from Idaho to the leeward side of Lake Michigan.

A favorite stop for Hibbing, Minnesota native Sheriff Donna Hanscum when she was back home visiting relatives and old friends, even before she was introduced to the Supernatural.

-----

The sisters were on road almost continually, given the abundant and diverse creatures in their territory.  Humans representing forty and more nationalities had followed the promise of high-paying jobs into the iron mines and the surrounding communities–some say as much or more wealth than the California Gold Rush and the Colorado Silver Boom. Consequently, entities hitched rides to the New World from Finland and Cornwall, from the countries encircling the Mediterranean, from eastern Europe, and over land and sea from China.

Some of the creatures were peaceful and protective of their humans, nestled in a beloved relic of the Old Country on a shelf next to the fireplace. Some simply wanted to vanish into the lakes and forests of the Minnesota, Wisconsin, and the Canadian wildernesses. More space, fewer wars, less likely to encounter humans, you know.

And some were pure evil.

Fierce fighters, the Hall sisters were notorious in monster circles. They were known in the unwritten languages of the things they hunted as The Furies, The Harpies, The Gorgons, The Nightmares, or simply, as Eternal Death and Despair. High praise, indeed.

They were tall, look-alike blondes with pale blue eyes, from pioneer stock whose forebears had emigrated from somewhere north of the Arctic Circle. Changed the family name to something that naturalization agents stationed at Castle Garden, the main immigration entry point into the U.S. before Ellis Island, could pronounce.

Plain-faced with contagious laughs and the muscle memory characteristic of star athletes, which translated into consistency on the shooting range and in the rough-and-tumble during a case.

Their detractors called them ice maidens, but they had no dearth of suitors who were attracted, like moths to an open flame, to their smarts, their competence, their good humor, their self-confidence, and their long lean bodies. They would tell their lovers stories about the Supernatural and hint that they were Selkies, or descended from forest sprites, or maybe mermaids.

Dean and Sam wondered. There was something magical about their abilities on the job.

-----

No husbands or wives. No time.

Martha had disappeared for three days at an academic conference up in Winnipeg. She had learned early on that cultural anthropologists and archeologists, particularly those who focus on history and linguistics, had the most useful information for Hunters regarding the Lore, including arcane languages for spellwork and the natural history of (so-called) mythical creatures.

She returned, smiling more than well-researched theses on Early Bronze Age Mesopotamia should warrant.

When the blonde Hunter found out she was pregnant, she contacted the sire, a brilliant professor of the interdisciplinary study of archeoastronomy at the University of Chicago: Dr. Clyde Davidson, formerly of the University of Wales Trinity Saint David.

He thought Martha was a local folklorist and musician. A great cover for her travels and not actually a lie.

Just wanted him to know. He was a good and kind man, quite willing to step up and "do the right thing", but she said no thank you, and he respected her wishes.

He flew up to Duluth and drove to the diner. They agreed she would tell the kid who he was when they came of age at 18 years, and let them decide how to handle the information. The professor signed the papers and still offered to pay monthly support. Martha refused.

The professor cried when he learned she had named the boy after him.

Each year, on Davy's birthday, she'd send a photo and a note to Dr. D, as he was known to his students. The professor would write out a birthday card and place it, with Martha's letter, in a box, waiting for the day he could see his son.

He didn't tell her that he had created a trust for Davy's education. Every year, he'd make a generous contribution on his birthday. Figured it would make a nice surprise for the boy at their first meeting.

Like I said, a good man.

Davy was raised in a loving extended family of friends and neighbors, including a random collection of doting Hunters and the cross-continental tribe of cousins. He never thought much about his absent father. You learn not to question secrets in a Hunter family.

The boy was a star in his school academically, outstanding in art, math, and science. There was talk of sending him to a college prep in Minneapolis, but Davy didn't want to leave his small town and family, at least not yet.

-----

Uncle Andy was sitting in a chair in the kitchen, taking a break. That's what he called it, and it was the code used by family and friends.

If it was winter, taking a break on a cold night meant a shot of peppermint schnapps in hot chocolate or Korbel brandy in Russian tea, flavored with orange peel and cloves.

Paper cups of champagne and shot glasses of Drambuie and glass mugs of mulled wine, from Thanksgiving until the turn of the New Year. In the summer, vodka or gin with lemons and limes and orange juice and club soda. Rum in his tall icy glass of Coca-Cola^® on the hottest days.

He called his Sunday morning Bloody Mary his "health drink." 

Andy carried a flask with decent whiskey to dose his coffee. One flask would carry him through the day. Maybe two, but he never took the chance that he would run out.

He was tall and lean and blonde like his sisters, but frail-looking; his little-boy nickname had been Willow, which he hadn't grown out of in the family's inner circle. Said affectionately, without malice.

He wasn't a surly drunk, drowning in self-pity and fear and anger. He was pleasantly blank, cocooned against the terrors of the world, hiding behind a barrier of constant inebriation like an electric fence set at low, occasionally snapping and sparking, but mostly benign. But mostly still, stay away.

Andy was better than good in the kitchen, above average muscle memory (the family gift applied to comestibles rather than fights with weres) when it came to knowing when to flip buttery eggs over easy or how to flute the edge of a pie crust. Pastry connoisseur Dean would swear it tasted better that way.

Could sniff the air, back turned to the grill, and know to the second just before a burger was going to turn from medium rare to medium. Heard the change in the tempo of the beef lard roiling in the deep fat fryer from the dining room, so he knew when to scurry back and lift the basket, letting it drain, churning out pitch-perfect cheese curds and sweet potato fries every time.

Sam once called him a savant in the kitchen. Had to explain it was a compliment.

Andy could sign for deliveries and inventory the contents of the boxes, checking for mistakes. He could figure out a customer's bill, make change, and run a credit card. He could write a check, up to $100, a cap suggested by a banker that knew the family well.

He was discouraged from driving, but in a life-and-death emergency, he could and would. Pastor Jim Murphy gifted him with a silver Russian Orthodox cross, strung from a string of raw-cut emeralds. He wore it under his shirt, over his heart. It supported "strength of character and the ability to cope with life’s misfortunes," meaning it could temporarily sober up even the worst drunk as needed. (Reportedly, the necklace and its ilk were popular with generations of Russian leadership who needed a quick fix before appearing at public meetings.)

Hands gripping the wheel of the family's Saab at 10 and 2, white-knuckled, Andy once transported a neighborhood dog that was the victim of a hit-and-run to a veterinary clinic in a neighboring town.

By the time he delivered the dog, he was suffering a full-scale panic attack. Sobriety was terrifying. A kind friend drove him back to the diner. He stumbled into the kitchen, drank up his flask of whiskey and fell back into the loving, thrumming oblivious arms of his normal level of intoxication.

The uncle was trustworthy but unsteady, if that makes sense. No desire to set him up for failure, so there were limits to what he was allowed to do.

When a sharp-eyed younger Davy first asked about Andy's drinking–kids aren't oblivious, much as adults like to believe in the myth of childhood innocence–his mom and aunties told him the truth. Andy knew, in a matter-of-fact way, about Angels and Demons, Wendigos and Djinn, weres and fangs. Explained to him in the big words used in the Lore. Calmly, in the same tone, they talked about his uncle.

No, we don't know why he stays drunk. Afraid of the Supernatural? Maybe. Something in his blood or brain? Maybe.

But he is a good man. And he loves you more than anything.

People will say unkind things. If that happens, change the subject, walk away. But, sweetheart, if someone hits you, lay them on the ground.

Martha liked the motto on the Gadsen flag when it came to dealing with bullies: Don't Tread on Me.

Chapter Text

The diner was empty except for the Winchesters and Davy, the Sunday brunch crowd having wandered off. The two high school part-timers would be arriving soon to lay out the place settings and condiments for dinner, then bus tables and wash dishes. And two retired church ladies with decades of restaurant experience, Josephine and Eleanor, would be bustling in to get the meal prep on track. Whatever Uncle Andy would need them to do.

Just three choices on the Sunday dinner menu that day: roast chicken, pot roast, or broiled walleye, with the fixings: two vegetable sides, bread and butter, and a choice of pie, pie, or pie, with ice cream for dessert. No substitutions. Reservations only was the official policy, but no one would be turned away, even if it meant they'd have to make do with sandwiches or whatever Andy could coax off the grill.

-----

"Uncle Andy told me to bring you and Mr. Sam coffee and to tell you the apple pie's out of the oven."

"Thanks, buddy. What's up today? Helping your uncle?"

"Yes, sir. Mom and my aunties are in Wisconsin."

Dean motioned, and Davy put the coffee cup at the edge of the booth's tabletop, just like he'd been taught, away from the heavy canvas cloth where the Hunter's gun-cleaning paraphernalia was spread out.

The booth's location next to the front window gave Dean a perfect spot for giving his weapons the full Winchester spa treatment. His favorite spots during Sam and his visits to the Iron Range. And being a rural diner that catered to the Hunting (and hunting) communities, no one gave him a second look, except to admire the weaponry and Dean's array of tools. And maybe ask for advice on repairing an antique rifle or cleaning a gun that had slipped into blue water while canoeing in Bear Country up north.

Davy stepped away and stood, waiting politely. Such a good kid.

"They on a case?" asked Dean.

"Sort of. Maybe a nixie in Door County. Too many drownings to make sense, Mom said. And for sure a big sale at the Oshkosh outlet stores."

Dean picked up the cup and sipped the best damn brew in the North Star state.

"Mr. Dean, I know I'm not supposed to bother you or Mr. Sam..." said the boy, with a figurative toe in the sand.

"Bother away," said Dean. "I need a break."

He took another sip and sighed gratefully.

"Okay, I gotta do a report for school about LIFE."

Yes, Davy said it as if written all in caps.

"Big topic," said Dean, admiringly.

"Yes," said Davy, without a smile. Reminded Dean of another day and another serious little boy.

"And?" asked Dean.

"We're supposed to pick a topic. Everyone knows that our family is a Hunter family. Except for Uncle Andy, that is."

Davy looked over his shoulder to the kitchen. The coast was clear.

"He's nice, but he wouldn't do on a hunt. My mom says he'd be eaten alive. She told the aunties that once when she thought I couldn't hear her."

Dean tried not to smile. Almost succeeded.

"Your uncle makes great pie and even better coffee. Nothing to sneeze at."

Davy rolled his eyes.

"Okay, but even though everyone knows I come from a Hunter family, I can't actually talk about it at school. You know. Anyway, I couldn't write about Hunting, so I picked 'Success: How to Be Successful in Life.'

"Everyone says you and Mr. Sam are two of the best Hunters, like ever. I don't know if every story's true, but I can tell that my mom and my aunties respect you, so that's enough for me."

"High praise, Mr. Hall," Dean said, and he meant it.

He finished drinking his coffee, set the cup down.

"So what can I do for you?"

The boy pulled out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen from one of his flannel shirt's deep pockets.

"I wanna ask two successful people what their secret to success is. So I'm going to ask you and Mr. Sam. Is that okay? Do you think he'll say yes?"

Dean swiveled in his seat and looked over at the booth in the far corner of the diner, kitty-cornered from his. Soulmate Sam Winchester had a half dozen open books spread out on the tabletop, borrowed from Pastor Jim Murphy's meticulously organized library down in Blue Earth, Minnesota. The cleric had invented his own cataloging system since the existing Library of Congress and Dewey Decimal classifications weren't designed to deal with the interdisciplinary minutiae of the Supernatural world.

Murphy's library was unlike the jumbled accumulation of rare volumes in Bobby Singer's house and the extensive but carelessly arranged hoard in the Bunker. (You would think those pompous lettered scholars would have hired an archivist to put the priceless books,  documents, and artifacts in their proper places. One of Sam's favorite rants.)

Bobby, on the other hand, claimed that he liked the serendipity of unlikely authors and topics snuggled up on dusty shelves. And never had any trouble finding a particular book. And seemed to know, through bibliophilic clairvoyance, the contents of his entire collection–chapter and verse. Ask a question, he could find you not just the book, but the page and paragraph as well.

Sam's laptop was closed for once; he was making notes on a yellow legal pad, in pencil. What you do when handling old and rare relics. Not a pen in sight.

The tall Hunter was wearing his hair longer these days. It draped below his shoulders, curtaining his face if he bent forward. The length suited him. Depending on the weather, what he was wearing, and Dean's mood, Sam looked like a chaste Victorian poet, a dragon-slaying prince from a mythical kingdom, or the bare-chested pirate on the cover of a bodice ripper.

Today, his Sammy wore a well-fitted plain black t-shirt and his favorite pair of Wrangler jeans. Around his neck, on a silver chain, hung a flat disc of Baltic amber engraved with a delicate image of a grass snake. Dean had bought it for his first and last love on a rare trip to Alaska.

The snake, by the way, is for protection, a good luck symbol in pagan Lithuania, the last European country to convert to Christianity. And they consider their amber, known for cleansing and healing, to be the best.

Of course they do.

This Sam looked like a scholarly wizard, a modern and much younger version of Gandalf, frowning at a page as if scolding it for bad behavior.

Pretty much who he was these days.

Not much of the natural light that Dean enjoyed at the front of the dining room reached Sam's booth. It was the preferred spot for assignations, particularly among teens and newlyweds who were still unable to keep their hands off each other, even in public.

A single Edison bulb, ensconced in a copper shade, focused attention on the books and the man. Dean squinted, and the light appeared to form a halo above his Sammy's head and made the amber glow.

Or at least that's what Dean thought made the amber glow.

When he turned a page with his left hand while writing, his silver wedding ring winked in the light.

Dean knew that Sammy's ring was winking on its own.

And his was winking back.

The Hunter realized that he had been staring at Sam, and Davy was waiting. Like most kids, the boy had already figured out that grown-ups were weird.

Dean turned back to Davy and muttered an apology.

"He'll be more than happy to help. The guy loves homework, if you can believe it. Smartest nerd on the block. I'll ask him for you what his schedule is today."

Dean returned his attention to his weapons. He moved the edge of the canvas over the disemboweled Colt, folded his hands, leaned in, and smiled at the boy. Motioned him to sit on the bench on the other side of the booth's tabletop.

The Hunter was dressed much like the boy in the uniform favored by rural and working class people and their stylish wannabees: plaid flannel over a t-shirt, jeans, and work boots. Dean's version of camouflage and comfort when it came to fashion.

Davy put his notebook and pen on the table and scrambled up and over the bench, still a little bit too high for him to maneuver easily. The family genes for height would jumpstart after puberty kicked in. Give it a year or three.

"So, ask me the question again."

The boy picked up his pen and hovered it over the notebook. Davidson Lake Hall, investigative reporter.

"What's your secret to success in life, Mr. Dean?"

Chapter Text

"What's your secret to success in life, Mr. Dean?"

"Wow. Good question. Let me think."

Dean lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Paused, lost in Deep Thoughts.

"Mr. Dean, no offense, but it's Sunday, and the report is due on Friday."

"Ha-ha, Mr. Hall," Dean said.

He glanced over at Sam, still mesmerized by the problem he was chasing in the books spread out under the cone of light.

"Okay, got it. It's what I learned from my Sammy. He's the best of the best you know. The smartest and the bravest. Single-handedly ended the Apocalypse, for a starter. Fought Lucifer and won."

Davy nodded. Knew the stories well. His mom had assured him more than once that it all actually happened. She had told him that the more outlandish the tall tales that floated around the Winchesters, the more likely that they were true.

"He's a warrior of course, and tough. But his real secret power might surprise you. He knows how to focus.

"Write that down, that's what he taught me. Focus is the secret to success."

"Focus?" Davy sounded dubious.

"Look at him," said Dean in a whisper. The boy turned and looked. Hunter and boy silently watched as Sam appeared to be methodically unwrapping mystical secrets as he read and wrote.

Dean informed Davy, still whispering, that Sam was searching for a better exorcism, in yet another lost language, for a rare species of demon destroying lives on a university campus. It had been imported from an Asian jungle to Oakland, California, by a careless, meaning greedy, academic at the University of California-Berkeley, one with sticky fingers at an archeological dig.

Thought the jade figurine of a gruesome hybrid bird/humanoid creature was charming.

Placed it on a shelf in his office at the university.

"I saw a photo of it. Yuck," said Dean.

Davy giggled, then clamped his hand over his mouth. Sam didn't look up.

Then the nightmares started, Dean continued. The professor looked like heck at work. Meanwhile, the demon had spread its influence across the entire archaeology department. There had been one suicide so far, attributed to stress. A team of psychologists were brought in; they decided that the epidemic of bad dreams and depression was due to the faculty members experimenting with dubious psychotropic mushrooms, which all of the scholars denied.

A local Adept, Dr Anwar Hassan, aka Eddie, a tenured professor in astronomy, figured out what it was when he spied the relic on a visit to see how his friend was doing. The usual spells and wards he knew weren't keeping the creature contained so that it could be exorcised or destroyed; it had separated from the statuette and was roaming, it appeared, from office to office, infecting the faculty members one by one, with a despair that swallowed all hope.

For sure, there would be suicides, and eventually it would move on to new hunting grounds on the sprawling campus. A powerful incantation would be required to hold the demon still, destroy it, and send the equivalent of its soul to Purgatory.

Probably would like it there.

So the Adept called Bobby Singer, who directed him to Sam.

"When the going gets tough, the smart ones call my Sammy," said Dean. Davy could see how proud the older Hunter was. He didn't just love his soulmate, he looked up to him.

The boy wondered if he would ever feel like that much, that way, about someone.

The Winchester romance was legendary but confusing. That story was one that the kids in the Hunter community weren't allowed to hear in toto. So they compared notes in secret, sharing the Lore regarding two souls fated since the beginning of time to stay entwined, defying Heaven and Hell and even Death. And saving the world, over and over.

So cool. And still, a little confusing because the adults acted liked there was some big secret they wouldn't tell the younger generation. But by the time Davy and his cohort would be old enough to learn the whole story, few Hunters would remember that Dean and Sam were brothers, and the ones who did remember, didn't care.

Davy started to understand what Dean meant by focus, but he didn't have the words to describe what he saw as he watched Mr. Sam working. The boy had seen that kind of intensity before. Almost like the rapture he could see in the eyes of his aunties while conjuring up some important spell. When Uncle Andy was weaving the strips of dough into a perfect lattice crust. When his mom was sewing up one of her sisters after a hunt. Making something the center of awareness and intention. Making something, or someone, important.

To be the object of that kind of concentration must feel amazing. One reason the love between the Winchesters seemed a step above what other people might feel.

With the preternatural wisdom that can light up a young soul, Davy realized that both love and hate could motivate the kind of focus that Dean was talking about. The boy knew how revenge could fuel a Hunter's quest; had heard the histories, told with sympathy, about Sam and Dean's father and others.

The hidden message for Davy and his friends was simple: Don't let anger and pain and hatred and grief, and other negative emotions, make decisions for you and rule your life. Hunters had to stay calm and focused.

Dean had been staring at his soulmate again He shook his head and stretched, as if he was waking up from a dream. As if just the sight of Sam, his husband, was hypnotizing. Woke Davy out of his own reverie.

"If you want to be an expert at something, you'll need to learn to focus. It's about setting priorities," said Dean.

The Hunter cocked his head, unconsciously mimicking his best angelic friend's expression, and looked at Davy as if he was just seeing him.

"What's number one on your bucket list, kiddo? Do you have a dream? A goal?"

Davy hadn't thought about that before. He wasn't the kid obsessed with one hobby or one class at school or one big idea. He loved his family. He loved playing football and hanging out with his friends. He loved camping and hiking. Love going to the movies. Nothing special.

He loved those nights when the diner was closed except to an inner circle of visiting Hunters. He was allowed to curl up in the back booth where Sam was working. He'd wear warm pajamas and get tucked in with a pillow, a blanket, a plate of cookies, and hot chocolate or lemonade, depending on the weather. And get to listen to the stories. Better than the movies, that's for sure.

But, whatever passion he might follow when he grew up, Davy knew he wasn't going to be a Hunter.

Yes, he was trained with guns and bows and arrows and and knives. Knew basic self-defense, enough to prove himself in a fight with human bullies or escape most creature attacks. Had memorized all the fundamental spells and exorcisms and prayers. Could draw most sigils.

Maybe not the full-press Marine Corps Special Forces regimen that John Winchester put his sons through, but still, what any pre-teen in a Hunter family would know.

Davy had watched, at a safe distance, while his mother and aunts took out a small nest of fangs. Participated in mundane salt-and-burns.

Once he was told to distract the sad ghost of a little girl with a dirty face, dressed in 19th clothes. She had been haunting the construction site of a house being built on the bones of her family's once stately Victorian mansion. It was located in a decaying Milwaukee, Wisconsin neighborhood, abandoned for decades.

Her family had thought she'd run away, not realizing that she'd crawled under the front porch to rescue a stray kitten. She kept going deeper and deeper. The baby cat got out, but the girl got stuck. Her cries were muffled by the sturdy construction of the house. While friends and family searched the neighborhood, including vacant lots and a nearby ravine, the little girl, not much older than a toddler, struggled. Soon, too weak to call out, and eventually dehydrated, she fell asleep forever, snug under the house's limestone foundation.

The bulldozers had disturbed her remains, and she woke up crying. Didn't know she was dead. Scared away the workers, many of whom were parents. Her miasma of sorrow and pain was overwhelming.

While his mom and a couple of visiting Hunters scoured through the debris from the construction site, Davy sat and talked to her, little girl to little big brother. Kept her company. Asked questions about her life in 19th century Wisconsin. Told her fairy tales with happy endings.

Rather than burn her bones, the Hunters sent her soul Heavenward with heartfelt prayers and turned the physical evidence over to a local church for a religious ceremony and proper burial.

Davy was praised by his mom and the other Hunters for being a brave boy. He didn't feel brave because he wasn't afraid. But he knew he didn't want to bury himself in a life that was mostly about sorrow and pain.

He knew what he didn't want, but what did he want? Something to think about.

He scribbled notes about "Focus" while Dean returned to cleaning and assembling his Colt. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes.

"I better get Mr. Sam his coffee. Uncle Andy makes it up special for him."

"Good idea. I'll go check in with Sammy first. You fetch his coffee, and then how about some pie? I'll buy you a slice, too."

"Mr. Dean, I don't pay for my pie," said Davy, even though he knew the Hunter was teasing him. He liked the jokes, and Mr. Dean, he noticed, teased the people he liked.

Chapter Text

Despite his sweet, dimpled smile and puppy dog eyes, Davy always thought that Mr. Sam was the scary Winchester, in part because of his size and in part because of his fabled history as the heir to the throne of Hell. And there was those rumors that danced around him like fireflies. His superior strength, for example. One popular story among the younger crowd claimed that the very tall Hunter held open the doors of a crumbling night club, allowing the crowd to escape the deadly machinations of an aging rock star possessed by Lucifer himself. [See  End Notes.]

Okay, that was like a total rip-off of the Samson story in the Bible.

Even though he himself had seen Mr. Sam's awesome physique more than once when the Hunter was working out behind the motel where he and Mr. Dean stayed when they came to visit. Thanks to 21st century technology, the preteen and teen population of the county would be alerted when Sam Winchester Took Off His Shirt. If it wasn't during school hours, within a few minutes there would be a crowd standing at a respectful distance. In awe. The youngsters (and at least a couple of adults) would be alternating between whispering and shushing, so they sounded like a flock of rare birds, twittering. Actually an accurate description since they also were "tweeting" their descriptions, with photos, to friends who couldn't make it.

Dean told Sam they should be lining up folding chairs and selling popcorn and movie candy. Could pay for Sammy's fancy shampoos.

Sam blushed.

Davy was used to seeing magicked objects. Had witnessed dramatic spellwork when his mother and aunts were preparing to take on demons possessing innocent humans. Sam Winchester's abilities were inside him, not something he needed to call up by chanting in a forgotten language or mixing a potion of rare wildflower blossoms and a dash of lamb's blood.

There were those minor incidents, the ones that would happen so quickly that it was easy to pretend it was just your imagination or a trick of the light. People claimed to have seen them. Eyewitnesses, they swore. Sam's eyes flashing red when he was facing down a monster­ or a beefy drunk wanting to pick a fight at the local roadhouse. The dart that hovered over the bullseye like it was making up its mind if it felt like playing that evening.

The spoon, upright in a coffee cup, puttering around as it stirs the extra cream and sugar into Sam's coffee cup. Like it was doing right now. Like Davy was trying to ignore, like no big deal.

"So, Davidson, Dean says you're working on a school project. Please sit down. See you're ready to take notes. That's what real scholars do. Thank you for the pie. Your Uncle Andrew is an artist in the kitchen, you know. I appreciate taking a break."

This version of Sam Winchester is the one the boy like the most. The way he treated Davy like an adult, like an equal, using big words. A little more formal than Dean, but good-humored and just as nice.

Davy scooted onto the bench opposite Sam. His books were closed, and with the papers piled up neatly, all of the work had been pushed to the side, covered with a silk handkerchief. Standard Hunter issued, printed with wards. Not quite as reliable as a curse box, particularly for transporting questionable items, but strong enough to stabilize the magic in the works Sam had been reviewing as they sat, brooding, or so the boy imagined.

Uncle Andy walked over to the booth holding a small serving tray. One of his special deli sandwiches, layered with meat, cheese, and fresh greens and cut into quarters, with a glass of milk for Davy, and a plate of crudites with hummus for Sam. Two glasses of water. Fresh napkins. And two sugar cookies with butterscotch frosting, sprinkled with crushed peanuts.

Thanks and thanks. Without the trayful of food to stabilize him, the Hall brother toddled back to the kitchen, swaying slightly in an imaginary breeze. Would deliver another slice of pie to Dean–of course–and then sit out his break until it was time to get set up for the Sunday dinner. Josephine and Eleanor, the retired church ladies, would be arriving soon. Could manage without him for a while.

Davy tried to ignore the spoon still circling in the cup by focusing on his sandwich.

Sam noticed his discomfort and apologized.

"Oops, my bad," he said, and the spoon collapsed as if weary of its endless journey within the big white coffee cup.

"Your diner is so welcoming to Hunters, I can forget. Don't have to be on guard about scaring civilians. Can be myself around people like you. But, still, stuff like this can be distracting.

"Thanks for understanding when I forget."

That was classic Sam.

"Okay, no biggie," said Davy, trying not squirm under the affectionate but slightly intimidating focus of those kaleidoscope eyes.

"Okay," said Sam. "Why don't we finish our snacks, and then you can tell me how I can help."

The tall Hunter gave the boy a conspiratorial wink. He pulled the spoon out of the coffee cup and rested it on a napkin. Then, he picked up one of Uncle Andy's cookies, broke it in half, and dipped the half-moon piece into his coffee, just enough to flavor it, and bit. And grinned, showing off those world-class dimples.

Davy followed his lead, dunking his broken cookie in his milk. Wow, dessert first.

They finished their cookies and ate quietly. It was nice, thought Davy. He knew that Sam was busy with his research, and yet, he was making time for the boy. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Okay," said the youngest of the Hall clan, and he repeated his assignment to Sam.

"Good question," said Sam. "Requires some thought."

Sam tilted his head and leaned his body out the booth, just enough to get a clear view of Dean, as if the other Hunter was a source of inspiration. Davy swiveled in his seat and followed his gaze. The sun had shifted enough that Uncle Andy had turned on the lights in the front section of the diner. Nonetheless, Dean had unpacked a gooseneck lamp he brought along so he could illuminate his work area in motel rooms and on the tabletops of Hunter-friendly rest stops.

The older Hunter had moved on from the Colt and was working on Sam's favorite shotgun, the Winchester Model 21, known for its reliability. And, of course, Dean had an endless stream of double-entendre "Dad" jokes about how much he liked to handle his Winchester. How the Model 21 was a weapon with a well-earned reputation for coming through in high-pressure situations. Heh-heh-heh.

You couldn't really see Dean's face, just his hands and the top of the table, illuminated in the glow of the lamp.

Every separate piece of the shotgun was laid out on the canvas in front of him. There was a row of cans and bottles under the window to his right, along with a pile of different types of cloths, and an organized clutter of tools and gadgets to his left. Dean held a small bottle brush in one hand and part of the barrel of the shotgun in the other. And, apparently, he was just looking. Hands still. Contemplating his next move. Taking his time.

Davy turned back in his seat and looked at Sam, who seemed to be caught in the same spell looking at his husband as Dean had been just a few minutes before. The look in his eyes were of affection, and more. Like an old shaggy dog emerging from a dip in a lake, Sam shook himself awake, just like Dean had.

Turned his attention back to Davy.

"I would say, Professor Hall," in the same tone Samuel William Winchester would have answered a question posed by a Stanford University pedagogue in a pre-law symposium, "that one of the qualities one needs for success in life...is patience. Which is what I learned from Dean."

Patience? This from the hero of a dozen epic Supernatural stories? From the man who was rumored to still have traces of demon blood in his veins? Who had been fated to become the Vessel of Lucifer, destroy the Earthly plane, and sit on the Throne of Hell?

And he said he learned patience from Dean Winchester? Notorious for being a loose cannon, even by Hunter standards?

Sam smiled at Davy.

"Surprised you, I bet," he said.

"Honestly, all the successful heroes I know have patience, more so than the average person. I read once that being in the trenches in wartime was five percent panic and 95% boredom. Same with Hunting, except a successful Hunter uses the downtime to think. To plan. To research. To learn, calibrate, and recalibrate as events unfold.

"Dean and I have spent many hours in diners like yours, figuring out different ways to approach a problem even before we hit the road for the case at hand."

Sam read the look on Davy's face: disbelief.

"I know Dean's reputation as a 'shoot-ready-aim' kind of guy. Impulsive. Through the door first. Actually, I can be that guy, too. We're both a little crazy."

Sam made the universal "whacka-whacka" gesture, twirling a finger at his temple. Davy laughed, causing Dean to turn and look over at their booth.

"Nothing, nothing," said Sam, laughing along with the boy. "Go back to work, De, we're busy over here."

Sam, still smiling broadly, picked up his water glass and downed it.

Meanwhile, Davy wrote the word in block letters on his notepad: PATIENCE.

Chapter Text

Sam seemed to hesitate. Looked at Davy as if he was asking himself a question.

"Davy, how old are you?"

"Eleven. But, I'm going to be twelve in six months."

Sam bit his bottom lip and shook his head. Made up his mind.

"A fine age to be. I want to tell you something about myself and how Dean taught me patience."

Davy picked up his pencil, preparing for what he knew might be important, even if it didn't make its way into his class assignment.

"Do you know about Dean and me, our story?"

"Well, you and Mr. Dean grew up together, worked together, had lots of adventures, fell in love, and got married."

Sam nodded.

"A nice summary. Thank you. I'd like to tell you something most people don't know. It's not a secret, really, but I'd rather you not tell anyone. If it was really a secret, I wouldn't tell you. Does that make sense?"

Actually, it did. Davy heard this in an old mystery movie. One of the suspects was talking to a police detective and said that he was sharing what he knew with the cop in confidence.

"Yes, Mr. Sam," Davy said. "You are telling me this...in confidence."

Sam leaned back, pleased and surprised.

"Well spoken, Davidson. Well spoken." Another shared smile.

"Here's the thing. Dean is four years older than I am. That's not a big deal when you're older, but when I was your age, it was a very big deal. Dean was 16, with all these muscles from John Winchester's training sessions and his life as a Hunter. And as tall as most adults. And I was a skinny little kid. Small for my age."

Davy's eyebrows disappeared under his bangs.

"Yeah, I know. I really didn't hit my stride until I was 16. And, then, well, here I am.

"So, Dean looked after me when I was little. Like a big brother. And I worshipped him."

Like a big brother. Ten years of telling a replacement story were eating away at the truth about the Winchesters. In a generation, no one would remember they were blood relatives. Married brothers. Memory is tricky, easy to influence. And maybe, it wouldn't matter.

"And I looked up to him, even more than I did Mr. Winchester. Then, Dean sort of changed into my very annoying big brother. Still looked after me, but teased me relentlessly. Don't get me wrong, if anyone tried to mess with me–and we moved around a lot, you know, so we were always the new kids at school–they learned pretty quick that Dean would not hesitate to use his fists to keep me safe. But, he was also a first class jerk."

Sam glanced back where Dean was still poised over that segment of the shotgun's barrel, gently wiping it down with one of the cloths. Like only one specific cloth from the pile would do. Slowly and carefully. All the time in the world.

"But something happened that year I turned 12. We were eating breakfast at a shabby motel in Missouri where most Hunters stay when they're on the road, not nearly as nice as the one here in Buhl. But very cheap, so even traveling families with tight budgets would stay there.

"Mr. Winchester had dumped us. He would be coming back in a couple of days, or so he said. And he could afford only a room with one small queen, so, as usual, we were sharing a bed.

"I was happy because I could fill my bowl with sugary cereal and have two kinds of jam on my toast. With real butter. The breakfast buffet looked like Paradise to me.

"Dean was being annoying, as usual. Stuffing his face with donuts so he looked like a chipmunk. Flirting outrageously with the married ladies who were serving their families plates of packaged precooked scrambled eggs and bacon. I could tell their husbands were pissed, but Dean was just a kid, well, a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered kid. He also flirted with the motel employees–a proven way to get us extra towels and access to the hidden stash of raisin bagels that staff reserved for themselves.

"Just a normal day on the road."

Sam paused, a faraway look in his eye, remembering that boy who felt trapped and was just trying to survive. The absent father who would show up angry. The older brother who was both over-protective and constantly harassing him. Living in a very scary world. And never having a chance to settle anywhere and have a life of his own. Sam had been, at twelve years old, already plotting his escape.

One part of Sam, who was still that young and determined preteen, felt a pang of jealousy when he looked at Davy. Sure, the Hall boy was part of a Hunter family and knew that the monster under the bed was probably real. But, he was buffered by unconditional love and stability, even when his mother was off on a case. He went to school with an established mob of friends and had teachers who appreciated his smarts and manners and cheerful countenance. Slept in his own bed in his own room in his own house.

And his daily drills were most likely after-school soccer practice, not limited to flinging knives at a dummy stuffed with straw or grappling with his much bigger brother in an abandoned parking lot, with gravel digging into his back.

"So, I'll never forget that moment. Dean was talking football with some geezer who was heading for a retirement party with old Army buddies. He was smiling, laughing, sharing a joke. He waited on the man, bringing him fresh coffee and the last of the donuts with the chocolate frosting.

"I was staring, I know, and then Dean looked over at me, big smile, tapped the old man on the shoulder and pointed to me. Said something, and the old man smiled at me, gave me a thumbs up, and nodded. And Dean looked at me again. Like really looked. And something shifted in the universe.

"Maybe my hormones decided to kick in at that moment. Not sure."

Sam stopped. Smiled at a memory.

"Hormones. Such a pain. Hot and cold at the same time. And all the other guy stuff to deal with."

Davy blushed beet red.

Sam politely ignored his reaction, remembering what it was like when puberty assaulted him–much to the delight of an obnoxious older brother–and kept talking. Everything was embarrassing in those days. Like he felt his face would burn off for all the times he blushed. Didn't take much. Actually, didn't take anything to set him off.

"And I fell in love with Dean, like plunging off a cliff. The boy who was like a brother to me."

Sam noticed again how the phrase like a brother rolled off his tongue. The time would come, he predicted, when he would believe it.

"We shared the queen bed that night and the next morning he kicked me out, rudely. I think whatever happened worked both ways. It scared Dean.

"Okay, I'm babbling. Sorry. Here's the thing. I fell in love with Dean when I was 12 years old and had to wait 20 years until he loved me back. He always really loved me, but he felt that being like he was my older brother, that it wouldn't be right.

"It's been ten years since that day he said yes.

[See Permission.]

"Patience is worth it if you set your sights on a goal that is important."

They sat quietly, a shared moment.. Sam lost in the past, Davy pondering his words.

"So when it seems that Life had handed you a cast-in-concrete deadline, step back and consider what your choices are, what are the other paths to what you want to accomplish. Learning patience allowed me to plan my journey to Stanford. It's how Dean and other great hunters, like your mom and your aunts and your cousins, have succeeded in making the world safer. It's all about not giving up."

Sam waiting while the boy scribbled notes. They still taught cursive at his rural school district, and his writing was legible, a tad old-fashioned, even. A Hunter's Hand, Bobby would say.

"Can I ask a question? It's kinda personal," said Davy.

"Of course," said Sam. He put on his "listening to very important things that a witness is telling him and wanting to show support" face.

But inside he was panicking. What made him think it was appropriate to share the story of his relationship with Dean, even though it was the truncated, for General Audiences, version.

"Did you have any boyfriends or girlfriends while you waited? Did Mr. Dean?"

"Yes, we both did. But, since the day when Dean decided it was okay to love me back, it's been just us. Easy to be loyal when you find your soulmate."

Davy had a very serious, very grown-up look on his face, and he wrote some more.

Sam made an effort not to smile. Mirrored Davy's serious face.

"So, Davy, may I ask you a personal question?"

Davy–classic "deer in the headlights" stare–nodded.

"Is there, maybe, someone special you like?"

Davy nodded again.

"I see. Well, not everyone finds their True Love the first time, but I wish you luck, regardless."

"Thank you, Mr. Sam."

-----

The church ladies sailed through the diner's front doors like frigates to harbor, triumphant after a successful foray against blood-thirsty pirates. Or, in their case, celebrating the Lord's Day by overseeing a group of high-school-aged volunteers who were prepping the community vegetable garden for a early summer planting.

And Josephine and Eleanor were not the kind of supervisors who sat in lawn chairs and sipped their Arnold Palmers ("half tea, half lemonade) while wearing big hats. Nope, they were pushing wheelbarrows, shoveling out compost, and turning the soil with the best of them. And making certain there was plenty of their county-fair blue-ribbon brownies to go around afterwards.

"Volunteers? More like we were kidnapped," one of the participants grumbled, not wanting to admit they actually had fun.

Mr. Dean and Mr. Sam were packing up. Baby, the black Impala, was parked outside. It took a couple of trips to carry the guns, the cleaning gear (packed in a canvas duffle), and the wooden curse box with the books and tuck them away in the depths of her trunk.

Another Winchester mystery. Was the ancient muscle car alive, blessed, cursed, or rigged with cutting edge technology with an AI interface, or some cobbled together, steampunk hybrid of the above?

When asked, the Winchester reply was always the same, regardless how the question was framed: Maybe.

Before they left, the men went back to the kitchen to thank Uncle Andy and pay for their food.

It was a ritual that Davy had seen played out a dozen times. They would asked for the total for the day of meals, drinks, and snacks, and Uncle Andy would refuse. They would ask again, and he would shake his head. Back and forth, sort of like a fast round of pickleball. Finally, the husbands would let him think he won.

Then, the men would sneak over to the front desk and, with a flick of a finger, Mr. Sam would unlock and open the drawer of the old-fashioned, ornate iron cash register. Mr. Dean would stuff a few bills into the till, all sporting portraits of Benjamin Franklin, and close the drawer with a flourish.

They would walk towards the front door of the diner, usually one or the other with a protective hand on the small of the back of his soulmate, steering them to safety.

"We'll be back," Mr. Dean would say each time, exaggerating a really bad imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Mr. Sam would roll his eyes. And they would wave and leave.

This time, they stopped in front of Davy, who had begun to help ready the tables for Sunday dinner, carefully lining up the rolls of cloth napkins and silverware at every setting. Slender glass vases of a single-stemmed wildflower and a tea candle in a brass holder. Modest traditions to make the diner look a little nicer. Some of their neighbors even got dressed up a little. A place to take the grands out for dinner. It was an accepted, sedate, first date spot and a nostalgic location for anniversary celebrations.

Uncle Andy and the church ladies would perform their own kind of magic to make the meals special, with spice mixes and sauces that busy homemakers didn't have time to make for their families. And, of course, there were those desserts. Those pies.

The men took turns shaking hands with the boy. They were headed out to California to help the astronomy professor-slash-Adept corral that deadly entity and capture the relic in a curse box. Or, send it to Purgatory, as mentioned before.

"Please, send us your report," said Dean. Tell us how it turns out."

"Sure, " said Davy, " and thank you."

He decided to be a little braver.

"And could you tell me how it works out with the demon-y thing in California?"

"You betcha," said Dean.

The Impala roared off. And somehow the world was not quite as bright.

Chapter Text

Focus and patience. Davy had a revelation. It was about caring.

Scored an A+ on the paper.

A year later, in the back seat of Aunt Gloria's vintage 1966 Mustang, entwined in the dark beauty of Latisha Jones, captain of the 6th grade soccer team, Davy had another revelation regarding focus and patience.

Chapter Text

Two years later, and Davy was 13, a seventh grader.

The pre-teen was now friends with the Winchester Hunters. Could talk to the men in a way he couldn't with his Uncle Andy. They texted and called between visits, which were more frequent. His mom and his sisters approved. Figured that he needed more strong male role models.

He remembered when he stopped calling them Mr. Dean and Mr. Sam. Just Dean and Sam.

-----

One day they showed up with Dr. Anwar "Eddie" Hassan, the Adept from the university. He had become part of the Team Free Will auxiliary in the aftermath of the trapping and exterminating of the demon that was about to expand its range and become a deadly blight on his campus.

Eddie and the Winchesters had visited Bobby Singer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, then the four men drove the straight shot east on I-90 to Blue Earth, Minnesota to meet with Pastor Jim Murphy. The Egyptian-American Adept, the Irish-American Adept, and the crusty old Hunter engaged in a marathon discussion, fueled with coffee and American bourbon, starting with pre-dinner drinks and ending at dawn with Dean serving up waffles and bacon. Dean and Sam participated, but mostly they listened, enthralled, for hours.

Then, Bobby returned home, and the soulmates drove Eddie up to Buhl. He was eager to meet the Hall sisters and taste one of the Black Rock Diner's legendary pastries. And meet the young man that Sam and Dean talked about as if he was their own.

Over slices of peach pie with a side of raspberry sauce Davy told the Winchesters and Eddie about his mother and aunties' latest gig up in Canada, communing with some benevolent indigenous spirits. The sisters were tasked with negotiating to protect an airstrip necessary to sustain an isolated village with first class mail and packages, including medical supplies, electronics, tools, and food. Part of the new era in the role of Hunters in dealing with the Supernatural.

When well into the conversation Sam called the boy by his full name–Davidson Lake Hall–the professor looked a little surprised.

"I've a good friend, an archaeoastronomer at the University of Chicago name of Clyde Davidson. He's Welsh, came to the states years back from the University of Wales Trinity Saint David. Smart and super nice. A thoroughly decent guy. His students love Dr. D. We've worked together on a couple of indigenous astronomy projects. I don't think he knows about the Supernatural, or if he has heard, I don't think he knows it's real. But, he's very open to new ideas. I was planning to get him up to speed during my next visit to Chicago."

And, Eddie was about to say, Clyde was once quite the lady's man, a tall blond with mint green eyes. But he picked up that Dean and Sam were silently pleading with him to stop. And the professor turned in his seat and saw Davy's straw-colored hair and mint green eyes.

Sam and Dean had been clued in a couple of years before when his mother Martha realized that she needed to rethink her plans for her son...just in case. They did not hesitate to offer whatever assistance she deemed necessary to help Davy. So they knew the terms regarding the young man's potential relationship with his birth father. Her son was 13. Not yet.

(Maybe Pre-Law Big Brain Sam should have asked to read her will and learn what she was actually asking of the Winchester men.)

Gracefully, the professor guided the conversation into another direction, asking Davy about school and soccer and telling a rapt audience about his current work searching the heavens for heretofore unidentified comets.

But it was too late. That night, Davy went on the Internet and searched for Dr. Davidson's information. Looked at several photos. Did the math and hunted for a conference that the academic might have attended nine months before he was born.

Yahtzee, he thought, an expression he had picked up from Dean.

He wasn't upset, just surprised, curious and, after conducting his own research, a little proud. It looked like the man was pretty cool–smart and popular and accomplished. Okay, would confront his mom and aunties when they returned. And maybe take a trip to the Windy City.

But it was too late.

Chapter Text

News travels fast in the Hunter community.

The Hunters put Dr. Eddie Hassan on a plane in Duluth back to California and returned to Sioux Falls to swap out some books with Bobby and enjoy a dinner of steaks and grilled chicken. Then back to Lebanon via Kearney, Nebraska, to do a little shopping and restock the Bunker's kitchen.

As they were home unpacking the groceries, Dean's cell phone hummed. It was Davy, his face streaked with tears, green eyes rimmed with red. Theirs was the first call he made. Something about a tractor trailer running a stop sign on a county road south of International Falls.

The driver fell asleep. Not a bad man.

"They're all gone. Mr. Dean. They're all gone."

It had been a while since Davy had called the Hunter Mr. Dean.

"We're coming back right now, buddy," said Dean. "Sammy's got some spicy spells to jet-propel Baby. She's been nagging him to try them out. We plan to break some natural and unnatural Laws of Physics. Might need you to bail us out of cosmic jail."

That got a little smile. Then Davy hiccupped and sobbed.

"You calling from the diner, Davy? Good man. You go wash your face and get something to eat and drink from the kitchen, even if you don't feel hungry or thirsty. At least a bite and a sip, okay? I'll put the news out on the Hunter wire. You can give out this number to anyone and everyone.

"We'll be there in under five," said Dean. He paused, made a decision.

"We love you, man. Take care of yourself until we get there."

-----

Dean fast-walked into the map room and opened one of the back-up laptops Sam ensured was always at the ready.  He logged into the encrypted program that would send an alert to Hunters and their Allies, Heaven, and the Throne of Hell.

(Rowena was still considered a friend and comrade in arms.)

Sam threw perishables from their shopping trip into the old fridge and rushed to their room to change clothes and pack for yet another trip. He then hurried to the storeroom. Dean called it Sam's Pantry, where all the bottles and boxes had been carefully vetted and labeled, as opposed to those nooks and crannies and chambers and closets still under lock and key and double-lock. To be dealt with someday. Or never.

When a human is sick with fear and grief it sends a signal into the ether, like a baby bird fluttering on the ground with a wounded wing. It's a beacon for nasties. One reason why people often fall ill while grieving, or bad luck seems to dog them.

And given that the Hall sisters were well-known and indiscriminate exterminators of abominations and bogeys of all breeds, there likely would be entities looking for revenge with Davy as the target.

And Jack knows what Uncle Andy was doing, or not doing, right now, burdened with the news of his sisters' demise.

Sam filled a small canvas gym bag, lined in red silk, with a dozen potions and iron and silver wards, ones for comfort and safety. And took a high-powered talisman from his hoard, a sparkling, cushion-cut yellow citrine on a silver chain, etched with one of several versions of the Seal of Solomon. Protection against possession and astral attacks until they could bring Davy to a Hunter-certified tattoo parlor for the real deal.

First things first, thought Dean, and he assembled bottles of their best liquor in a cardboard box he found in the library. Then carried it into the map room and  plucked one of his favorite magicked swords off the wall, one that quite possibly had belong to an lesser-known Knight of the Round Table. The Hunter knew that the small sacrifice he was making by giving up a favored weapon and gifting it to Davy would add to its mojo.

It didn't have a scabbard, so he wrapped it in a spare blanket and tied it securely with twine. He told the silent entity that lived in the hilt about the Hall family and the noble warrior sisters. Beseeched it to protect the son while he was under its stewardship.

Said a prayer of thanks for its service.

Dean threw some clean clothes into his to-go duffel. The soulmates loaded up the Impala and headed out.

Sam's travel incantation, a step below an actual teleportation spell, got them to Buhl (790 miles) in three hours. Baby loved stretching her metaphorical wings. Dean announced, loudly, that he would never be able to poop again.

-----

Sam and Dean both hugged Davy fiercely. Sam strung the silver and citrine necklace around the teen's neck. It always surprised Dean how those big hands could handle delicate objects.

"Yours to keep," Sam said. Didn't bother to hold back his tears.

"Please wear it all the time, at least until you get your anti-possession tattoo. Actually, it's extra protection and generally a powerful relic for everyday well-being. I know your mom and aunties would want you to have it."

They left the sword and Sam's potions in Baby's care. With all of the Hunters and Adepts visiting plus the allied Supernatural entities, the entire town was well-protected against harm. There would be time to discuss future wardings.

"This is a serious whup ass artifact," said Dean, pointing to the necklace. Earned him another small smile.

Dean carried the box of fine single-malts and craft bourbon and tequila to the diner. Filled up Andy's flask with something good. This was not the time for an intervention.

-----

The bodies came home to Buhl accompanied by an honor guard of state police, who knew the sisters and appreciated their help with both Supernatural and human criminal cases.

The diner, closed to general business, became the center of activity. The town park nearby became a tent city. Family, friends, and the Hunter and Ally communities convened, bringing food, gifts, and love. Neighbors opened their home to visitors, who pitched in to lighten the load. Chores? Errands? Whatever anyone needed, there was someone there to help.

The retired church ladies, Josephine and Eleanor, took over the diner with a battalion of school kids and visiting chefs to help with what was turning out to be a three-day celebration of the lives of the Hall sisters. Dean's skills at the grill, Bobby Singer's chili, Jody Mill's roast chicken and potatoes, and Benny Lafitte's gumbo helped feed a couple of hundred people, three meals a day.

A bevy of home cooks contributed regional and ethnic specialties: potato salad loaded with fresh dill, pans of Swedish meatballs and a half dozen variations of tater tot hot dishes, cheese curds, walleye fillets, wild rice casseroles with mushrooms, and the sisters' favorite, thick slices of homemade rye bread, fresh from the oven, slathered with butter or made into sandwiches with sliced sausage, melted cheese, and hot mustard.

Eggs and bacon and coffee and tea, 24/7. Pitchers of juice and plates of toast and cookies and fresh fruit.

Davy was hugged and kissed a hundred times, putting on a good front, but crying in private. Sam became his escort and protector when it all was too much. Even persistent elderly cousins, the kind who pinch cheeks and coo, and who were used to getting their way, were intimidated by the tall Hunter.

Sam and the grieving son would take short walks in the fields around the town and talk about school and sports, and, if nothing else, the weather. For the first time he told the Hunter, in bits and pieces, about his special girl, Latisha Jones. Didn't want to jinx it. Her grandparents had come up from Texas via Iowa to Duluth. They found work in nearby Virginia, Minnesota, cleaning houses and doing odd jobs. Saved enough to put a down payment on a few acres just outside Buhl. Planted a truck garden and constructed cold frames and eventually greenhouses to extend the region's short growing season.

Latisha's mother married a local who had grown up on a farm, and the place took off. What started as a produce stand–one wooden table by the side of road–grew into a seasonal garden store, selling seeds and starts in the spring, bulbs and perennials in the fall, holiday trees and ornaments in the winter, and fresh produce, herbs, and flowers all year round, plus homemade jams and baked goods.

The Jones family grew as well: six girls! Three of them had already left for college instate and were launching careers in accounting and computer science. Two elected to stay and work the family business. Latisha was the baby, an unexpected blessing. Not sure what she wanted yet.

She was smart and funny and everyone liked her. More outgoing than Davy and a better athlete. She didn't make a big deal about the Supernatural or the Hall family's not-so-secret doings, and most importantly, his mother and aunties liked her.

Talking about her made Davy feel better.

-----

Sam listened to loving anecdotes about the boy's special times with his mom. (Felt a little envious, if he was honest.) They would go camping and fishing, just the two of them. Played checkers and read books out loud to each other on stormy nights. Every moment Martha was home she ensured that Davy was the center of her world.

And, they then addressed the Wendigo in the room: Clyde Davidson.

"I want to meet him," said Davy. "But...does he want to meet me?"

"According to your mother, he wanted to meet you from the beginning. He doesn't know about Hunters or the Supernatural yet. But, when the dust settles and you're feeling up to it, Dean and I will take you down to Chicago to see him. Regardless, you'll decide what you want to do, and when."

Then Sam and Davy would return to face the crowd. Mostly they encountered understanding people who gave Andy space. He played catch with his friends and kicked around a soccer ball with Latisha. Davy forgot to tell Sam how pretty she was.

The tall Hunter was always there, as needed, patient and focused.

-----

The uncle fell deep into what one of his sisters used to call "Andy's World." He was non-functional, eating and drinking mechanically. Had to be put to bed and helped to shower and shave and dress.

He sat in a corner of the diner's kitchen with his flask. People ebbed and flowed around him. The church ladies tried to engage him by asking his advice. He just shook his head and stared ahead.

Was never left alone, day and night.

Since Uncle Andy was incapacitated, the Jones family brought over bags of cookies and muffins to the diner, and set up their kitchen to provide back-up.

-----

The oldest of the Hall cousins were already caucusing with Josephine and Eleanor, Buhl's mayor, and the board members of the Chamber of Commerce. There were five issues to discuss: the family home, the sisters' Hunter gear and artifacts, the diner, Uncle Andy, and most importantly, Davy.

The family lawyer, Justin Dakin, a salt-of-the-earth, old-school grump from Madison, Wisconsin and yet another cousin, would be reading the will the day after the final ceremony. Hopefully, the sisters' last wishes would provide some guidance.

The bodies had been wrapped and tied in their shrouds of white linen and hemp rope, kept out of sight on wooden tables in a shed that was warded and decorated with vases of wildflowers, spellbound to keep fresh and whole, until the fires were lit. Family and friends took turns guarding the sisters' earthly remains, and people visited to say their last good-byes.

-----

Dr. Eddie Hassan, the afternoon of the second day, after consulting with the Winchesters, had hitched a ride the Duluth airport and flown from Duluth to Chicago. Traveled to the Hyde Park neighborhood, home of the University of Chicago, to invite Dr. Clyde Davidson to the wake and funeral services. Clyde's condo was, not surprisingly, filled with artifacts from around the world. Just like Eddie's.

Clyde had heard that Martha and her sisters had been killed, but he hesitated to attend; didn't know if he would be accepted or even permitted. Or if the timing was right.

Eddie assured him that he would be welcome and, because of his own carelessness, he knew Davy knew, according to the Winchesters. As far as he could tell, all was better than good.

Eddie ordered food while Clyde made phone calls to the university and his department. Emergency family leave. His teaching assistants, the department staff, and his colleagues could handle his classes and committee duties. No, didn't know when he would be back. He'd have his laptop with him. 

Both men were used to the challenges of last-minute travel and dealing with the sparse schedules of regional airlines. Booked first class tickets online. Clyde insisted he's pay. Eddie bunked on the couch, and they got up before dawn to catch their flight.

Eddie stood by while Clyde packed a soft duffel with a shoulder strap. It contained the precious collection of the annual photos and letters from Martha, the letters he wrote, never sent, and some small gifts he had set aside for when he would have met his namesake on his  18th birthday. A small suitcase held toiletries and a change of clothing. Eddie assured him that Hunter celebrations, even funerals, did not have a dress code, but Clyde wanted to look good for his son and new in-laws.

He also carried an antique leather valise, with a lock and a tracking device. Gripped it tight.

Clyde ordered a cab to O'Hare. Both men liked to support the local old-school cab companies, which had been entry-level employers for immigrants for decades. Something they appreciated.

[Author's note: Immigrants like my Great-Uncle Charlie from Romania. I always take cabs in Chicago.]

Eddie called Dean from the airport, who reassured him that they had plenty of hands on deck who would be happy to drive down from Buhl and pick them up.

Sam and Dean, based on Sam's talk with Davy, decided they would tell the teen after Clyde arrived in Buhl, and let him decide what to do. Maybe it would be too much or maybe it would be good to have his newfound biological father there to offset the loss of his aunties and mother. There would be costs and benefits, regardless. Life rarely has easy answers.

In a secluded corner at the departure gate, while waiting for their flight, the Adept said a short, silent prayer and began the archaeoastronomer's education.

"By the way, friend, there is something you need to know."

-----

It was after lunch and the first of three ceremonies were to begin in an hour.

Pastor Jim Murphy and the local Lutheran minister were going to hold an outdoor, non-denominational service for believers of different faiths, respecting the non-Hunter family and friends in attendance. Prayers of consolation and praise. Nothing about salvation, just peace for all. Murphy would call upon indigenous and transplanted entities to bless and be blessed by the spirits of the sisters and the gathered mourners.

The local high school athletic field would hold the crowd comfortably, and Sam and the pastor cast a couple of spells to improve the acoustics so they didn't have to deal with unreliable AV equipment and screechy microphones.

Uncle Andy didn't want to leave the diner, even to return to the house where he and Andy lived with his sisters all their lives, so the church ladies opened the windows and doors so he could hear what was going on. They would take turns staying with him, holding a non-responsive hand.

Then, with Pastor Murphy at the podium, the second ceremony would begin a couple of hours later– a time for reminiscing. No formal eulogy, just the words of people who knew the sisters the best. Sam let Davy know that no one would blame him if he did not want to speak, but the boy insisted he wanted to be included, but wanted to write down what he had to say.

Given there was not much privacy, Sam suggested Baby as a place to think and draft some ideas. Davy readily agreed. They're made their way to the black muscle car, dozing by a small stand of birch trees at the edge of the field designated as the visitor's marking lot.

Baby woke up, blinked her lights, and tooted her horn. Opened her doors in welcome and popped her trunk without being asked.

"She likes you," said Sam, proud of her girl for sensing that Davy needed special attention.

"Why don't you sit in the passenger seat. It's very comfy. I practically grew up there. Let me get some paper from the back."

Perennial student Sam always traveled with legal pads, pens, and miscellaneous office supplies. Never outgrew his love of research, much to the benefit of the Hunter community.

He handed over a fresh pad, a clipboard, and an unopened package of colored pens. (Sam's addiction to office supplies was as bad as his soulmate's obsession with high-end auto supplies for the Impala.)

"So, you need some privacy...or you want me to stay?"

"Stay, please," said Davy, a waver in his voice.

"Of course," said Sam. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the back seat; Baby did that thing she does, twisting the time-space continuum to make room for the 6' 4" Hunter. She cozied up her front seat for Davy, making him feel as if he was nesting in a soft embrace.

"Would you like some music? I'm sure Baby can find us a radio station."

Ash and Frank Devereaux had juiced up her electronic hardware and software so that Sam wasn't stuck listening only to Dean's ancient mullet rock 8-track collection. Baby could pick up any commercial radio or television frequency in the Western Hemisphere, plus neighbors broadcasting from the east side of the Bering Strait.

"Kinda like what Dean listens to," Davy said, well-aware of the immortal battle between the husbands regarding musical preferences.

"Oh no, did he brainwash you already?" Sam made sure he sounded properly outraged.

He was rewarded by a giggle.

"You heard the man, Baby," said Sam. She started the rotation, something Sam had programmed into her software as a birthday present for his husband several years before, when the tapes started to disintegrate and Sam convinced everyone, including the Angel Castiel, to lie to Dean and tell him that the tapes could not be rejuvenated.

"Do you want to skip the religious service?" asked Sam, folding a handy blanket into a pillow and settling in.

"Yeah, I mean, please, if it's okay with you," said Davy. "My mom and aunties weren't much into that. She said that it was okay for us to go to church fundraisers to support the community, and she was fine if I wanted to go to services. I've gone with Latisha and her family. Her parents are kinda religious. But not today."

"You're the boss, Davy," said Sam. "So, we have three hours, and then we should go back. Baby, could you set an alarm so we're not late? Two hours?"

Dean would brag they should set the world's clocks by his significant other's internal clock, which rivaled the National Institute of Standards and Technology Cesium Fountain Atomic Clock in Boulder, Colorado for accuracy. But Sam was looking for ways to not intimidate Davy, and by turning the timekeeping over to Baby, who communicated with NIST on a regular basis, it put them both in the position to be recipients of her caretaking. Partners. Equals.

Davy scribbled; Sam drowsed. In a few minutes they were both asleep.

-----

Baby woke them up with the University of Minnesota Golden Gopher's fight song, starting at a whisper and then at a full-throated roar with Sam and Davy shouting out the lyrics.

Minnesota, hats off to thee!
To thy colors true we shall ever be,
Firm and strong, united are we.
Rah, rah, rah, for Ski-U-Mah,
Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!
Rah for the U of M.

They laughed and laughed, thanking Baby profusely.

Who says entities don't have a sense of humor?

And, for a couple of minutes, Davy forgot to hurt.

Chapter Text

When a civilian first learns about the Supernatural, the most common responses are disbelief, and depending on the circumstances, denial, and even permanent rejection, including variations of "I closed my eyes, so it doesn't exist" and "It can't see me hiding under the covers".

Young people are typically more accepting, a mix of fear and curiosity.

Dr. Clyde Davidson? More like a kid on Christmas morning, ripping off the wrappings to reveal the best presents ever.

Took the learned professor five minutes, in stunned silence, to digest the basic message: Most of the myths and legends that he had been studying in his work as an archaeoastronomer: Real. The demonic creatures that haunted his Welsh childhood: Real. The ghostly urban legends of Chicago and the monsters of classic fairy tales and teen movies: Real. And by the way, his friend Eddie, the well-known scientist, had a shadow life as an Adept, meaning, in Clyde's head canon, a Wizard, maybe with a wand, but certainly with incantations and potions.

"When I was a bachgen in Wales, younger than Davidson, and first learned about the otherworldly beings from my older relatives, I so wanted the stories to be true. And even when I became this rational university don, studying astrophysics and the birth of galaxies, I was most attracted to the history of humans looking up at the stars. Which is why I expanded my work to include anthropology and archaeology. And secretly, I wanted to believe the stories were true.

"You want to know how I feel? Like something inside of me knew it all along. Thank you, Eddie. Now, tell me everything about my son's family. So Martha was a Hunter? I'm going to shut up, and listen, Dr. Hassan. Talk, please. Are you a Hunter? Yes, I'll shut up."

-----

Bobby was there to pick up the men at the Duluth airport. He was relieved to see that Dr. Davidson looked good, maybe even giddy, wearing a wide grin with the trace of happy tears on his cheeks. Although prepared, the old Hunter was still surprised to see a taller version of Davy–same pale blond hair, same mint green eyes, and same cheerful expression.

The battered old Chevelle, at first glance, was underwhelming.

"Front seat is better for long legs. Can put your luggage in the trunk."

"I'll hold onto this," said Clyde, still gripping the old valise.

Eddie and Bobby exchanged glances and mutually shrugged.

"Buckle up, buttercup," said Bobby, getting behind the wheel. "And you might want to hold on."

-----

Meanwhile, back at Buhl, more people had arrived for the memorial service and the preparation and lighting of the Hunter pyres.

The children of Hunter families understand the consequences of choosing that life, but Sam had shed his share of tears at Hunter wakes even knowing that there was a Heaven, and now, an even better place since Jack and Castiel's interventions.

Sam looked down at Davy and smiled sadly. They were standing outside of the Impala. The young teen was clutching the legal pad to his chest.

"Hey Davy, is there a place I can wash up? Want to look my best for the memorial service."

"Yeah, sorry, I guess I need to change clothes, too. We'll go back to our house. Do I hafta wear a suit?"

The boy looked stricken.

"Nope, Hunter funerals are strictly come-as-you are. But maybe put on a fresh shirt. Is there one your mom liked?

"I guess. Before her last...before she left, she took me to the planetarium in Duluth. Just the two of us. Had us both dress up a little. She wore a long dress with pretty flowers on it, lily-of-the-valley she said, and had me wear a nice shirt. It's in my closet.

"I didn't know why, but I guess now I know. Something to do with Dr. Davidson, maybe?

He sounded hopeful.

They arrived back the Hall home, a rambling brick and wood ranch house where Davy lived with his mother, uncle, and aunts. There was a jumble of flowers in front, blooming vigorously even though many were out of season. A raised bed, painted blue with ornamental sigils in cheery colors, held an orderly display of herbs; to the Hunter's trained eye, many were native to other continents and certainly not suited for northern Minnesota's short growing season, but thriving.

The house was unlocked, but well-warded. Sam could feel the energy as they entered.

Sam washed up and did something to his hair, borrowing a comb and gel from Davy. Davy changed into a better pair of blue jeans, just a little bit long, and the shirt in gray oxford cloth, just a little bit big. At the rate the boy was growing they would be a little too short and a little too small in a matter of weeks.

Sam's cell phone buzzed. He saw the messages from Bobby and Eddie and took a breath. Davy waited, curious.

"Let's sit down a minute," he said. "Got something to discuss with you. Remember, you're in charge."

They sat on the comfy living room couch, side by side. Focused and patient, thought Davy. He put pens, legal pad, and clipboard on the slate coffee table.

"Dr. Davidson is here in Minnesota. Bobby just picked him up and Dr. Hassan in Duluth. Will be here in about 30 minutes."

Davy's mouth dropped open.

"He wants to see me?" Sam sensed wonder and surprise, nothing negative.

"The deal he had with your mom is that she was going to tell you about him when you turned 18, and then it would be up to you to decide what you wanted to do.

"He heard about the accident, but did not want to presume that you would want him here. But Dr. Hassan, Dean, and I agreed that he should come, Dr. Hassan sort of kidnapped him. Then, on the flight up from Chicago, he gave Clyde The Talk and, according to Bobby and Dr Hassan, who just emailed me, he took it really well. Like a loon to water."

That made Davy smile.

"And everything we know about him says he's a really really good guy. And Bobby likes him, which is a big deal. The old man considers you family, and he can be very protective of his boys."

"Like you and Dean? And me, too?"

"Yes, Bobby considers you one of his boys. I guess that makes us brothers?"

New information for Davy to take in. Warmed a place in his heart that, after the initial shock of the deaths had worn off, had been growing cold and lonely in the last couple of days.

"We'll never know exactly why your mom didn't want him in your life. Maybe we'll find out when we hear the will read tomorrow. I understand there is a letter for you, written for your eyes only.

"Meanwhile, if you like, Dr Davidson can wait somewhere until the memorial services are over. Bobby pitched a nice big tent with room for six people. He can bunk with him. Or, he can wait here at the house. Or come, but wait in the background. Or, Bobby will drive him back to Duluth and he'll go back to Chicago.

"Whatever you want is fine with him and us."

Sam looked down at his hands, to give Davy a little privacy. But the teen surprised him by his swift answer.

"Do I have time to meet him before the memorial service?"

Sam nodded and hummed his assent.

"Then, yes, I want to see him. Could he come to the house, with Dean and Dr. Hassan? And Bobby?"

Figured if the meeting went wrong, wouldn't hurt to have his personal team of superheroes on call.

"Whatever you want. And if you change your mind, Bobby will take him wherever you decide is best, including back to the airport."

Sam texted. Didn't take long.

-----

The worst week of Davy's life was also, it turned out, one of the best.

The teen jumped to his feet at the knock at the front door. He ran to the short entry hall and skid to a stop. Stood frozen in place a few feet from the front door.

Sam walked up, squeezed Davy's shoulder, and walked him back to the couch. Left him standing and went to open the door.

Dean piled in first, having deserted his post at the diner's grill. In his hand a shopping bag of carrot cake muffins and bottles of apple juice packed by Latisha's mom. The soulmates behaved like they had not seen each other in days. They blocked traffic with a hug and a kiss slightly too long to be appropriate. Bobby did not hesitate to curse them and shove them out of the way. Greeted Davy with a quick, manly, one-armed hug. No words. Davy was relieved.

"Sorry Bobby," the Winchesters said sheepishly, in tandem. Too cute. And they also moved into the living room and waited. Dean gave Davy a hug as well, and patted him on the back. Unpacked the muffins and juice bottles on the coffee table.

Clyde walked in, valise in hand, with Eddie following. For a second his view of his son was blocked by the three Hunters crowded around the teen. They stepped aside for the big reveal.

Eddie stood back and watch. His face hurt, he was smiling so hard. 

Days later, back in Lebanon at the Bunker, after a satisfying dinner of Dean's Very Good Lasagna and a plentitude of adult beverages, the four witnesses to the reunion agreed it was the most anti-climactic climax of their long careers dealing with the mysterious and unexpected.

Davidson Lake Hall straightened up and held out his hand.

"I'm Davy, Dr. Davidson. Nice to meet you."

Clyde stepped forward, still holding the leather valise. Put it down, and held out his hand.

"I'm Clyde. And I have been waiting to meet you for a long time."

And there they stood, smiling at each other, holding hands, taking it all in, fit to bust.

Bobby took charge, as usual.

"We're going to walk back to the diner and see what's what. You boys take your time. No rush. Folks are eating and drinking and having a nice to-do. We still have an hour or so before the memorial starts, and the funeral proper ain't going to begin until dusk. We're going to have a good send-off for your ma and the aunties. We'll check on your uncle, too. No worries.

"And Doc, the rest of your stuff is in my car. No one will mess with it. Until you decide where you are going to settle tonight after the doings, it will be fine. Don't you have something in that piece of luggage for the boy? Carry on. Have something to eat drink. The diner has the best coffee in these parts."

And the men murmured their good-byes and see-you-laters, and slipped away.

Chapter Text

The handshake between son and father ended.

"May I, may I sit down? A little shaky here," said Clyde.

Davy nodded vigorously and pointed to the couch. The tall professor bent down to pick up the leather valise, stumbled, and sat down abruptly, like an antique wind-up toy that had run out of energy. He hugged the case to his chest like a favored stuffed toy.

Davy sat down next to Clyde and stared. Then without preamble, he plunged in.

"Why didn't Mom want you to meet me? You wanted to. Why didn't you just come?"

The teen was confused by a mix of happy, sad, and angry feelings.

"I don't know why, really. I can surmise, make a guess, but I knew her only for two days. She was a lovely person, so smart, so confident and full of life. She made it clear that our rendezvous was just going to be just one enchanted weekend. That's the exact phrase she used.

"Maybe she was making a joke. Now maybe I get it.

"Anyway, we wouldn't see each other again. She was very clear on that point."

Clyde let go of the valise and put it next to him on the ground. He reached over and picked up a bottle of apple juice from the coffee table. Twisted off the top and handed it to Davy, then grabbed one for himself. They sipped and chugged in unison. Davy returned the favor, offering one of the carrot cake muffins and taking one for himself. Went into the kitchen and returned with a handful of paper napkins, which they shared.

They munched and drank two more bottles in silence. Definitely in sync.

"These are really good," said Clyde. "Thank you."

"So...your mom called me four months later and told me she was pregnant. Wanted to wait until she was sure. My first reaction? Surprise, of course, and then wow. Like someone hit me over the head, but in a good way. Really. I was in a daze for 24 hours, sort of sleepwalked through my meetings and a graduate seminar on automatic, and then told the department secretary to cancel my classes for a week, and I took off for Duluth.

"Flew in, rented a car, and drove to Buhl. We met at the diner and sat in a corner booth, all by ourselves. Your uncle and aunts were there, sort of in the background. Intimidating, I have to say, even though I didn't know about Hunters and the Supernatural. Family can be scary."

Davy nodded, his mouth still full of muffin goodness.

"Your mother had papers for me to sign. No discussion, really. She listened while I told her that, although everything was up to her, I would love to be in your life, her life, anyway she allowed, up to and including marrying her."

"Seriously?" asked Davy. He had seen this scene too many times in romantic movies that his aunties binged on. And it rarely turned out well.

"Yeah, I was already a little bit in love with her. Who wouldn't be.

"And, for whatever reason, I realized that I wanted to be a good father to you. I was lucky. Have great parents back in Wales. They know about about you, by the way; we don't keep secrets in our family. If it works out, they're eager to meet you. Dad's retired from the Navy. Mom's a school teacher. Have three brothers. All good men. You'll like them all.

"Okay, I am babbling. Will stop."

Davy just stared. Despite himself, he had to admit that it sounded like his mom. Very determined and set in her ways One reason that she and the aunties were successful Hunters: disciplined soldiers in a never-ending war.

But she never treated Davy the way John Winchester treated his Sam and Dean. He had heard the stories, not from Dean and Sam, but from other Hunters. And he still wasn't clear about their childhood relationship. Was Sam adopted? A foster? The next door neighbor?

Davy had his suspicions. But for a kid who grew up in a Hunter family, the bar for weirdness was set pretty high.

And, wow, he has grandparents. And uncles?

Simultaneously, Davy and Clyde reached for more muffins and apple juice. Smiled at each other. They were in their own little world.

Reality knocked on the door.

"Come in," man and teen said in tandem, and both of them laughed.

Eddie entered, polite as usual.

"Davy, the memorial service is starting in about half an hour. What are your plans?

Davidson Lake Hall did not hesitate.

"I want to be there, and I want to speak. And, if Clyde will come, I want him there, too."

"What about the...?" asked Eddie, pointing to the valise.

"Oh," said Clyde, and he blushed. At this point, Davy was dying of curiosity, but, as was his practice, he silently said his three-part mantra: focus, patience, caring.

"If it's something valuable, it's safe in this house. Our house haltija will protect it. I'll introduce you later. Meanwhile, I'll put it in my bedroom, under the bed. Okay?"

"Haltija. Did I pronounce it correctly? said Clyde, who looked pleased with himself for trying.

"Pretty good. I'll help you later, Professor," said Davy, with just a touch of teenage cheekiness. Clyde liked it. The kind of teasing old friends and family indulge in.

"Rest assured, my friend,: said Eddie. "A Hunter's house is better protected than Fort Knox or a Pharaoh's tomb, referring, of course, to the ones moderns have not discovered. Will never discover."

With that settled, crumbs were wiped from the table and the remaining napkins, muffins, and juice bottles were retired to the kitchen. Clyde passed the valise to Davy, who handled it carefully, as befitted a valuable artifact. His mother and aunties had trained him well. Carried it, two-handed, into his bedroom–Eddie and Clyde followed, peeking in the door–and slid it under the bed. Said something in what Clyde assumed was Finnish.

Finland and Wales have a lot in common, the professor thought. Outlying countries with challenging geology and climate, and equally fierce pride, strong connections to nature, oral traditions going back centuries, a commitment to education, and a culture of hard work. And languages out of the mainstream, isolating them somewhat. These things knit them together–a similar view of the world. And, he suspected, many ties to the Supernatural world.

This was going to be fun.

-----

The professors and Davy walked back to the diner, where people were getting ready for the memorial service, grabbing to-go cups of coffee and snacks to sustain them. Members of the Hunter community, including law enforcement, Adepts (including a couple of white witches), and a few Allied not-quite-humans, shrouded in glamours so as not to scare the civilians, mingled with townspeople and the Hall clan. But nothing seemed to surprise the crowd more than the appearance of Davy with Dr. Davidson.

The side glances and whispers grew, and Davy felt more burdened, minute by minute, by other people's expectations.

Bobby and the Winchesters stepped up and flanked them. And although Eddie Hassan topped out at 5'7' among the relative giants in their crew, he held his own as the tip of the spear, driving through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.

Rather than casting a nasty spell to render the gossips blind and speechless, the Egyptian-American Adept donned his most fearful countenance, that of the sorely disappointed member of a grad student's doctoral dissertation committee, a look that could freeze the plasma of a fire element.

Dean and Bobby chose to snub the crowd, still making sure no one got too close by their size and determination. They look straight ahead, shouldering through. Their reputations armored them; who would want to mess with two of the toughest Hunters of their generations? Some would notice how much they looked alike at this moment as they walked through the crowd like royal guards, tall and broad-shoulders, long strides Truly, father and son.

And then there was Sam, our sweet sweet Sammy. He broke years of discipline and training, and as if a switch had been flipped, his eyes turned a deep scarlet and glowed. Some civilians gasped, some Hunters walked backwards, slowly, out of Sam's line of vision, then turned, and as Bobby would say, hightailed it to the athletic field, leading a trailing pack of civilians who decided it was better to capture the best seats in the bleachers, and, incidentally, move out of the line of fire in case Sam would revert to his destined role.

The best part, as Sam predicted, was that his little show gave them something else to gossip about.
-----

By the time Team Davy entered the athletic field Pastor Murphy, with the assistance of a squad of Hunters under the orders of the retired church ladies, Josephine and Eleanor, had rearranged bleachers and chairs into a cozier alignment. The seats curved around the raised dais, but still accommodated the crowd, which had grown in the last few hours with the arrival of more Hunters and family members from far away and those who only had time for the ceremonies.

At the side of the platform, next to the steps going up, was a group of chairs set aside for the people who would be wait their turn to speak, so they didn't have to stand.

When the wind blew in the right direction, one could hear the distance sound of axes cutting down the trees for the pyres. Local entities were appealed to for permission and guidance so that active habitats for wood sprites and other friendlies were not disturbed. No chainsaws, all was done by hand.

A local farmer, in the spirit of the day, had lent a flat-bed hitched up to two sweet-tempered black Shire horses, Archie and Baxter. Even seasoned Hunters were in awe of their size and strength. It appeared that pulling a massive pile of fresh-cut timber through winding backcountry roads was the equivalent of a walk in the park for these happy beasts. They loved the attention and the deferential offerings of crisp apples, carrots, and peppermint candies.

A Canadian white witch, who had worked with the sisters on several cases, blessed them with health and long life.

-----

Bobby, Dean, and Eddie left to mingle with old friends while Pastor Murphy greeted newcomer Clyde Davidson, Davy and Sam by his side, with his usual goodwill.

"We Celts have to stick together," said Murphy, thickening his brogue, shaking Clyde's hand with vigor, .

"After all, St. Patrick was Welsh."

Davy took the cleric aside and whispered something in his ear. Murphy nodded in approval.

Most seats were taken, with a few reserved in the front row for Davy, Clyde, and special friends. One seat remained open and vacant for Uncle Andy, who was sitting in the corner booth of the diner, with an elderly cousin to watch over him.

Pastor Murphy mounted the dais and called for attention.

Chapter Text

When Martha Hall, Hunter Extraordinaire, knew she was going to be a mother, she sought out parents in the Hunter community for guidance.

The best advice she received was from a consulting forensic pathologist in Chicago, Brenda Moran, M.D. She had learned about the Supernatural from investigating puzzling cases and meeting Hunters with fake FBI badges visiting the Cook County morgue. The doctor ended up contributing solid info to the Hunter community based on numerous autopsies on humans and necropsies on creatures.

She had two daughters, eight and twelve at the time, who knew what their mother did for a living.

"I don't want them to be afraid of life," the doctor told Martha. "I want them to be prepared. Alert and courageous."

So it came to pass, as was true in most Hunter families, her children learned about the dark corners of the world that were hidden from most people. But, the doctor says, they are careful, but not afraid.

Many of her "normal" cases would make front page news, so she would inform her children of the legal and scientific facts before the story hit the papers, television, and social media. She didn't want them to hear about the details from playground gossip or well-meaning neighbors.

Her young daughters learned about gunshot wounds, stabbings, and poisonings, what happens to the brain when it receives a deadly blow, and how to tell the difference between a suicide and a murder from the angle of a razor blade slash on a wrist. They saw her testify in court and, when they were old enough in their teens, she planned to bring them to the morgue and watch autopsies.

The doctor always used the proper medical terminology and explained the legal problems in a case. And she always discussed even the ugliest cases without undo emotion, very matter-of-fact in her tone and the words she used. Consequently, the girls became curious, but not morbid, and treated the cases as scientific experiments.

And always with respect for the dead and the living.

The same applied to Supernatural cases. The iconic Arthur C. Clarke quote–“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”–hung in the girls' shared bedroom. The Supernatural world became a study in different brands of natural and ancient history, chemistry, biology, botany, linguistics, and anthropology.

The results, at least so far she said: no nightmares, no hiding under the bed. No overcompensation with dangerous risk-taking behaviors. And, both girls were very brave.

So Davy, even though he showed no special interest in hunting, researching, or learning the Lore or spellcraft, knew as much about North American creatures and protective white magics as most seasoned hunters. No nightmares.

And, he was very brave. His mother and aunts thought he had turned out well and that he would have a bright future, whether or not he chose The Life.

The bravest thing Davy might have done up to now, after alerting Pastor Murphy, was mounting the dais in front of classmates, neighbors, family, and the Hunting community at the beginning of the memorial service. He led a tall, blond man with mint green eyes by the hand to the podium and introducing him to the gathered mourners.

Davy let go of Clyde's hand. Someone had thoughtfully left a wooden box in place for the more height-challenged speakers. The young teen stepped up.

"Before we get started, I want you to meet Dr. Clyde Davidson."

(Clyde coached him a little, at his request, as to what to say, and how. Davy liked Clyde's slightly formal way of talking. Reminded him of Sam.)

"Clyde is from Chicago. He is my biological father."

Predictably, a stunned silence was followed by a wave of crowd noise, from whispered murmurs to loud exclamations. Davy looked a little scared, Clyde looked resigned. Sam, sitting in the front row as one of the "just like family" guests, stood up and turned to glare at the crowd.

-----

Later, Bobby and Dean debated if the tall Hunter used witchcraft or his rumored demon mojo to instantly shut everyone up. It was if he had snapped his fingers like an old-school wizard (or Lucifer, doing his worst).

"The boy shamed the idjits," said Bobby, referring to the 42-year-old affectionately. The Winchesters would always be his boys, in this life and beyond.

Dean probably had the right answer.

"My Sammy scared them shitless," he said with pride.

-----

Back to the memorial service. Sam scanned the crowd for transgressors, daring them to misbehave. He gave them all his best version of his own father's Face of Doom, the one John wore when threatening to slam on Baby's brakes and throw Sammy and his big brother De into a snow bank if the two of them did not Shut. Up. Now.

[Note: The day my mother stopped the car and ordered my annoying teenage older sister out to walk the two miles home by herself was one of the best days of my childhood.]

Sam turned and sat down, nodding at Davy to continue with a smile and a thumbs-up.

As if he lost his place in his script, Davy started over. Clyde again slipped his hand around the teen's, a firm grip to anchor him. If he could have, the professor would have wrapped the pride he had for his son around him like a magic cloak to guard young Hall against further hurt.

Now that he had learned about the Supernatural, maybe someone could show him how to do that for real. Eddie and Sam seemed to know stuff.

Once again into the fray.

"I want you to meet Dr. Clyde Davidson. Clyde is from Chicago. He is my biological father."

Not one sound from the crowd.

"My mom wanted us to meet when I was 18. I think she would have been pleased that he chose to come to today...uh...to honor her and my aunties."

He was losing it, just a little. Brave boy.

"Please, just please be nice to him, okay?"

He leaned against Clyde, who put his arm around him. The tall professor, who had his own finely crafted stare to silence a restless class of freshmen in Introduction to the Stars 101, choose instead to smile. He waved to the audience. A few waved back.

It was going to be okay.

Then Latisha Jones, Davy's smart, talented, popular, and very pretty almost girl friend, stood up and applauded. Her family followed suited immediately, as did the Winchesters and Bobby, and the older members of the Buhl civilian community and the Hunter community. Class acts, one and all. The rest of the audience followed their example.

Pastor Murphy took charge of the podium again, after hugs and blessings for father and son, who returned to the front row.

The next hour or two involved a steady stream of loving testimonials about the sisters.

The Hunters and Adepts learned about the sisters' roles as Community Domestic Goddesses: hosting dinner parties for visiting dignitaries, raising money for school trips and the coffers of the local nonprofits, and offering their skills as seamstresses for free to brides and grooms. Actually, if anyone needed something extra nice for prom or a job interview in the Big City or a special date. Their superpower was taking off-the-rack bargain purchases and turning them into haute couture. A true gift.

Many stories of small kindnesses, from free meals at the diner to mysteriously paid-up bills for necessities. Supportive words during hard times. Willing to pitch in when brains and brawn were required to raise a barn, rescue a frightened deer from an iced-over pond, or be on call for the local volunteer fire brigade.

The civilians knew something about the Supernatural, had an idea that the sisters were Hunters, and sort of knew sort of what they did. By silent agreement partners in the field who spoke about their work with the women kept their recollections family-safe. No specifics about beheading, but general praise for their skill with weapons. Their courage under fire. The generosity on the job, helping new Hunters learn the craft.

Impromptu Hunter Olympics were their favorite way to blow off steam on the road. No one was better with a bow and arrow. Or climbing unscalable rock piles. Or arm-wrestling.

And, one of the Hunters said wistfully, they could dance all night.

And everyone, Hunter, Adept, Ally and civilian, nodded in agreement.

Sam and Dean took their turn together, each with a story of the Hall sisters' skill and bravery. Dean's tale of sitting up all night in a Idaho forest around a campfire got the biggest laugh of the day.

The sisters had joined up with the Winchesters in an remote wilderness area in Idaho, following rumors of  a newly awakened Wendigo. Gloria and Christina came up with the idea that they should see if they all could offer themselves as bait, mimicking the creatures' favorite prey: clueless adventure tourists on their own. (They hid their sizable armory under piles of army blankets.)

The challenge was staying awake all night, so Martha had suggested they sing.

(Everyone in the audience groaned; they knew what was coming.)

The Winchesters, although surprisingly shy unless well-lubricated–or on the road in Baby–were good enough to place and show in karaoke contests and join in to spontaneous sing-a-longs at celebrations. But they had never sung with the Hall sisters before.

"They were godawful." Dean was cracking up so hard he could barely stand, choking on the words. A tsunami of laughter kept rising and falling and rising again, until everyone was out of breath.

"Our stakeout was a bust because the poor Wendigo was too scared to come out of hiding," said Sam.

Another surge of laughter flowed and ebbed.

From then on, Dean said, still panting from laughing too long, whenever we were on a difficult hunt, we'd asked the sisters to sing to frighten the monster into submission.

Next up, Bobby Singer.

"Good girls. Will miss them." That was all he could get out and stumbled off the dais.

Then Clyde walked back up the steps, urged on by Davy. After years of lecturing to college students he was obviously comfortable in front of an audience. He told how he met this interesting woman, allegedly a folklorist and musician (small chuckle from the audience), at an scholarly conference on cultural anthropology.

She seemed out of place among the rest of the attendees. It was as if everyone else was in black and white, and she was in living color, a full spectrum of emotions.

"We met after the opening remarks over the free coffee in the lobby. We talked for ten minutes, retired to the hotel bar for mid-morning bracers of what she called "breakfast margaritas", and then, much to my delight, we ditched the conference and retired to my room for the rest of the weekend. And Monday.

"Best conference I have ever not attended."

He paused as the audience laughed, and the adults nudged each other.

"Martha was a force of nature. So smart, so joyful, so interesting and interested. We discussed my work–I'm the kind of astronomer who researches places like Stonehenge and the Egyptian pyramids and their connections with stars and planets–and her collection of obscure local legends.

"She was very clear that our 'date' was just a fling. Didn't leave me a last name, a phone number, or any way to reach her.

"Then, I got the call that I was to be a father. If I has wings, I would have flown here on my own. We met at the diner, which was empty. Martha's sisters, who didn't look very happy to see me, stood guard at the door.

"Martha smiled at me, and yes, the cliches are true. She was glowing.  She was sitting in a corner booth, and the tabletop was covered with legal papers for my signatures. No discussion. Just initial this. Sign that. It never occurred to me to argue. She was, as my mum back in Wales would have said, a 'tough cookie.' And I was 100% interested in supporting her, anyway she needed me.

"She needed me to sign away my parental rights and go away.

"And, yes, it hurt.

"Now, I realize, she was not just protecting Davy from the unknown. She was protecting me as well. Who knows what creature would have shown up at my door, using me as a hostage against Martha, Davy, and the family.

"The last thing she said to me? You're a good man, Clyde. Glad it was you. Thank you."

He looked towards Heaven and then at Davy.

"No Martha, thank you."

And then there was Davy. The last speaker.

He went back up on the dais alone.

"I'm going to miss you, Mom, Auntie Gloria, Auntie Christina."

And that was it. Pastor Murphy returned to the podium. It was nearing dusk, and the pyres would be lit in one hour.

The crowd milled around, and, one-by-one, Hunters, Adepts, and civilian members of the community approached Davy and Clyde.

Latisha stood by, holding Davy's hand, silently daring anyone to say anything that might hurt him. Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Eddie Hassan hung out a few feet away, greeting old friends and keeping an eye out. But all looked well.

Chapter Text

Although the chance that the spirits of Hunters would refuse guidance to Heaven by their assigned Reapers and go rogue or get stuck on Earth because of a misplaced sock were miniscule, the tradition of the Hunter pyres continued into the 21st century. With Jack in charge, or as Sam liked to say, "not-in-charge", a better Heaven meant funerals were bittersweet rather than tragic, more along the lines of "Until we meet again."

The crowd was quiet. Conversations were whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the wood and the soft roar of the fires, like the rush of a distant river. Families huddled together, parents with arms draped over the little ones, friends holding hands. Thinking about the sisters and other departed loved ones.

The sun was setting, and the three pyres were erupting like miniature volcanoes. The field was bright with the warm light, and the burning wood scented the air. Smelled like Christmas, thought Davy, even though it was early summer.

"Mom always liked fireworks," said Davy, who was leaning up against Clyde, wrapped in the safety of his father's arms. It was if they had been like this, comfortable and happy together, his whole life.

Eddie Hassan stayed close. Clyde appreciated having a familiar face nearby.

People came up to Davy and his father, one at a time. It was obvious that the teen had lost steam and didn't have energy for hugs, handshakes, or long conversations.

Sam and Dean stood a few feet away, curled around each other, watching the flames crackle. Occasionally Sam would brush his lips against the top of Dean's head, and Dean would give Sam an extra squeeze.

Some of the attendees didn't like the sight of two grown men cuddling. Some of the Hunters didn't like the Winchesters, period. But funerals are historically a time to put differences aside. so they were left in peace. Mostly, they were lost in their own world, ignoring the occasional judgmental glare or muttered expletive.

Then they noticed a slight disturbance in the crowd. The whispers grew louder, and people were moving aside, creating a hole.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, was escorting Andrew Hall, aka Uncle Andy, towards Davy and Clyde.

-----

Andy had been sitting in the booth with the elderly distant cousin, Frances Heikkinen, a widow from a Finnish-American community in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. She was a generation older than the Hall brother and had known him since he was a sweet little boy surrounded by his loving but boisterous sisters.

She wasn't a Hunter herself, but she knew the dangers and had lost family on the job. Initially she was pleased when Andy chose to stay home and run the diner. Theirs was a family that tolerated eccentricities, so it was years until the consensus grew that something was wrong with quiet Willow. (She still thought of him by his childhood nickname.) But, by tacit agreement, he was left alone once it was decided he would not burn the diner down or allow harm to come to Davy.

The voices of friends and family, singing the praises of the sisters, could be clearly heard through the diner's open windows and doors during the memorial service. Frances had wept a little, wiping her eyes on the clean cotton hankie she always kept in her purse–just in case–but Andy just sat, staring at the tabletop.

Once in a while he would take a sip from his flask.

Like a small animal in a well-tended cage. No pain, no hunger, no thirst. A safe place. But, no fight left, either.

The memorial service ended. Meanwhile, a core group of cooks and helpers, led by Benny Lafitte, had been readying sandwiches and snacks for the next wave of hungry visitors. Someone had told Frances that the good-looking man with the honey-sweet Louisiana accent was a vampire, but she assumed that was current slang the young people were using.

Out in back the big grills were being fired up by some of the off-duty state police, preparing for chicken and veggies wrapped in foil for the dinner crowd. The Jones family had returned with cookies and other pastries from their kitchen–the maple walnut crumb cake was Davy's favorite–and, with Dean's permission (kissed and tickled out of him by a persistent and ruthless Sam), they would take over the production of the hamburgers and, a special favorite of the sisters, Wisconsin bratwursts, first simmered in Leinenkugel beer and then grilled with charred onions on the bun.

Frances had not been sure what she was supposed to do with Andy, who was deeper that usual in his state of liquored-up semi-consciousness. The first whiff of piney smoke from the pyres was drifting inside.

And then a cool breeze floated through the dining room, tinged with the scent of ozone that heralded a thunderstorm and spring rain.

"Hello Frances, my name is Castiel. I'm here to take Andrew to the pyres. Would you like to accompany us?"

She looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"No thank you, young man. I have seen too many of my Hunter kin pass over. Think I'll help out in the kitchen."

She scooched over out of the booth and stood up, her arthritic knees crackling from sitting too long. Castiel helped her to her feet with strong but gentle hands. He smiled.

"You have a beautiful soul," he said.

She blushed and returned his smile.

"Thank you, young man, but you're a little young for me."

She stepped up and gave him a hug, which he returned. Felt a warm tingle. Been a long time since she was in the arms of a good-looking man. Her Ralphie drowned saving a little girl from a boating accident a decade ago. He was her true love since junior high school. Figured she would see him in Heaven, if her Hunter relatives were telling the truth.

She didn't noticed until several days later that her knees stopped aching for the rest of her long and blessed life.

Castiel guided Uncle Andy out of the booth, through the front door, and slow and steady to the field where the pyres were burning. The Hall brother cradled his flask to his chest; Castiel held onto his elbow, steering him but letting him set the pace. Once in a while the Angel would say something encouraging that only the man could hear. Kept him moving.

Some of the Hunters recognized the Angel on the pair's slow journey across the field. The younger ones waved; Castiel nodded in return. Older ones, who remembered the bad old days when most Angels, to quote Dean, were "douche-bags", turned away.

The locals were pleasantly surprised to see Andy outside of the diner and approached him. Castiel stepped back to allow a few people to greet the quiet man with quick hugs and pats on the back, but he again whispered in Andy's ear. The man nodded, and they kept moving.

Davy broke away from Clyde and ran to Andy. Castiel took the flask for safe keeping, and nephew and uncle hugged. Davy took him by the hand and led him over to meet Clyde.

Meanwhile, the Angel walked over to see his best friends. He was still busy, working with Jack to make things right, but his visits were more regular. Movie nights and holiday celebrations and birthdays and anniversaries and dinner parties. Sometimes he would bring a friend–a member of his old garrison, newly resurrected, an Adept from the other side of the world, or a civilian scholar who needed insider information for a post-doctoral thesis.

More hugs and smiles. No need to feel bad, knowing the New Heaven that awaited the sisters.

Eddie Hassan came over and made a courtly, deferential bow to Castiel, who addressed him in the Egyptian language dialect of his childhood. They discussed one of his recent cases, and Castiel promised to visit him in California for insights on some texts that needed translating.

The retired church ladies, Josephine and Eleanor, had been curious about the man who seemed to have positive influence over Andy. They left their posts in the kitchen and followed Castiel and the uncle back to the pyres. Watched and waited. When Eddie stepped away to greet some Hunter acquaintances, they moved in.

They greeted Sam and Dean, thanking them again for their many kindnesses regarding Davy and the community. Then turned as one to Castiel, preparing to interrogate the handsome stranger. Even in Heaven, earthly church ladies, regardless of denomination, were forces to be taken seriously.

[Note: Not all church ladies believe in a God or Gods, or are ladies, for that matter.]

Castiel steeled himself. He clutched Andy's flask like a sigil against the Immutable Force of Well-Intended Nosiness. But the Winchesters saved their celestial friend, stepping up just before the women unleashed a barrage of questions.

Sam spoke, using the same voice that earned him an A in a pre-law moot court back at Stanford.

"May I introduce Castiel, Angel of the Lord, in his earthly form as Castiel Novak."

Both women, side by side, gasped and clutched the little crosses that hung from thin chains of gold around their necks.

Castiel let out a little of his grace, just enough to let his eyes glow for a moment. His warm smile was genuine.

"It is my pleasure to meet two most lovely and righteous souls. Your good works have been noted for years. I thank you."

(Dean and Sam later agreed they should have brought popcorn. Forgot to snap a video.)

Wow. The church ladies were left in a daze. Wandered away back to the diner, where they commandeered a booth. Bobby was bussing tables. He had left the pyres early; had attended too many funerals and figured he would catch up with the sisters when he checks in up top. Would not be too long now, he figured. Nothing in particular, just not much to look forward to.

They asked the old Hunter for something hard. He poured them shots of Drambuie and left the bottle.

Back in the field, Castiel looked pleased with himself.

"They truly are wonderful souls. Heaven will be brighter for them," he told his friends.

Meanwhile, Clyde, Andy, and Davy moved away from the watchful crowd and talked.

Probably the most words anyone had ever heard Andy speak. From Davy's point of view, Clyde could not have dealt with his uncle better. The professor gave the uncle, in effect his newfound brother-in-law, his full attention. Did not interrupt him. Thanked him for looking after Davy. Asked his opinions on a half-dozen topics.

Focused and patient and caring. The teen had not forgotten.

"Uncle Andy, Clyde, let's go, please."

Clyde stuttered an apology, and they moved back towards the pyres.

The sun had set, and stars peppered the rural sky. After the first light show, the fires had tamped down, but were still burning brightly. Some of the crowd had drifted away, and locals and Hunter wheeled out pallets of chairs from the high school for the diehards.

The Jones family brought out food and drink, and young people, with trays borrowed from the diner, made the rounds. Latisha made a point of serving Davy, his uncle, and father herself. The teen introduced Clyde to Latisha. He thanked her for her and her family's friendship with Davy. Davy risked a peck on her cheek, which made his father very happy, and then introduced him to the joys of maple walnut crumb cake.

"Who's the friend," asked Clyde, gesturing to the man in the trench coat standing by the Winchesters.

The dark hid the mischief in Davy's eyes.

"Oh, that's Dr. Novak," he told his father. "He's from Poland, a scholar like you, Clyde. He knew my mom and the aunties. And he's a very close friend of Dean and Sam. Just flew in."

Uncle Andy looked at his nephew, and much to his delight, winked.

"Yes, Poland," said Andy. He had warmed up to the professor. A layer of sadness and dread was peeling away. The worst had happened, his sisters were gone, but they were in Heaven. And Clyde seemed like a very good man. Would take good care of Davy. A weight was lifting from his shoulders.

Apparently, he now had a little bandwidth for a small prank.

"Do you know his field of study?" asked Clyde.

"Religion," said Davy.

"Does he know about the Supernatural world?" asked Clyde. Now that he had his first lesson, he saw people who didn't know as naive civilians who needed to be protected.

"Maybe you should ask him. Ask his opinion," said Andy. His nephew looked at him in astonishment. His mother had once told him it was hard to be afraid and laugh at the same time. Maybe, maybe Uncle Andy was a little less afraid.

"I will," he said and strode over to the Winchesters and the blue-eyed stranger, with Davy and Andy trailing behind. The trio arrived, and Castiel handed the uncle his flask, which was now full of an amber liquid that smelled of peat smoke, hailing from an island off the coast of Scotland.

Andy looked pleased and saluted Castiel.

Meanwhile, Clyde had stepped forward to greet his new colleague. A lifetime of academic conferences made him confident that he could communicate with anyone from any country, and he had picked up a few words of Polish, Russian, and Yiddish that should suffice as an opener with most Eastern Europeans scholars.

But he started with a simple "hello", his hand outstretched in friendship.

Castiel smiled.

And responded in the specific dialect of Clyde's hometown in rural Wales, pitch perfect.

Who says Angels don't have a sense of whimsey?

"You're not Polish," the scholar said, confused, while Andy and his uncle punched each other in the shoulder in solidarity.

"My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord."

Another great moment. Dean and Sam was sure the sisters were entertained in their front row seats in New Heaven.

-----

The pyres had burned down to coals, and a couple of older locals would stand guard until the fires were cold. The ashes would be collected, and per last instructions brought to the stormy banks of Lake Superior for a final good-bye.

The crowd was thinning, and Davy was asleep on his feet. Sam swept him up, bridal style, and he, Dean, and Andy walked back to the Hall home. Bobby returned, with Clyde's luggage retrieved from the truck, and ushered him to the tent he had set up. The professor sat down on one of the cots and fell asleep pulling off his shoes. Bobby tucked him in under a blanket. Another boy to look after.

"More idjits," he muttered. Maybe he would stick around a few more years, just to see Davy grow up.

Chapter Text

More than one child has fantasized that the stork accidentally dropped them in the wrong family. Sam sometimes imagined what it would have been like if his parents had been scholars, living in a big house with rooms filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The best and the brightest from the university where they worked would stop by for tea and cookies, and young Sammy would be treated to long conversations about everything in the world. He would be understood and appreciated. And there would be a pack of family dogs that loved him best.

No demon blood. No Supernatural mayhem.

And Dean would be there, of course. Maybe he'd be the boy across the street, they'd grow up together, and with both family's approval, they'd in love from the get-go.

Dean sometimes imagined a life as it was before the fire, in a parallel world where there would be no Supernatural monsters and no Heavenly politics. The Devil would be a myth. Castiel would be his best friend, a human, who lived next door.

He would still be his dad's good soldier, but that would mean sitting on the grass next to John's tool box while his dad worked on the family truck and Dean handing him the right tool. John would teach him about cars and life. Mary would be happy, with no demonic deal hanging over her head. Maybe she'd be a good cook in this alternate universe, specializing in pies.

And Sam would be there, of course. He'd lived across the street. And they could walk around in downtown Lawrence, hand-in-hand, and no one would give them a second glance, except to smile in approval.

At the reading of the will, it was obvious that the three sisters had given some thought to the ideal family for their brother Andy and son and nephew Davy.

-----

The family lawyer, Justin Dakin, invited the Hall family to the diner for the official reveal, family being defined in the broadest of terms, meaning anyone who had a stake in the proceedings besides being mentioned specifically. He asked for Dean, Sam, and Bobby to attend, as well as Professor Eddie Hassan.

Would be honored if the Angel Castiel would participate as well.

"The honor is mine," said the Angel and bowed his head. He knew what was coming and thought he might be of assistance.

When Dakin realized that Clyde Davidson was in town, the lawyer scheduled a meeting with the professor for a private debriefing before the formal reading. They spent two hours reviewing the legal documents in the leather valise. Dakin made pagefuls of notes in his tiny indecipherable script.

"This changes things," said the lawyer. "More complicated, but in a good way. Can you stay in town a couple of days?"

"As long as you need me," said the professor.

It was nice to be needed.

Frankly, Clyde was in a daze, still processing the last 48 hours. His scholarly mind organized the information in neat categories, as if preparing a post-doctoral thesis.

-  The Supernatural world is real.

-  His reunion with his son went better than good.

-  He now had a new family, including an Angel of the Lord and a vampire, plus an entire town of supportive strangers and an extended network of Hunters devoted to protecting human and friendly entities from the wicked and destructive elements of legend. Wow.

-  And, although he had not seen her for fourteen years, he was mourning that extraordinary woman who changed his life.

-----

Bobby and his boys had jury-rigged a platform so that the lawyer could sit at a long wooden table a couple of feet above the crowd, so everyone could see and hear him. Clyde's valise was there as well as several thick stacks of legal and financial documents.

Tables in the dining hall had been pushed to the side, and more chairs brought in; the diner was standing room only. Sam had magicked up a sound system inside and extended it outside to keep the overflow in the front yard informed. He also passed out legal pads and pens to anyone who wanted to take notes.

Of course Sam would have packed Baby's trunk with office supplies. Just in case.

Except for the muffled noises from the kitchen, as Benny and younger members of the Jones family cooked and baked snacks for the crowd, the dining hall was silent. The coffee maker kept the crowd well-fueled, thanks to Castiel's ensuring the pots never ran out. And the intrepid volunteer teens tiptoed around the room, serving drinks and the Jones' family cupcakes and cookies that Benny whipped up at the last minute. The church ladies were in the background, keeping everything on track with barely a touch, here and there.

-----

Clyde Davidson sat in the front row, with his son Davy on one side and his good friend Eddie on the other side. A familiar face was comforting, and he figured Eddie could discreetly inform him of Supernatural and Hunter protocol he should be aware of. Uncle Andy was on the other side of Davy. He was flanked by Castiel, who, without embarrassment, held the uncle's hand. And if the Seraphim was judicially using his angelic grace to sooth the battered edges of the man's soul, who would know?

Although specifically invited to attend, meaning they possibly were mentioned in the will, Bobby, Sam, and Dean sat near the front door, on the alert for unwanted visitors even though the building and front porch were well-warded. And Benny, while whipping up batches of pecan praline for those very special cookies and frosting the Jones family's cupcakes, had his superior vampire senses on alert. Pity for the le malfaiteur, human or creature, that tried to crash the gathering through the back door.

-----

Justin Dakin saw that his job was to ensure  the wishes of the three hall sisters were fulfilled, with the safety and comfort of their brother Andrew and son and nephew Davidson the top priorities.

There were several permutations in the documents, depending on which sister or family member died would have died when, but the details remained the same, even though all three women passed away at the same time. And there were few surprises, at least not at first. Not like in the movies where people gasp in horror because Bon-Bon the overweight Corgi gets the deed to the $20,000,000 beach house in Malibu plus access to a tax-free trust in the 10 figures.

Fortunately for the crowd, Dakin was down-to-earth. Cut through the jargon. Figured anyone, meaning Sam, who wanted to read every word, sidebar, footnote, and citation could dissect the official copies at their leisure.

The Details

The house and personal possessions now belonged equally to Andy and Davy. The house was paid for. Until Davy turned 21, any big financial decisions, like selling the house, would be need approval by Justin Dakin. This would be for Andy and Davy's protection, in case someone tried to take advantage of them.

The fact that the three sisters trusted the lawyer was good enough for Clyde. Dakin had filled him in during their private meeting, and although the professor still had questions, there was nothing to contest.

Any tangibles, meaning guns, research materials, bottled potions, etc., related to the Hunting life could be reviewed by the active Hunters in the Hall family, with input and final say from Andy and Davy with oversight by the lawyer. Some fine weapons, books, and ingredients for spellwork would be distributed where they could be used and appreciated. Nice that they would stay in the family, if the Hall Hunters decided to keep everything.

Bobby was already planning to make an offer on a couple of the folklore books he knew were in their collection. And maybe, he thought, they'd be willing to let Professor Davidson look over some of the research materials. After all, would still be staying in the family. 

The restaurant would be put into a trust for the community, initially managed by the lawyer, two members of the Hall family, one member of Latisha Jones' family, and two people from the greater community. The crowd muttered in appreciation, already talking with their neighbors about governance issues like who would serve, how they would be chosen, and the length of time on the oversight board. Lots to discuss.

Dakin waited patiently, letting the room buzz with a dozen conversations for a few minutes. People needed a chance to talk and check in with their friends and family.

Then, he brought it back to order. Time for those decisions later, he said. We have more to cover today.

The first surprise: The Jones family would have right of first refusal if the restaurant went up for sale. Most of the crowd nodded in approval; a few broke out in applause.

There was a chunk of money in a trust for Uncle Andy. He would get a certain percentage of the profits from the restaurants, and another percentage would go into his trust. If the restaurant was failing, the trust would be the backstop. The lawyer would be the trust officer, but, he could, with court approval, transfer that role to someone else.

There was also a chunk of money in a trust for Davy, with the same provisions.

So far so good.

Dakin put down the document he was reading from folded his hands and leaned in.

"Andy, you'll still be the manager of the Black Rock Diner, chief cook and bottle washer, of course."

Applause and whistles from the audience.

"Nothing will change about your situation, unless you want it to. And then we'll discuss it. I'll be here for you."

"Folks, this concludes the public part of the will, the part that impacts the greater community. I would ask everyone who is not a member of the immediate family to leave, with coffee, cookies, and cupcakes of course."

The room laughed in appreciation.

Dakin read off the names of those whom he wished to stay: Davy and Andy, of course. Clyde Davidson. Clyde pointed to his friend Eddie, tilted his head, and raised an eyebrow. Dakin nodded.

Then Andy stood up and addressed the lawyer.

"May my friend Castiel stay as well?"

Those people still in the dining hall froze and turned as one. Even most of the longtimers had never heard Andy speak out loud.

"Of course, anyone you want."

"Thank you, Mr. Dakin," said Andy, and sat down. Castiel gave him a one-armed hug. Andy leaned in a little. Castiel left his arm curled around the man. Davy noticed his uncle was smiling. Warmed his heart.

"Dean Winchester, Samuel Winchester, and Robert Singer, would you please stay as well?"

Curiouser and curiouser.

Chapter Text

While working on the last chapter of this piece I received notice from a cousin that she had been contacted on one of the DNA sites. The stranger, an adoptee it turned out, had some facts about his birth father, who he had been hunting for decades. There were some matches shared on my cousin's DNA and the stranger's that he wanted to pursue.

The facts matched my father. My cousin was anxious for me not to be conned by some evil-doer, but then I saw the stranger's picture. Could be my dad's twin. Not only do they look alike, but my new-found brother has the same profession, the same speech patterns, and many of the same personality characteristics and beliefs of our dad.

And, a while back, he began to feel an inexplicable draw to a new religion other than the one he was raised in. He converted about three years ago. You guessed it; he converted to the religion of our family. Chance? Maybe not.

Spent this last week in a happy daze. All this after I wrote the scenes with Davy and his father Clyde finding each other.

My new brother and I don't know if our father knew about his son. We are still comparing notes, but both of us think probably not. He was given up for adoption soon after birth.

Luckily, my family and old friends have been uniformly welcoming and delighted. Thank goodness for rational relatives.

Best present ever.

Okay, final chapter coming up!