DellaVie

I don't know where this came from, I just woke up this morning and there it was.


When Dean came to he was in a warehouse, tied to a chair.

This wasn't entirely unexpected - weeks of chasing down a demonic mercenery group called the Hounds had put them on the bad side of not only its memebers, but those that would hire them. He and Sam had managed to kill most of them - by the reports there were only two or three left - but their leader, their Bossman, had managed to elude them. Hell, they didn't even know his name. The closest they had gotten was in Alabama; they'd interrupted a cult's suicide plan and killed the Hound that tried to weasel them into it. On their way out the door a low, resonating laugh echoed through the now-vacant townhouse, shaking the foundation with it's power. He was their guy, they knew it.

But all they could find was a series of names over the years like The Bossman, The Alpha... nothing specific like Fred or Jeremy, which would be useful in a summoning spell or anything else. The best they could do was interrogate the Hounds when they caught them, but that never helped. A little voice in the back of Dean's head suggested that he knew a way to get answers out of them, but the more civilised - and fearful - part of him declared that times were not that desperate. Yet.

Which is why he was currently tied to a chair, waiting for whichever Hound had caught him to make itself known. He was bait, and one of those demonic bastards had finally decided to bite.

He surveyed the empty warehouse for a good five minutes, and then tried to scratch his nose for the next five. When he finally gave up on that, he resorted to humming Journey and tapping his foot. If Sam asked later he would tell him that it was Deep Purple or Metallica, of course.

Halfway into the second chorus, one of the shadows in the corner moved. Demon. Hound, had to be. He was wearing the same black suit and tie as all the others. He was possessing some non-descript guy and was looking at him with his head cocked in what Dean wasn't foolish enough to think was curiosity.

As he crossed the floor, the soft foot-falls reminded Dean that he hadn't heard this demon enter; he must have been in here the whole time.

He came to a stop in front of Dean, and under the lone dangling light he could make out its pale, yellow eyes. It stared Dean down for a good two minutes before casually reaching into its pocket and pulling out a switchblade. "Your brother is going to be a bit late," was all he said, but the schwick of the blade opening let Dean imagine the implication of what he was going to do to pass the time. Yeah, plan not going so well.

Dean played it cool, all the while trying to cut and paste a Plan B together in his mind. His train of thought was interrupted by the crackle of the radio along one of the walls; obviously the demon's doing. He looked up and was about to make some remark on the subject when the demon beat him to it;

"Ever listen to K Billy's Super Sounds of the Seventies?"

<< Part I

Five minutes into their journey back to the Impala Dean snickers.

“What?”

“Nothing, just...” he smirks as he glances at his brother. “It’s a bit fitting don’t you think?”

Sam knows Dean’s setting him up for something; something he’s not going to like if the smirk is any indication. He sighs. “What?”

“The sasquatch is named Sam.”

“A-ha,” Sam replies. He speeds up his pace, hoping to outrun the first of what’s sure to be many jokes on the subject.

“Oh, like you can jus-huah!”

Sam stops in his tracks and retraces his steps to find his brother sprawled on the ground. He waits until Dean looks up at him before he raises an eyebrow.

“Shuddup.” Dean drawls, brushing stray leaves and twigs off his person. When he’s done he starts looking around for something.

“Lose something?”

“Yeah, the thing that friggin’ tripped me.”

Sam really wants to make a crack about Dean’s lack of co-ordination, or his paranoid tendencies. He doesn’t though, unless the comments spark a petty insult war which he’s feeling a little too relaxed and preoccupied (mentally) to get into at the moment. So instead he just stands there with his hands in his pockets as Dean kicks up bark and disturbs the ground in search of... whatever he’s looking for.

He eventually finds it a few minutes later, and Sam will be honest, he wasn’t expecting it to be a tennis ball.

Dean rubs it against his jeans to clean the dirt off before showing it to Sam. “Think it’s the kid’s?”

“I can’t think of anyone else that would want a ball.” Sam replies.

Dean eyes it for a second before shrugging. “His loss.”

They resume walking, with Dean tossing the ball up in the air every few seconds.

When they finally make it back to the Impala, Sam packs the weapons in the trunk, but leaves the lid open for Dean to toss the ball in.

Dean thinks about it. “Nahh.” He tosses the ball back into the forest and slams the trunk closed.

By the time he gets to the driver’s side door, a rustling in the trees attracts his attention. “Sam,” He warns, unlocking the car with one eye on the movement.

It grows closer and louder until finally a golden blur bounds forth from the tree-line, heading straight for Dean. Before he can raise a hand to defend himself, the blur slams into him, the force sending him back against the Impala.

Sam races around to help his brother, only to realise that the golden blur is actually a golden retriever. Dean’s noticed this too, and is currently scratching the energetic dog behind the ears, a five-year-old’s smile on his face.

“Hey look Sammy, it’s a dog.”

Duh, Dean, Sam thinks. Instead he says, “He got your ball.”

Sure enough, wedged in the canine’s mouth is the tennis ball Dean threw into the forest not twenty seconds ago.

“Did ya? Did you fetch my ball?” Dean crouches down in front of the dog, pulling the ball out of its mouth.

“Yes I did.”

Dean drops the ball, his mouth open in shock. “Dude, you hear that?”

Sam makes some sort of strangled gargle which Dean interprets as “Yeahuh”.

“I fetched the ball because I like balls...”

Dean spots a red light on the dog’s collar that flashes when it speaks. He points it out to Sam, whose eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

“...because they’re soft and squishy and fun, not like – SQUIRREL!”

The retriever freezes, his head jerking upwards in a random direction as though hoping to spot a squirrel pass by. A few seconds pass with nothing happening and then he turns back to Dean.

“I like you,” He licks Dean’s face.

“Dude,” Dean blinks.

“Yeah.” Sam replies.

“Dude,” He says again.

“I know.”

“It’s a talking dog.”

“I wonder who it belongs to.”

Dean pauses mid-scratch to stare at Sam. He shakes his head ever-so slightly as though suggesting that in front of the dog is not a good idea. Sam’s about to point out that it’s a dog when the collar flashes.

“I have a Master, he is kind and good and kind. He smells of prunes and is friends with the small mailman and is kind.” The dog hops up against Dean excitedly. “Would you like to meet my Master? I can show you to him! I can show you where he is and then you can meet him and see that he is a kind master.”

“Uh, sure,” Dean stammers, and the dog bounces around.

“Oh boy, oh boy – Master will be happy to meet new friends, he might even give me a treat!”

The dog runs away a few feet and the spins to face Sam and Dean. “Come, and I will show you to my Master!”

Dean’s all for following the talking dog when Sam clears his throat. He tilts his head toward the car meaningfully and Dean replies by nodding at the dog. Sam nods more insistently and pulls out his patented Bitchface; annoyed huff and all.

Dean’s shoulders slump for the second time today and he bends over to pick up the ball. “Okay,” he tells the dog. “But don’t you want the ball?”

The dog freezes in its movements; its eyes tracking the ball as Dean waves it around. “Yes I do, I do want the ball!”

“Then go get it.” Dean pulls his arm back and throws it as hard and as far as he can into the forest.

The golden retriever tears after it, his voice growing fainter in the distance; “Oh boy, oh boy, a ball! I will catch the ball and then I will introduce my Master to the Fireman and the one who smells of eggs...”

When it’s out of sight, Dean turns to Sam and glares. “A talking dog, Sam.”

“Dean...”

“We could’ve had a talking dog, but noo...”

“He already belonged to someone!”

“So? The guy could’ve had dozens! He probably wouldn’t even miss one!”

Sam gives up at this point and just gets in the car.

Dean’s still going on about the dog when they peel out onto the main road, and Sam’s about ready to reach over strangle him. Whether Dean can read minds, or is just plain lucky, he decides to change the topic.

“This has to be the weirdest case we’ve ever had. Weirder than the Trickster ones.”

Sam weighs this hunt against the others. “How do you know this wasn’t a trickster?”

Dean drums his finger along the wheel in time with the music. “Where’s the punch line?”

“Maybe we just haven’t figured it out yet?” The words sound lame on Sam’s mouth, and he silently concedes.

They drive on in silence as they digest everything that happened in the past few hours. Dean’s the one to break it.

“Dude, Bigfoot’s real.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me shoot it.”

Sam sighs. “I know, Dean.”

“His name is Sam.”

Sam face-palms. Maybe he should have let Dean keep the dog – at least it would have shut him up about the sasquatch for a while.

Well, I hope. Here's some random to try and get me back in the writing mood. I don't know why it's in present tense; I think it's just a sort of reflection of the "live in the now" personality of the two characters...

Oh well, enjoy the crack!

It was a hoax. They knew it was a hoax; hell - everyone knew it was a hoax. In fact, it was more or less a joke hunters would tell each other; something laughed about after a few beers and never once taken seriously.

But when the reports start to increase in frequency and one of them is from a well-respected judge who insists 100%-without-a-doubt that was what he saw (and is supported by his family who happened to be camping with him that weekend), Dean listens as Sam tries and convince him that maybe - just maybe - there might be some truth to the Bigfoot story.

Which is why they were currently approaching the Judge's house in some small town in Oregon whose name was Faith or Harmony or something along those lines. Dean stopped paying attention to all the places they went to after the job in Bacon, Indiana. He was sure that nothing else could even come close - so why bother?

Sam stops him just outside the door and turns to him with that serious face he has when he's trying to be a grown up. "Dean..."

"Sam..." Dean matches him tone for tone.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Just remember we're professionals."

Dean spreads his arms wide in indignation. "Dude, I know the drill."

Sam casts him a doubtful look and continues. "So, no laughing."

"I wasn't gonna laugh."

Ahuh. Sure. Sam's totally not buying it. "So when the judge tells you that he was groped by bigfoot-"

Dean snickers at that. It was unintentional, but Sam believes he's made his point. After waiting a minute for Dean to settle himself, Sam to raises his fist against the door.

A politely curious teen opens it and gives the boys a quick glance under her blonde fringe. Playing it cool, she leans against the frame. "Hi."

"Hello, I'm Mr. Gillian and this is Mr. Glover," Sam's gesturing to himself and then Dean as he talks, as though the words 'I'm' and 'This is' might be a little confusing for her.

Dean mentally shakes his head and then tunes out as his brother scores them an invite to talk to the man who saw - snigger - Bigfoot...

--

Sam's a mix of mild annoyance and resignation as they make their way out of the Keller's house. After Dean's not-so-subtle attempts to check out the circulating rumours about Bigfoot Sam eventually relented, thinking that with this much interest Dean would take the job seriously. Now Sam was starting to realise that it was more likely Dean just wanted to come here and laugh at the absurdity of it. Which he did, obtrusively, in the middle of their interview.

Just as Sam's about to open the door to the Impala, he spots Dean over the roof. He's wiping the tears from his eyes and his shoulders are shaking with mirth.

"Man, that was good," He says catching Sams' eyes. "I'm so glad we came here."

Dean hops in the car and Sams feels obliged to remind him that they can't just pack up and leave.

"Why not?"

"We're still investigating, Dean."

Dean is a face of incomprehension. "Investigating what? Bigfoot's a hoax, Sam. You know that."

"I know that, Dean." Sam reminds him. "But something attacked Andrew Keller in the forest."

Dean snickers at the word 'attack'. "Probably just his imagination."

Sam huffs. "Dean..."

"Fine, fine." Dean relents. "But if it turns out it's just a guy in an ape-suit feeling people up, I'm pushing him in your direction."

He takes the next left instead of the right out of town and shoots Sam a look as though coming to Charity was his idea all along.

--

The forest growth isn't too thick that they have to hack it away with machetes, but they need to work their way around roots and branches, which annoys Dean. He's not an outdoors person in the camping sense of the word, and the encompassing sight and scent of nature gives him the impression that there's something else hiding just out of his senses. He doesn't care for it much.

He spares a glance back at Sam, who's weaving his way through the greenery with an almost ease that Dean wants to shove him over. Or watch him trip. Which is why he pushes the next branch back just the right amount so that it hits Sam right in the-

Thwack.

-face.

Sam does not look impressed, so Dean quickly scrounges up a distraction.

"How much further?"

Sam's patented bitchface lingers on Dean for a second before he shifts his gaze over his shoulder. "Hopefully not much further. Andrew said it happened in a small clearing."

Dean stops and points out to the left. "Like that?"

Sam appraises the gap in the foliage for a second and then shrugs. Without a word both boys change their course and head for the clearing.

--

If Sam were to be honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he didn't expect there to be anything substantial to the recent Bigfoot sighting. He'd only insisted on checking this out to make sure it wasn't some other sort of creature... with... wandering... hands...

Sam's brow furrows as his train of thought slows to a halt. Alright, he came down here for completion's sake. They'd been wrong before and he didn't want it to happen again. Sam's wrinkles smooth out now that he's rationalised his... well, rationale.

Unfortunately, Dean saw the perplexed look on Sam's face, which prompts him to ask, "What?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing. You seen anything yet?"

"No," Dean sighs. "And if we don't soon I'm leaving."

As though waiting for it's cue, a rustling sounds to their right. Sam and Dean raise their shotguns that are - for once - not filled with salt in that direction and wait.

The tree immediately stops shaking and the boys trade a conversation in glances. Dean asks what it is. Sam doesn't know. Dean thinks Sam should go over and check. Sam thinks Dean's an idiot for suggesting it. Dean would like to see Sam come up with something better. Sam clears his throat.

"Uh, hello?"

Dean mocks Sam on his brilliant idea. Sam tells him to shut up. Considering they weren't actually speaking for this conversation, Sam feels that he just won that round, and will silently gloat to himself later.

Because right now they're waiting on a response from the tree.

The seconds pass by and another rustle sounds even closer, but this time on their left. Soundlessly, Sam and Dean turn back-to-back and raise their guns.

"Come out, come out whatever you are," Dean's voice is low and gravelly and it makes his taunt sound more like a threat.

Almost in slow motion, the foliage on Sam's side clears and a ten foot tall walking gorilla emerges. Sam blinks.

Dean looks over Sam's shoulder. "Hunh."

They both take a step back as the creature advances. And another step. And another.

Bigfoot pauses, his head tilting ever-so-slightly. One hairy leg stretches out. Sam and Dean frown and Sam gets ready to take a step back. Dean raises his gun instead.

“Don’t shoot!”

The voice is wavering in pitch, not quite a man and not quite a boy. A gangly teen on the verge of pubescence leaps out of the bushes, his arms waving frantically as though he can deflect any bullets. He stops in between Sam and Dean and the Sasquatch; a five-foot-seven shield.

Sam and Dean share a glance. “Uhh kid?” Dean starts, and then trails off because this really wasn’t what he was expecting.

Sam picks up where he left off. “Do you... know him?”

Dean lowers the gun a fraction and looks over at Sam incredulous. Sam shrugs as if to say, what else was I going to say?

The boy nods. “Of course I know him – his name’s Sam.”

Dean looks and looks at the sasquatch. When he’s absolutely sure it’s real and not someone in a suit, his face scrunches up. “Sam?”

The kid nods. “That’s the name I gave him. At first I wasn’t sure if it was a girl or a boy – ‘cause last time I was wrong – but I figured that it won’t matter ‘cause Sam’s a girl’s and a boy’s name.” He smiles proudly at having reached that decision.

“Uhuh,” Dean says, pretending he understands everything the boy said. “And what’s your name, kid?”

“My name is Russell, and I’m not a kid – I’m a Senior Wilderness Explorer.” He made two tick-shapes with his hands and then joined them to form a W.

Dean doesn’t know what a Wilderness Explorer is exactly, but he’s guessing that it’s similar to the boys scouts, if the uniform is anything to go by.

Sam clears his throat. “Russell, shouldn’t you be with your, uhm, group?”

“I don’t go on the group expeditions; all the other kids are weeeeeird.” He stretches the last word out and rolls his eyes. “But it’s okay, ‘cause this way I get to explore more fun stuff and meet new friends like Sam here.” He pats the creature on the shoulder, which seems to respond to his presence.

“So let me get this straight – you and bigfoot are... pals?” Dean’s all but forgotten he’s carrying a gun right now, his confusion leaving him standing there with a frown on his face.

“I told you, his name is Sam.” Russell spots the gun and he folds his arms, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not gonna shoot him, are you?”

“No, no – of course not.” Sam rushes, cutting of Dean’s reply and hastily stuffing his own gun down the back of his jeans. “We were, uhm, looking for something else.” He shoots Dean a look that tells him to play along.

Dean’s not having any of it though, and instead dryly replies. “Yeah, we were just looking for the other bigfoot in this forest.”

Russell perks up. “You mean you’ve seen it?”

Sam’s mouth falls open. “Uhh...”

“Hey, uhh, Russell? Do you mind if I talk to my brother for a second?” Dean flashes an encouraging smile and then pulls Sam out of earshot before the kid can reply.

He drags Sam behind a tree and throws his arm up. “Dude, what the hell?”

“What?”

“Exactly, what the hell, Sam?” Dean’s keeping one eye on the creature in case it decides it’s hungry for some scrawny long pig.

Meanwhile, Sam’s trying to processes the information and find an explanation. It appears he’s just as confused as Dean is. They know that there’s a bigfoot in this forest – two, if Russell’s comment is anything to go by – one of which has been feeling up the local campers. There’s also the matter of the pimple-faced teen that seems to have managed to tame the supposedly wild creature.

The thought draws Sam up short. “Has it ever attacked anyone?”

Dean looks up. “What?”

“The bigfoot – sasquatch, whatever – has it ever attacked anyone?”

“Judge Keller?”

“It didn’t harm him though, right? I mean, think about it – all the rumours, all the reports of sightings over the years – have we ever heard one where it’s going around killing people?”

Dean scratches his head. “So what are you saying, Sam?”

“I’m saying that maybe this isn’t something we should be hunting, Dean.”

Dean points back to the clearing. “Bigfoot, Sam. Bigfoot. Pretty much defines weird-supernatural-creature.”

“What if it isn’t? What if it’s just some... some mutation or evolution of a creature that already exists? That would make it unnatural, but not supernatural.”

Dean considers Sam’s words carefully. “It’s Bigfoot, Sam.”

“Dean...” Sam growls.

“Alright, alright.” Dean throws his hands up, waving the gun in surrender.

Sam can tell that he doesn’t completely agree, so he adds, “Even if it is killing people – which it isn’t – it wouldn’t be any different to a bear. It’s an animal, not some mythical species.”

Dean stares at Sam. “Say it with me, Sam: Big. Foot.”

Sams’ hands move as though he’s trying to explain with them. “It’s more like an endangered species. Do you see what I’m trying to say, Dean?”

Dean’s face goes through a range of expressions as he tries to consider his brother’s perspective. It stops on acceptance. “It’s Bigfoot.”

Just not acceptance of what Sam’s saying.

He growls. “Dean, would you just listen-”

“I did listen, Sam. Now it’s your turn – is that,” he points to the monster currently spinning in circles with Russell on its shoulders, “or is it not, Bigfoot?”

“It’s not hurting anyone,” Sam grounds out.

“What if you’re wrong? What if we leave and some poor kid gets ganked? Some kid with a yellow hat and soda lids pinned to his shirt?”

“Look, all I’m saying is we shouldn’t go after it without any proof.”

He’s frustrated, Dean can tell. Which is why Dean says what he says;

“Okay, how about this: we go back to the motel, look for some evidence that Gentle Ben isn’t so... gentle and if we find some we come back and put him down – that sound fair enough to you?”

Sam relents in the end, because he knows it’s the best he’s gonna get.

“Good. Now we better get that kid home just in ca...” Dean’s cut off by a loud roar that reverberates across the forest.

Sam and Dean burst back into the clearing to find that Bigfoot has left and Russell is standing there expectantly. “Sam heard his boy-slash-girlfriend calling and decided to go follow. I stayed here because it’s rude to leave in the middle of a conversation.” He looks sincere, and Dean can’t decide whether or not has having a dig at their sudden interlude. In the end he lets it go.

“Hey Russell, we’re gonna head back to town now – do you want us to give you a lift home?”

Russell shakes his head. “I don’t live in Oregon, I’m here camping with Mr. Fredericksen. He brought us here in his blimp, The Spirit of Adventure!” He raises his fist as to punch the air.

“Okaaay...” Dean starts, but is elbowed by Sam.

“I’m sure he’s worried about where you’ve gotten to, don’t you think you should head back?”

Russell glances up at the sky. “Well, it is getting kind of dark, and those cumulo-nimbus clouds are getting closer. I should get back before the storm hits.”

“You want us to, uhh...” Sam mentally blanks. There’s just something wrong about using the word “escort” when you’re talking to a kid.

Russell seems to get the gist anyway, and instead hold up a yellow console. “No need, with my wilderness GPS explorer, I’ll be home in...” He looks at the screen, “seven-point-two-four minutes!”

He turns around, watching the screen intently. When he stops he looks up. “It was nice to meet you!” He waves before he dashes off into the trees.

“Uhh... You think we should go after him?”

Another roar sounds faintly from the opposite direction, and Sam and Dean turn around.

“...I don’t know,” Dean says at last. “Does that kid seem weird to you?”

“This whole thing seems weird.”

“Yeah, but... I dunno. My gut says that kid’s gonna be alright.”

“You’re gut? That’s what you’re going with, your gut?”

“It’s never been wrong before.”

“Dean, last week your gut decided to have a fried chilli burger and you spend two hours puking it back up at the hotel.”

“Hey, that chicken was off, I know it! Besides, Bigfoot’s at least a 100 yards in that direction; Russell‘s probably safe and sound back at his...” Dean frowns, “blimp by now.” He looks over at Sam. “But if you want to make sure, we can always...” He raises his shotgun.

Sam raises his hands. “No, no. I’m sure he’s safe. Let’s just go.”

They turn and start to head back to the car. Dean casts one last longing look in Bigfoot’s direction.

Part II >>

This is for strgazr04, who reminded me that this story needs an update.

That Story or, 10 Reasons Why Priestly Doesn't Like Chicago

1. The Little Old Lady | 2. The Weather | 3. The Computer Genius | 4. The Bars | 5. The Crazed Psycho | 6. The Women | 7. The Tripper | 8. The Lost Boy | 9. The Skateboard | 10. The Little Old Lady (Again) | 11. Epilogue

___________________________________


The sun had set two hours ago by the time they ambled into the gloomy bar. It wasn't classy, but the floors also weren't covered in unknown substances, so Boaz didn't really mind. The only perturbrance was the man in the corner that seemed to have locked onto him the moment he walked in and wouldn't take his eyes off. Boaz pretended not to notice him as they made their way around the tables to a booth by the corner.

Buzzer took off for the bar as the rest slid into the booth; Delia on the inside next to Boaz, and Jake and Tom on the other side.

“Buzzer works here weekends so he’s working his magic on the drinks.” Tom said.

“Which is to say, he makes sure our glasses are clean,” Delia clarified, cleaning her glasses lazily.

Boaz nodded in understanding and slowly cast his eyes around the bar. The man from earlier was still trying to sneak furtive glances over his beer, and the three men at the pool table abruptly turned away when he looked their way, their stances leaving no doubt that they were talking about him.

They can probably tell I’m not twenty-one, he thought, Tom could get away with it because he’s tall, and didn’t shave this morning. He froze. They wouldn’t tell anyone, right? He looked over again, and they were smiling in a way that made him uncomfortable. It probably didn’t help matters that they then started over to the booth.

Boaz groaned. This can’t end well, not with my luck this week.

Buzzer returned with the drinks about the same time the men started to head over, so their approach went unnoticed by everyone except Boaz. It wasn’t until they were standing two feet away did everyone else stop fighting over the booze and look up.

“Help ya?” Jake asked.

The apparent leader of the three, a dangerous looking man built like a tank with a hair cut that screamed “Army! He’s fuckin’ trained to KILL – Piss off at own risk,” squared his gaze straight on Boaz.

“How’s about that rematch?”

Boaz frowned. “Uhh...”

His companions turned to him then, Tom voicing what all the others were thinking, “You been here before Bo?”

“That would be a ‘no’.”

“Except for last night, right?” Crew cut replied.

Boaz didn’t really want to tell the possible marine and his two buddies (that, now he thought about it, looked like they were in the same platoon or regiment or whatever) something he wasn’t looking to hear.

Without explicitly saying “no”, Boaz said, “I just got into town last night.”

The blond blinked. “Good for you.”

“So I... wasn’t here.”

The mans’ eyes narrowed. “Unless my friends and I are mistaken, you did say that the next time you were in here you would gladly accept a rematch. Well here you are, I would like my rematch.”

Boaz cleared his throat, as though he knew he was going to get his ass kicked for saying what he was about to; “You’re mistaken.” When Blondie glared at him, he hastily added, “But sure, let’s have a game.”

The man smiled, and Boaz was suddenly put in mind of sharks.

The three turned and headed back to the table, leaving Boaz to face three puzzled stares and one impassive one.

“I ain’t gonna tell that guy no – he’d kill me,” was all Boaz said before slipping out of the booth and following the others.

“Hey, Bo,” Jake called, scrambling after him. “Can you play pool at all?”

“Not really, no.” Boaz answered. “But I’m hoping that after he realises that, he’ll leave me alone.”

“Good call.” Buzzer piped in.

Delia, who was carrying the drinks over, scoffed and rolled her eyes. When Boaz looked her way she didn’t say anything.

They reached the pool table all too soon, and Blondie was circling it, tossing a cue in Boaz’ direction. “You can break,” he said.

“Uhh, ‘kay.” Boaz walked over to the head of the table and lined up his shot.

With a loud clack the balls spun out in their own directions (none came back towards him). When they had all settled, he realised that all sixteen were still on the table. Yep, that’s about right.

Blondie raised an eyebrow as if to say he wasn’t buying it and took his turn. He sank three balls before it came back to Boaz, who fumbled on the nine. Blondie snickered and sank another two. “You really think I’m going to fall for that again?” he asked.

Boaz didn’t know how to reply to that, so instead he just sunk the nine (finally), and then tried for thirteen (he missed).

The game was over in less than ten minutes, with Blondies’ mates smirking at him. “Never seen a man so eager to give up his money,” the shorter of the two remarked.

Boaz opened his mouth, but it was Jake who spoke. “Na hold on, no one ever said this was fer money.”

“Course it is,” Blondie replied. “Fifty dollars, same as before. No point in having a rematch unless there’s dough on the table.”

Tom jumped into the discussion at that point, backing up Jake who was refuting the claim. Boaz remained silent as he tried to figure out how, in the span of an hour, he came to be in two-thousand and fifty dollars in debt. It just wasn’t making sense.

“Alright fine, we’ll waive that first one,” Blondie’s voice cut in. “But from here on in, you better start putting money down.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“What, you spent it already?” The third man, a redhead scoffed.

“How could I spend-” Was as far as Boaz got before Blondie held up a hand to cut him off.

“Look, just shut-up and play.” His tone brook no argument.

“Fine, but just one game. Emphasis on the one. One.” He repeated, making sure Blondie understood. The big man looked annoyed at him, but said nothing to the contrary, which Boaz took to mean yes, and racked up the balls again.

Blondie broke and the game proceeded in much the same fashion as the first had. The only difference was that, with each failed shot by Boaz, Blondie grew more and more agitated. When he finally sunk the eight ball, he was almost livid. “Again.”

“What?” Boaz was incredulous.

“Cut the crap, and play properly.”

“Look, I know this may be hard for you to believe, but some people can’t play pool as well as you.”

Blondie slammed the pool cue onto the table. “You really expect me to believe that you can’t play pool; that last night was just a wonderful stroke of luck? Do you really think that’s likely?” Before Boaz could reply, Blondie steamrolled over the top, his voice barely controlled rage. “Or, do you think it’s more likely that some punk kid has just realised that he’s gotten in over his head swindling someone he shouldn’t have, and is trying to cut the game short so he doesn’t have to give back the money he cheated?”

Boaz raised his hands in placation. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Boaz’ mind knew that the second he’d said it, informing him with an exasperated idiot and a mental slap.

Enraged by the remark, Blondie started for Boaz; his large flexed fingers intent on making good on the warning his haircut gave.

He was met half way by Jake, who was trying to diffuse the situation. Blondie however was having none of it, and shoved Jake out of the way.

Not one to take physical assaults lying down, Jake sprung back up and shoved him back. Blondie’s two friends rushed to his aide, and the second they both tried to gang up on Jake all hell broke loose.

Tom and Buzzer darted in to defend Jake. Boaz was about to help when he was reminded why this all started with a swift punch to the face. He stumbled over the table and barely had time to look up when Blondie was attacked by his would-be stalker from before. The man jabbed Blondie in the gut, winding him before tripping him over. He then wasted no time in shoving Boaz out the back door before he could even speak.

[tbc]

That Story or, 10 Reasons Why Priestly Doesn't Like Chicago

1. The Little Old Lady | 2. The Weather | 3. The Computer Genius | 4. The Bars | 5. The Crazed Psycho | 6. The Women | 7. The Tripper | 8. The Lost Boy | 9. The Skateboard | 10. The Little Old Lady (Again) | 11. Epilogue

___________________________________



 

Before they headed to the bar, they made a pit stop down by some less-than-stellar apartments where Jake assured him the best forger of fake IDs resided.

 

Banging on apartment 2D, they were greeted by a half-asleep roadie in worn jeans and a shirt that hadn't been buttoned correctly. "Hey Jake, what's up?"

 

"Need ya to rustle up an ID fer Bo 'ere," He jerked his thumb in Boaz direction.

 

After blinking the last vestiges of sleep away, the man took in Boaz with a yawn and said, "Shouldn't be a problem." He turned around and headed back into his apartment. "Mi casa e su casa," He called back, prompting everyone else to follow.

 

It wasn’t that the room was messy, per se. It was just that there wasn’t a whole lot in it besides empty cans, bottles, take-away boxes and some salt that had been spilled by the doorway.

 

They all found themselves seats on varying items of furniture - the couch, a chair, and in Buzzer’s case, on the coffee table - leaving Boaz to find a nice piece of wall to lean against.

 

"So, uhh..." Boaz started.

 

"Ash," he replied, snatching up his laptop and plonking himself down on a giant beanbag.

 

"...Ash, where'd you learn how to... counterfeit?" It was a weak attempt at conversation, but Ash didn't seem to mind.

 

"College."

 

"What college teaches Counterfeiting?"

 

"Wasn't really the college, more the people at M.I.T."

 

Boaz blinked. "You went to M.I.T.?"

 

"Yeaaaaah," He drew it out. "Listen, uh, Bo - you wouldn't happen to have a last name, now would you?" He paused in his typing.

 

"Uh, yeah. Priestly." The tapping started up again.

 

"From California, Maine or California?"

 

"Santa Cruz."

 

"Right." Ash buried himself in the laptop, typing away efficiently. "Does that mean that your full name is Boaz Liddell Priestly?"

 

He muttered a regretful "Yeah" at the same time Buzzer echoed "Boaz?"

 

"I prefer Bo, alright?"

 

"I can see why," Tom muttered.

 

Thankfully Ash derailed the name conversation before any more comments could be made. "And would I be correct in assuming you were born July second, nineteen seventy-nine?"

 

Boaz frowned. "Yeah. How did you know?"

 

"Not anymore, you're not. You are now born on July second, nineteen seventy-eight. Congratulations on being twenty-one."

 

"Wait, what?"

 

By this time Ash had already stood up and disappeared into another room with his laptop.

 

"He's like a genius hacker," Tom explained, "He can hack into the records and change your date of birth."

 

"Once there was this person who hacked into London television and interrupted the broadcast. They never managed to find out who it was." Buzzer ticked his head towards the door as if to say that Ash was the one that did it.

 

Delia was filing her nails, unimpressed. "Or he lied about it."

 

At that moment Ash reappeared. He set his laptop down on the small table and handed Boaz a card. "One new and as-far-as-the-government-knows legal driver's licence."

 

Boaz looked at it. It was exactly the same as his current one in every detail, except a nine had been changed to an eight. "How did you...?" He trailed off, realising he probably wouldn't want to know. Instead he asked, "Why not just create a fake ID?"

 

Ash shrugged. "That's a lot of hassle, man. You gotta come up with a name, and an address and everything. This way you don't have to remember anything. Less likely to get caught out that way."

 

Boaz took one final glance at the card before smiling. "Thanks man."

 

"No problem. Will that be cash or cheque?"

 

"Uhh..." Boaz looked to his newfound friends. They hadn't mentioned a specific price. "How much is it?"

 

"Two grand, same as usual."

 

Two thousand dollars? He didn't have two thousand dollars! All he had was what he'd been paid today and that was a wall short of two thousand dollars. "I don't have it," He blurted.

 

"Well then, that's a bit of a problem." Ash snatched the card back.

 

Before he could stumble over an explanation, Jake interrupted.

 

" 'Ow's about ye give 'im the card, an'ee'll pay ye back when he gets it. I'll give ya me word on that."

 

Ash shrugged, "Okay," and returned the card to Boaz.

 

Feeling obliged to say something, Boaz stamped down the “What the fuck just happened?” and mumbled a feeble "Thanks, man" before following Tom out the door.

 

Once outside, Jake pulled him aside to speak to him in a serious manner, which did nothing to alleviate his confusion and growing panic. "You best be paying 'im, Bo. I gave 'im me word ya would."

 

"I will," Boaz assured him, a little unnerved by the sudden change in character.

 

"Good, good. See, 'cos if you dun't, I gotta pay 'im outta me own pocket, 'cos I gave 'im me word, see?"

 

"Yeah, yeah I understand. Thanks for that." Boaz’ mood slumped. His newfound ‘friends’ had just managed to swindle him out of two grand, and he’d only known them a day, if that.

 

"Cheer up," Jake smiled. "Now let's go 'ave that drink, yeah?"

 

Boaz realised that if he had to pay Ash a shitload of money, he probably shouldn't go wasting what little he had on drinks.

 

"Not to worry, first night's on us, innit boys?"

 

Buzzer and Tom didn't seem to mind. Delia just raised an eyebrow, and Boaz wasn't sure if she was asking if he was serious, or implying something else.

 

So he pretended he didn't notice and followed them to the bar.

[Next>>]

Of all the chapters of all the fics in all of my 'to-update' list, I had to write on this one...
 

That Story or 10 Reasons Why Priestly Doesn't Like Chicago

1. The Little Old Lady | 2. The Weather | 3. The Computer Genius | 4. The Bars | 5. The Crazed Psycho | 6. The Women | 7. The Tripper | 8. The Lost Boy | 9. The Skateboard | 10. The Little Old Lady (Again) | 11. Epilogue

___________________________________

 

The next day wasn't any better for Boaz. He woke up to the dreary onslaught of rain patpatpating his window and an ache in his back from sleeping on an unfamiliar and painfully unused couch. He roused himself to his feet and stretched, his mind trying to kick into gear plans for what he could do today. The television was already out; he'd discovered last night that the only channels it had connected were news and weather. He sighed. At least I can eat something, if I go real slow it could pass the time until lunch.

 

As he was eating the only cereal in the house, he spotted a note for him on the counter.

 

Bo, it read,

 

Delera said you needed work. Phil needs hands packing at his warehouse. Start at 9.

 

Underneath was a rushed set of lines supposedly indicating a map that he could neither make heads nor tails out of. And a quick glance at the clock told him that it was five past ten.

 

His eyes wandered back to the couch with longing.

 

Some unmeasurable amount of duty restrained him though, and he quickly changed and headed out into the rain, which was now a light drizzle.

 

Halfway down the street, he was so busy trying to decipher his uncle's scribble that he didn't notice the skateboard in his path until he was lying face-first on the pavement with a sprained wrist.

 

Today sucks, his mind accurately informed him and he struggled to his feet. It was raining, he was late and now out of nowhere a skateboard had shown up and tripped him. Oh, and the temperature seemed to have dropped so now he was wet, hurt and freezing.

 

He quickly looked around for the possible owner of his misfortune and, unable to see anyone, stamped his foot down on it in ownership. With one last glance at the map, he pushed off and rode down the street, slippery surface be damned. (Well, on the outside at least. On the inside he was careful not to go too fast he'd have trouble stopping.)

 

After twenty minutes he managed to locate the warehouse. He jumped off the skateboard, leaned it against the wall and headed in out of the cold.

 

Phil was an older sort of man with a slight belly and a permanent frown. He also smelled strongly of cigar smoke, which kind of made sense as he was smoking one when Boaz approached.

 

"You Jasper's kid?" He grunted.

 

"His nephew," Boaz corrected, but Phil didn't seem to care about the details.

 

"You were s'posed to be here an hour and a half ago."

 

"Yeah, the directions weren't exactly easy." He held up the paper as evidence. Phil's frown deepened as he tried to make sense of the lines. When he couldn't he instead asked,

 

"What happened to your face, you get in a fight?"

 

When Boaz checked, he realised he was bleeding just above his left eyebrow. "No, I... uhh..."

 

"Got no time for fighting, boy. You come here and you work, that's all."

 

"Yeah, sure, uhh, sir."

 

With one last grunt, Phil foistered him off to a stocky blond named Jake, who aside from showing him the ropes, was much more easy-going.

 

"Dun't worry about Phil, 'ee's not as bad as'ee seems.” He led him down to the back. “So, wha’ brings ya to Chicago?”

 

“Boaz,” his mother sighed as she appeared in the room. “Why don’t you do something productive?”

 

“I am,” He replied, slouched in front of the couch. He flicked through the channels with a precision that only came from years of experience. “I’m… Preparing myself.”

 

Delera sighed and started picking up the rubbish he was currently ensconced in. “Ally McBeal isn’t on for another two hours; you have plenty of time to go and get a job before then. Or do the washing. Or even put your clothes in one pile for washing.”

 

He didn’t bother to move as she yanked out the empty chip packet behind his back “No, I’m preparing myself for life. It’s a delicate…” Stop there, Simpsons is on. No wait, it’s the elephant episode. Come back if nothing else is on. Flick. “…process that requires a lot of…” Stargate? Eh, the movie was kinda lame. Flick. “…focus, or I’ll…” Skinflick? “…fail…” Wait, that’s not right… “at… life…” Oh, it’s Species II. Flick.

 

“That doesn’t make any sense, Boaz. Boaz?”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

Delera snatched the remote. “Pack a bag. You’re going to Chicago.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since right now.”

 

He reached for the remote. “That’s a little short notice, don’t you think?”

 

She raised it out of his reach. “I’m giving you a day to prepare.”

 

"The wind," he replied. "I hear you guys are famous for it."

 

Jake let out a bark of laughter. "Yell fit in ‘ere alright, that’s fer sure."

 

Jake then taught him how to operate the forklift, to which Boaz spent the rest of the day on. "Yer s'posed te 'ave a licence fer it, but considerin' ya can't do much on account of yer wrist, how's about we just keep it t'ween us, yeah?"

 

Which suited Boaz just fine. By the end of the day, things were looking up. He'd made some new friends; A tall lanky college student named Tom, a short excitable guy that seemed to work three part-time jobs nicknamed "Buzzer" by Jake ("'Cos 'ee's always buzzin' round like a bee, see?"), and Delia, a disinterested brunette who worked out the front in sales and only came in when the customers started to annoy her.

 

After Phil returned to pay everyone, Jake clapped him on the back and said, " 'Ow's about we go out for a drink, yeah? Welcome ya in the traditional sense."

 

Not wanting to decline, but also not being twenty-one yet, Boaz hesitated. Tom seemed to pick up on the reason and said. "Don't worry, I'm not legal yet either. Jake has a friend who can fix you up,  shouldn't be a problem."

 

When Jake agreed ("S'gonna cost ya, o'course,"), Boaz feigned consternation. "Alright, I'll go on one condition:

 

"You tell me where the hell you're from."

 

Jake just laughed, slapped him on the back one last time and headed out the door.

 

Delia walked up next to him and said, "We've all tried, he just won't answer. Tom thinks he's English, Buzzer thinks he's Australian. Phil doesn't care so long as he works."

 

"What do you think?"

 

"I think he's faking it." Delia replied. "Wouldn't be the only thing he's faking, either." She walked off to join the others, leaving Boaz to catch up.

[Next>>]

________________________

Plot? Oh it's there, you just have to squint. Alternatively, you can wait until the end of the fic and then go, 'oh yeah, she was telling the truth!'

Over the years I've read some bizarre things on this porn machine internet and, as far as SPN crossovers go, I felt it was time for a little reflection. Thus prompting the following awards:

The most obscure thing I've read (but justified given the context):
God coming down to change Sams' sheets so he doesn't know Dean had sex.

("Happiness is a Warm Gun", from Just Another Reason to Hate the Government by vilnolin[Dark Angel]).

The line that had me cursing the heavens:
“I’m an Air Force major. A pilot. A leader of a crack commando team. An American. A football fan. Some people call me the space cowboy, some call me the gangster of love.” - I had that song stuck in my head for months!

("Younger Son" by maychorian[Stargate: Atlantis])

The story that was so awesome I forgave the wincest: "Emeralds and Poppies" by lyra_wing[The Wizard of Oz]

The greatest image in my head: "Give me new phoenix wings" by tigriswolf[Ten Inch Hero]

The update I anxiously await: "The Alec Winchester Series" by jinnifanfic[Dark Angel]

The best written: They are the gods of the open road and the hunt, of classic rock and stupid luck, of truck stops and greasy diners, of dollar beers and pool halls.

They remember things they've never seen. They remember the hammer strikes of the first railroad – the precursor to Route 66, drawing together the high-collar east and the dusty wild west. They remember the first time Ford's engine roared to life. They remember the paving of the first highway, the invention of the drive-through, the first time an electric guitar sang and wailed. Everything that makes them who they are, makes America what it is. They know it all like they know their own names.

They are the spirit of the wanderer and the pioneer, the soul of America. This impossible country imagined in lofty dreams, built with the sweat and broken backs of the day laborer and the blue-collar man. They stand for the underdog, the few and the brave who will fight for what they believe in, no matter what the odds.

They are the feeling conjured by the sight of an empty highway, leading to some unknown destination beyond the horizon line. That sinking sensation in the pit of the stomach and the thrill in the heart, when the taste of adventure is as palpable as blood on the tongue.

That is where they live.

("Dust in the Wind" by lyra_wing[American Gods])

The idea that drove me crazy: Dean opening a pie shop - oh, the suggestions! 'gingerbread peach and plum crumble', 'mango coconut custard', 'kahlua and chocolate custard', 'blackberry and white peach', 'dragonfruit and strawberry' and my personal favourite; 'white chocolate boysenberry crumble'... PIE!

("Coeur d'Coeurs" by lyra_wing[Pushing Daisies])

The one that intrigued me the most: "Two to Tango" by redrikki[Dollhouse]

The one that makes me smile when I see an update: "The Wellspring" by scourgeofeurope[Dark Angel]

The one that I keep reading and don't know why: "Alexander Harrs Winchester" by Michelle Winchester [Buffy the Vampire Slayer]

The most bizarre crossover that just worked: My Supernatural Smackdown by gekizetsu [Scrubs]

Characterisation that was so on-the-spot that I just fell in love with them: Temperance Brennan ("But What Are Your Thoughts on Yaoi?" by with_a_kay[Bones])

The funnest crossover to read: "FBI-Smell-a-Fake" by monjinator[Psych]

Teh awesome: "S.O.S." - video by saroona[Dark Angel]

The authors whose works I will read no matter the content: tigriswolf, lyra_wingand redrikki.


Here endeth round one of the OF Awards. If you happen to be listed and would like a momento, here be they:
Feel free to take, I only request that you link back to this page.

Inspired by madam_rosmerta 's Top Thirty Dean Winchester Facts (and the second list), I've started making icons to that effect:



I'll update it whenever I get around to making more.

The Road So Far:
Stage I - Denial and/or Isolation (aka Avoiding the Problem by Escaping to Another Reality)
Stage I/A - Leaving the Second Reality for a Third
Stage I/B - Realising You Can't Run Far Enough
Stage II - Anger (aka Shooting the First Thing in Sight)
Stage II/A - When You Can't Hold It In Any Longer
Stage II/B - Taking a Breath
Stage III - Bargaining (aka Tit for Tat)
Stage III/A - Assessing Your Position
Stage III/B - Bringing a New Player to the Table
Stage III/C - Bluffing

---

It was pure luck that Sam happened to stumble upon the marionette the way he did. Though to be accurate, it was less of a ‘stumble upon’ and more of a ‘run over’.

After Dean had departed for what was presumably his own reality, Sam was left with nothing but his thoughts. And while they originally sifted through the ‘crazy for some, normal for us’ absurdity of running into his brother’s doppelganger, it quickly dissolved back into the melancholic state that he was in before Dean had shown up in the first place. Dean was gone, and he was “moping”, as Bobby had called it.

Though the man had claimed – on more than one occasion – to have loved Dean like a son, Sam just couldn’t believe that his brother’s loss would have affected Bobby as much as it had him. They were brothers; they’d spent most of their lives together. They’d saved each others’ asses more than once (and if Sam had to think on it, he’d realise that it was usually Dean doing the saving), and they could argue with a glance. Sam used to think there were two constants in his life; his brother and his father. Since his father’s death nearly two years ago, Sam was left with Dean. And now that they were both gone, Sam felt like he was a ship without an anchor, floating along in life. His brother helped ground him, he was the post by which he measured life – whether it was as someone he wanted to be, or admittedly in some cases, what he didn’t want to be. He was his yardstick, his best friend. His brother. Bobby, for all his avuncular affections, didn’t have that. So in Sam’s mind, he couldn’t possibly fathom how hard his brother’s death had affected him.

It was during these ruminations that Sam had driven down the road on autopilot, and consequently missed the small figure that had skittered across the road at that moment. When he felt something go under the tires he slammed on the brakes.

Fearing he’d run over an animal or worse, a small child, he’d leapt from the car without his gun, which was still on the passenger seat. In hindsight he’d realise that was actually a good thing considering how ineffective it was the last time, and running around a suburban street toting a gun wouldn’t go down well.

After taking two rapid steps from the car he’d slowed to a halt. There was nothing there. The road was empty except for... was that a shoe? Some poor kid had lost a shoe? Sam felt a quick pang of sympathy; he knew what that was like.

As he got closer, he noticed that it was made of wood, and not only was it a shoe, but also a foot as well. He spun around, his eyes skimming the houses and yards for any sign of movement. Minutes went by before Sam realised that the marionette wouldn’t have to move at all. It didn’t have muscles that would get stiff, and it didn’t need to breathe. It could wait in its hiding place until Sam gave up and left. Which meant that Sam had to go looking for it.

Not wanting to give away his plan too soon, Sam stayed where he was and calculated possibly hiding spots. The house on the left was out; it was too far from the kerb and had an empty lawn. The marionette couldn’t have made it there with only one foot in the time it took Sam to get out of the car. The house next to it had a tall picket fence that Pinocchio couldn’t climb mono-limbed, and the gate was shut. Sam casually turned to the other side of the street.

The lot opposite the picket fence was empty, and a “for sale” sign was plunked in the middle of wild grass. It was possible that it was hiding in there somewhere. Sam checked the last house just in case. It was a mirror of it’s opposing building; house far back, wide lawn. But it also had a row of trees down the side, and a bush next to the brick letterbox.

Sam turned his head back to the empty lot and pretended to search it whilst his mind considered the bush. It was close, possibly the closest point of cover from the street, and could easily fit a small child, even a wooden one. He took two steps towards both the lot and house when he stopped. There was one other hiding place that was the closest to the street, because it was on the street.

Grateful no one was around to witness his stupidity, he spun around and lowered himself to the ground under the car in one fluid movement. He hadn’t taken into account that just because he couldn’t see the marionette, it didn’t necessarily mean it couldn’t see him, and consequently be ready for Sam’s sneak-attack, which it was.

When Sams’ head appeared under the car, the marionette lashed out with its other foot; catching Sam in the eye. It then ducked out along the side and ran over to his injured leg, stomping on it with its shoeless one. Using the moment of pain as a distraction, the marionette limped for cover.

A short cry escaped Sam at the flare of pain in his leg, but he overcame it quickly (years of practice). He swept out his other freakishly long limb and caught the marionette. As it stumbled, Sam leaned over and snatched it up by its remaining foot.

Dangling upside down, the marionette’s mouth opened and closed in soundless cries before it reached up and clamped its mouth around Sam’s wrist. Reflexively, Sam swung his arm into the trunk of the car in an effort to detach it without letting go of its leg. However beg wooden it didn’t feel any pain, and only served to leave a noticeable dint in the Impala.

As the marionette’s grip tightened, Sam felt more than heard the breaking of the bones in his wrist. He grit his teeth to stem the cry of pain and grudgingly let go.

The marionette made it all the way to the ground before Sam kicked it over face-first and then stood on its back. Unfortunately not being human, its arms had the ability to work just as well backwards as forwards, and Sam had to stumble back to the car – grinding the marionette along the road with his foot – and grab the bag in the passenger seat before it could properly latch onto his ankle.

He picked Pinocchio up by the neck this time and quickly stuffed him into the bag. With a little pain in closing the zip (both hands were needed), he finally tossed it into the trunk along with its missing foot.

He hopped back into the car and rang Bobby. “I got it, any ideas on how to get rid of it?”

“One. Meet me at Chicago, and bring the box.”

Sam clicked the phone shut and started the engine. The low rumbling from the front did nothing to quell the ceaseless thumps coming from the back, and Sam decided to turn on the stereo. Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven started halfway through and Sam immediately turned it off. This was Dean’s music. Truth be told, it was actually his Dad’s music, but Sam long ago stopped associating it with him. It seemed the only time it was his father’s music was when Sam was criticising Dean’s lack of individuality. Why did he do that? Sam grew increasingly despondent as he started to recall all the negative things he’d said to or about his brother, especially since he’d rejoined him. It was only when a particularly loud thump came from the trunk that he snapped out of his musings long enough to register the world around him.

Not wanting to pursue his previous train of thought he decided to listen to some music. His hand made it halfway to the dial when he stopped, recalling the vicious cycle he had just fallen into. He needed to do something about the car tunes.

The thumping – as annoying as it was – ultimately helped as it was erratic enough that it prevented Sam from wandering back down depression lane.

When he pulled up at the locker, the back was suspiciously quiet. He went around and made sure the lock hadn’t opened whilst he was driving and then went inside, confident that it was still in the trunk.

The first thing he noticed was that the door was still open and made a note to close it on his way out. The second thing he noticed was the mirror, standing in the middle of the room like a beacon. Sam made his way over to it, a slither of hope shining through.

Unfortunately when he was close enough, all he saw was his own reflection staring back at him. He walked around to the back for some sort of switch but found nothing. It was most likely controlled by the remote Stanson had. He looked around for it before the thought came to him; they probably took it with them.

After a few moments of intense staring proved that the mirror wouldn’t turn on by sheer willpower, he turned away to look for the marionette’s case. When he got back to the car he checked again to make sure that it hadn’t escaped, before tossing the case in the backseat and driving away.

Most of his thoughts kept straying back to the other Dean, and what he might be up to. For all they had talked, Sam didn’t actually find out much about his brother. He heard a story of an upbringing he’d never had, but no hint of his brother’s current exploits. More specifically, the exploits that would result in him arriving in an alternate reality and not being phased by both that and the idea of a living marionette. Sure, he’d seemed a little hesitant at first, but his Dean had the same reaction to vampires, and he’d been hunting for years. Whatever he was doing, it obviously had something to do with the supernatural. Sam wondered if they military had a division allocated to deal with such things, which led to him wondering if they had one in this universe as well. If so, they could have signed up and saved themselves a lot of trouble with the police.

The rest of Sam’s journey was spent ignoring the stray thoughts about his brother by contemplating the concept of hunting, not only legally, but being paid to as well. After all they’d been through, he could definitely use the dental.

--

When he got to Chicago some hours later, Bobby gave him directions to a crematorium. He parked outside and was greeted in the usual way, “Nice shiner ye go there.”

Sam glared. Well, as much as he could considering his eye had started to swell. He tossed Bobby the keys and fetched the case. “So what’s the plan?”

Bobby noticed that Dean was absent but didn’t say anything. “From what I‘ve read, there shouldn’t be any reason it wouldn’t be vulnerable to fire. We just have to make sure it stays there long enough to burn. Last thing we want is a pissed-off, flaming, cursed puppet on our hands.”

Sam dropped the box next to Bobby and tenderly prodded his wrist. “You had to fly back to South Dakota to figure that out?”

Bobby levelled him a look. “No. I had to fly back to find this.” He held up a book. “This has the binding spells used on the case. We set them again and it won’t be able to get out until it’s too late.”

Sam nodded. “Okay, then let’s do it.”

“You mean ‘me’,” Bobby sarcastically replied as he opened the book to the marked page and retrieved a sharpie from his pocket. While he was going over the lines in the order required, he sent Sam off to unlock the doors to the crematorium.

When he finished, he straightened up and adjusted his cap. It didn’t escape his notice that Sam had yet to return. He followed Sams’ footsteps to the crematorium and called out for him. When no reply was forthcoming, he swore and pulled out his gun.

A quick sweep of the place revealed no evidence out of the ordinary, and no sign of Sam either. Bobby flipped open his phone.

“I’m sorry, but this number is unavailable at the moment...”

With no leads and no idea where to start looking, Bobby returned to the Impala and shoved a struggling marionette back into its case before sending it to its fiery end, all the while wondering what had happened to the younger Winchester.

When the job was done, he swept the building one final time before finding a clue that was more of a hindrance than a help: sulphur.

And then his phone rang.

[onwards]

I want to pretend I've been doing something in the past month because I haven't been writing a whole lot, so here's some banners +2 icons I've made:

Banners

-> "...I'm a symbol. I'm a symbol of the human ability to be able to suppress the selfish and hateful tendencies that rule the major part of our lives. If... you can't believe, if you can't accept anything on faith, then you're doomed for a life dominated by doubt." - Miracle on 34th Street, (The hole point of Christmas, and consequently the movie, in my opinion.)

-> Inspired by sa_thinks "Between the Earth and the Sky", companion piece to lyra_wing's "Dust in the Wind".

-> Because Ed and Harry had a quote too awesome to pass up.

->Watchmen. Jeff. 'Nuff said.

-> The idea actually came from maychorian's Shep'n'Sam fic, but I felt the lyrics also apply to Mal.

And they, if nothing else, are testament to why I let bannerholiclive up to her name.

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	This was wholly because of maichan2's Fun with Real Audio (part 4).
	And lucky last: This is made for a friend who said the quote after she saw Jared make that facial expression. Considering the shot is from him strangling Dean at the end of 4x21, I think the writers/actora need to admit that maybe they deserve part of the blame for the creation of wincest...

 This part is being slipped in between the last two for story flow.


 [ Prologue | Over the Rainbow | Lost and Found | Through the Looking Glass | Twenty Years Too Late ]

Through the Looking Glass

“Look, while I’m flattered – and believe me I am. There is nothing more I’d like to do than teach a bunch of kids–” Dean made a face behind Dumbledore’s back. “I’m sort of busy looking for my brother, and when I find him I’m pretty sure we won’t be hanging around the motherland. So, do you think you could help me get the word out that I’m looking for him or something?”

Dean was beginning to think he was wrong in his earlier estimation of the old man he was currently chasing after. The first thing he did after saving Dean’s ass from the wizard-police was offer him a job teaching Muggle Studies (huh?); which inferred that he seemed to think Dean was a capable teacher after only knowing him for five minutes. And without even waiting for a reply he had started off back into the throng of tents with a speed belying his age. Dean had nearly lost him a few times now, and it was starting to wear thin. If he didn’t stop in the next five seconds and answer his questions, Dean was going to just drop the whole thing and go back to looking for his brother.

As though he could read minds – and God, what a disturbing notion that is - Dumbledore (again with the names!) stopped abruptly and spun to face him. He had dropped the distracted look that often affected the Attention Deficit or highly stoned and was peering into Deans’ eyes in a rare moment of utter seriousness which made Dean doubt his earlier doubts about the man.

“Mister Scott, I regret that I am the one to inform you, however I feel that it is prudent not to lead you along on a ‘wild goose chase’, as it were.

“You brother is not currently here.”

Dean scoffed. “You can’t know that. There’s at least,” He glanced around at made an estimation based on what he could see, “four hundred people here, and there’s no way you went and asked them all in the ten minutes I’ve been tailing you since we met. Hell, you don’t know what he looks like.”

Dumbledore cocked his head to the side. “This tall,” he gestured, “with brown hair and hazel eyes. Wearing similar clothing to you, and has a mole on his left cheek.”

While yes, the height, hair and eyes were all generic – probably not the clothes for this crowd – Dean didn’t recall telling anyone that his brother had a mole, which drained all the easy-going nature right out of him. “Where is he?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. You knew he has a mole. I didn’t even know he had a mole until you reminded me. Where is he?”

Instead of answering, Dumbledore posed another question; “When you see your brother in your mind’s eye, does he not have a mole?”

Well yeah, he did. But Dean didn’t really pay attention to it and crap the guy can read minds. Dean’s open mouth went through a series of tics and spasms as he tried to formulate a response considering that new piece of information.

“Rest assured Mr. Scott, to know a person’s mind takes considerable time and effort. However, if there is something quite pressing, it is often lying on the surface for even the most novice of occlumens to see. Quite frankly, it would be difficult not to notice.”

He didn’t know what an ‘occlumens’ was but he did know that Albus Dumbledore, the guy he was currently pointing to, needed to “Cut that freaky shit out, and tell me where my brother is.”

“As I have already stated, I do not know.” Dumbledore repeated. “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss this?”

“Perhaps you should stop trying to screw with me,” Dean threatened, his hand twitching towards his gun.

Dumbledore noticed. “Do you really think that is a wise decision considering where you are?”

A carnival full of wizards, right. Dean glared but his hand stopped moving.

“I truly am trying to help you, and I feel that is something you might need right now, Mister Scott.”

He seemed awfully sincere, but the tentative trust they had built earlier wasn’t quite back yet, so he simply folded his arms. “What do you want?”

“To help you locate your brother.”

“Ahuh, and what do you want in return?”

“I’m sorry?” Though from the look on his face, he knew perfectly well what he was implying.

“No one goes around helping people for nothing. Nuns maybe.”

Dumbledore considered this. “What about hunters? Surely they do not risk themselves for the sparse remuneration they receive?”

“They’re all driven by revenge and grief,” Dean countered. “And I told you to cut that out.”

“And you? Are you driven by revenge and grief?”

“Cut. It. Out.” Dean growled.

“It does not take a mind reader to know that you are an earnest soul. Your actions say it clear as day.” Point made, he clapped his hands and glanced around. “Now might we perhaps sit down? My legs are starting to tire. It’s terrible when your own body is the one that reminds you that you are no longer as young as you once thought.”

Dean folded his arms, and Dumbledore simply shrugged it off. He pulled out his own wand and waved it around. A table and two chairs appeared in the vacant space that was occupied by a tent not ten minutes ago. A quick glance showed that a great deal of people had dispersed during the course of their conversation, and at this rate they would all most likely be gone by sundown. It’s easy to be efficient when you can rely on magic for all the hard labour. It’s a wonder they’re not all fat.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, so you’re sure that Sam isn’t here?”

Dumbledore had since summoned a teacup and kettle and was currently adding the sugar. Great, I’ve fallen through the looking glass and am sitting at a tea party waiting to hear advice from the Mad Hatter.

“I’m quite certain. Tea?”

Dean ignored the offer. “Okay, so then I need to get back to America. Maybe he didn’t get sent here because he didn’t step in the… circle…” Dean trailed off as he recalled the purpose of said circle. He slapped himself on the head. “God, you’re such an idiot!”

Of course Sam wasn’t here, because he didn’t step in the freaky-ass time circle. He was still probably in Good Ole’ 2008 patting himself on the back on his genius plan. Meanwhile Dean was stuck in-

“What year is it?”

“Nineteen Seventy-four.” Dumbledore replied, as though people often forgot which year they were in.

Dean blinked. “I’m sorry, what? Nineteen Seventy-four? I’m in Nineteen Seventy-four? In England?” Thirty-four years. He was thirty-four years in the past. “Oh this is fan-friggin’-tastic.”

Dumbledore didn’t pay him any mind. “If you don’t mind my asking, which year were you hoping it would be?”

Dean appraised him for a minute before he decided that he really had nothing to lose. He sighed and sat down. “Two Thousand and Eight.”

Dumbledore closed his hands to form a pistol and rested his chin in the L. “Hmm, that is quite certainly an unfortunate circumstance you find yourself in.”

“Wow, you are truly a wise and insightful man.” Dean drawled.

“It is not often I find myself in such a position.” He mused.

“Yeah, and what position’s that?”

“At a loss.”

“I got a suggestion,” Without waiting for an answer he said, “You wave your little wand around and send me back.”

“Would that it were that simple, Mister Scott.”

“Well if a muggle – and I’m assuming that’s the right word here – can get himself sent to the past, surely a guy who practices magic like it’s going out of style can send him back no problem.”

“Time travel is a difficult process,” Dumbledore explained. When Dean went to retort he added, “And a highly illegal one, even by wizarding standards. Even if we validated your claim to be from the future – and I do believe you – it is not so simple ‘waving a little wand around’ and sending you back. The capabilities and technologies for such things have all been destroyed, lest they fall into the wrong hands.”

“And yet, I’m here.” Dean pointed out.

“The dark magicks which are available to muggles that no doubt brought you here are not for us to police. Whilst we may think we know better, it is truly not our position to judge what is right for another culture.” Dean got the impression that there was more to that comment than he knew. “We are a self-regulated society and have resolutely decided not to interfere in the affairs of muggles unless it is to resolve an issue we have created.”

“So you’re not going to help.”

“Oh no, I’ll assist you in any way I can.”

“Then why did you just say-”

“To inform you not to expect such support from others.”

So basically, it was him and a crazy old man against the world. Joy. “Anything else I should know?”

“There are a few things, actually.”

“Shoot.” When Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, he waved him to continue.

“The most pressing of these is that we are currently at war.”

He sighed. “Of course you are. With who, the Russians?”

“His name is Lord Voldemort…”

[onwards]

Stage III/C – Bluffing

“You so owe me for this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I mean really owe me. You have to bail me out the next five hundred times Daniel starts going on about something boring.”

“Hey!”

Jack just shrugged to say that was what he thought about it, and he couldn’t change it so why bother? Daniel sighed to say he should have known better than to expect otherwise.

Dean ignored them both in order to make sure that Sam hadn’t returned whilst he was gone. He had taken a lot longer to relocate this reality than he would have liked. Not to mention the next few hours Carter had spent trying to create some sort of device that would hopefully avert the Entropic Cascade Failure process. At least that’s what he thought she said, he had tuned out when she started talking science.

So here they were, three days and fourteen hours after the mission had originally been given a go, ready to move out once the clock ticked over two hours and they had confirmation Carter’s device worked.

In the meantime Dean was ascertaining nothing was out of place since his last visit, and trying to formulate a way to get in contact with his brother.

“So, what about this other brother of yours? Any way we can get in touch with him?” Jack called out as he picked at the skull that housed the shotgun.

“I’m working on it.”

“Good, good.” Jack left the bone alone and looked around the room. “Have you thought of, I dunno, giving him a call?”

Well, there was the phone. There was also the slight problem of him not having his brother’s number. And a flash from earlier reminded him that calling directory assistance and asking for Sam Winchester might not go as well as planned.

“I don’t think that’s an option,” Dean answered.

“Right, because that would be too easy.” Dean heard Jack mutter. “Should’ve known.”

Jack went back to poking and prodding this and that. Daniel had found the inscriptions on the boxes fascinating and Dean had to remind him not to open them. Teal’c, who still looked military despite the street clothes they’d given him, was surveying the room in that stoic way of his. And Carter was shifting her gaze between her clock and the device attached to her other wrist.

“Sir, it appears the CEEC-F works, we are free to move around in this reality without threat of experiencing Entropic Cascade Failure.”

“That just leaves all those other threats to watch out for.” Jack said dryly. “Like puppets. And bones.” He looked at the skull one more time. “Alright.” He sighed. “Let’s get ready to move out.”

While Carter and Dean checked their weapons before concealing them under their clothing – this was a plain clothed op. after all – Jack stepped back over to the mirror and popped back into their reality. “Alright, we’ll be back by eleven, and remember: no wild parties. I don’t want to have to come back to find I have to call your mothers to come and get you.”

Sergeant Bates’ cheeks twitched, but he nodded regardless.

Jack flicked back into the other reality. “Alright, let’s go hunt down Sid.”

“Well actually...” Dean started. He stopped when he realised that Jack cared about the semantics about as much as he did. “That’s a good idea, Colonel.”

“Thank you Colonel.” Jack gave a little bow, and Dean used the cue to take point.

That didn’t stop Jack from making remarks though. “So, America’s Most Wanted...”

“Apparently.”

“Rob a bank? Burn down houses? Kick puppies?”

“I was not aware that cruelty to animals warranted such a forceful reaction on the part of your government, O’Neill.”

They stopped just outside the freight elevator, and Carter stepped forward to press the button.

“It doesn’t.”

Teal’c seemed to consider the statement for a second, and then tilted his head to indicate he understood. Dean snickered, and when Jack looked to him he covered it by ushering everyone in. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that Teal’c pointed it out on purpose. He wondered how many other times Teal’c had made a comment at Jack’s expense that went over everyones’ heads.

“Okay, so any ideas for when he hit the ground? Head for the nearest Gapetto? What?”

“From the report it seems the most likely target will be a small child,” Daniel recounted. “Possibly somewhere populated would be our best bet?”

“Would it not be prudent to contact the Sam Winchester of this reality first?” Teal’c supplied.

“Teal’c is right.” Carter agreed. “We are basically walking into an unknown situation. Too much time has passed since Colonel Winchester left-”

“You’re telling me,” He muttered.

“-Which leaves us facing a lot of unknowns. For all we know, his brother may have already thwarted this,” She seemed hesitant to say it, “...cursed puppet.”

“Which would make this entire mission moot.” Jack commented. “Alright, we’ll assume he hasn’t for now,” He turned to Dean. “I’d hate to have you owe me so much for doing so little. It almost doesn’t seem fair.”

“A-ha.”

“Which leads us back to getting in touch with him?”

“I’m sorry, while this all seems fascinating,” Daniel interjected, “Tracking and curses are not really my areas of expertise.” He paused. “No more than any of you, come to think of it. But some of the inscriptions on the boxes – not to mention what’s inside them – may have be of some sort of value that John Winchester didn’t know about. I mean, he had a Quantum Mirror in there – who’s to say that he may not had stumbled on some other piece of alien technology worth investigating?”

“So you want to go back and poke around the boxes?”

Dean spoke up. “Woah, hey woah – bad idea. I speak from experience: this is not something we want to be doing.”

Daniel held up a hand to stave him off. “I’m just saying; we’re here – it’s certainly worth looking into.”

Jack turned to Carter, who shrugged. “He does have a point, sir.”

“Of course he does. Alright, Carter, you and Daniel go poke around the wacky gadgets-” As Dean looked ready to protest, he added. “-But do not open them, are we clear? You’ll just have to make do with the pretty pretty pictures.”

Carter nodded. “Yes sir.”

Daniel sighed. “Right, sure.”

“Atta boy.” Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll be on the radio if anything happens. Check in every two hours, and tell Sergeant...”

“Bates,” Dean supplied.

“...What’s going on.”

“Will do, sir.”

With that said, Jack, Teal’c and Dean stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor. They waited until Daniel and Carter disappeared from sight before continuing outside.

“So how’s that plan coming along, Winchester?”

“Working on it.”

The sun was well up now, and like last time the storage locker was deserted. Though Dean hadn’t really suspected anything different. He was a little saddened to see the Impala missing from the spot where he remembered it though.

“Winchester? Colonel? Hey, Dean!”

He looked up to Jack’s concerned face. “Yeah?”

“You al-”

“I’m fine, just trying to think of something.” He replied. He was getting kind of sick of that question. More-so, he was getting sick of people looking at him like they wanted to ask that question. He turned away.

“Okay. T suggested we try calling directory assistance to find your brother’s phone number. Right now I’m thinking it’s all we got.”

Dean waved a hand, distracted. The sign in front of him caught his attention. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” He turned back to them. “But there is one number we could try.” He thumbed over his shoulder to Black Rock Storage’s billboard, complete with a phone number underneath.

--

They’d rung the number on the board, only to find themselves talking to a man who seemed half-asleep despite the hour. He’d given them the address of his “office”, which Dean suspected was nothing more than his kitchen table – if he even had one – and now Jack and Teal’c were going in under the pretence of renting a locker. Dean was absent in case the him from this reality had already met Dave Teak, Self-Storage Entrepreneur.

Jack looked around the dank corridor for number four. When they found it, Jack was hesitant to knock on the door for fear he’d catch something. Teal’c sensed his trepidation but did nothing to ease it.

“It appears Colonel Winchester was correct in his earlier summation of Mr. Teak.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Jack countered and, with a slight cringe, banged on the door.

A ruffling sound was heard before someone shuffled towards the door. It opened to a weedy looking man with unkempt straw hair. He greeted them in a ratty dressing gown and boxers.

“O’Neill?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

“Ahuh.” Dave turned away and started padding back into the apartment.

Teal’c leaned down to Jack’s ear. “It appears you owe Colonel Winchester twenty dollars, O’Neill.”

Ever the eloquent one, Jack grumbled a “Shut up,” before following Dave inside.

Ducking rubbish and a half eaten bowl of cereal they came to stop at a small kitchenette table at which Dave sat. It was covered in everything under the sun, and yet was still the cleanest part of the whole apartment.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about the clutter – my girlfriend kicked me out so I haven’t exactly been Mr. Respectable.”

Teal’c raised an eyebrow which Jack interpreted as him silently informing him that he now owed Dean forty dollars. Jack chose to ignore it. “It’s alright.”

“Okay, so you’re looking for a, uhh, locker, right?” He started shifting the papers and clothes on the table. “I know I got the keys here somewhere.”

“Actually we’re looking for someone who already has a locker.”

Dave stopped. “Huh?”

“Number twenty-six. We were hoping you had a way to get in contact with him?”

Dave seemed lost at the turn in conversation “Uhh, I don’t think I’m allowed to give out information like that.” He then spared a glance at Teal’c, who was pulling off the silent intimidation by merely staring at him patiently. Dave swallowed noticeably.

Jack pulled out his military credentials (should he run into any trouble in this reality) and showed them to Dave. “This is a matter of national security, Mr. Teak. We need to get in touch with him.”

At those magical words, Dave seemed to finally wake up. “Yeah, sure. I uhh, got the information here somewhere...” He started to rummage again. “Funny thing, I had to call him last week – someone broke into his locker again. Do you suppose it has anything to do with that?”

Jack spared a glance with Teal’c. “We’re not at liberty to say.”

“Sure, I understand.” He picked up a rumpled sheet and tried to smooth it out before he handed it over. “Here’s his details.”

Jack spared a glance at it before he handed it to Teal’c. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem, I’m always willing to help out my country in any way possible.” He paused. “Hey, I’m not in any kind of danger, am I?”

Jack took one last look around the room. “Most likely.”

Daves’ eyes widened. “What?”

“Your country thanks you.” Jack nodded and then followed Teal’c out the door.

When they got outside, Dean hopped off the brick fence and came to greet them. “Got it?”

“Indeed we did,” Teal’c replied, handing over the paper.

Dean unfolded it and pulled out the cell phone he’d acquired whilst they were inside. “No, I meant the forty dollars you owe me.”

Jack looked ready to chastise Teal’c for ratting him out, before he remembered he was wearing his ear piece. “How about we make it three hundred lectures instead of five?”

“Yeah, sure.” He put the phone to his ear, a smirk on his face. “I’ll break even before the mission’s finished at this rate. Hello, uh, Bobby, is it?...”

[onwards]

I got into the apples and decided to re-write ABBA's Dancing Queen with a Supernatural context. And no, I'm not apologising.

( crack under the cut )

This is fordavincis_girl, who prompted me to update.

And I think it's about time I brought Jack O'Neill into the story, he's waited long enough.

---

Stage III/B – Bringing a New Player to the Table

---

Sergeant Bates was there to greet Dean when he returned to the locker, and through the mirror he could spy Stanson waiting on the other side. He looked slightly apprehensive and Dean knew him well enough to know what it meant.

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m about to get some news I really don’t want to be hearing?” He muttered.

“I don’t know, sir. I was only told to retrieve you.” Bates answered.

“Mission accomplished then,” Dean clapped him on the back at the same time he reached out to the mirror. Whilst Bates was getting his new bearings, Dean turned to Paul. “Spill.”

Stanson shifted uncomfortably. “Well, nothing has been confirmed, but...” From Dean’s impatient glare he got the hint that he wouldn’t find a way around delivering the news. “They want to scrub the mission.”

Dean glanced back to the mirror where his brother was out hunting down some kind of evil puppet all by himself. That didn’t bother Dean so much as weird him out. But considering all that happened in the last – he checked his watch – four hours (Really? Was that all?), he just wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Sam just yet. Especially considering he didn’t actually get to say goodbye.

He turned back to Stanson who, from the look on his face, had already figured it out before Dean did. He offered a sympathetic smile. “Debriefing is in thirty minutes. Is that enough time for you to pull out a miracle?”

“It’ll have to be.” Dean replied. “Thanks, Paul.”

“Don’t mention it.”

After a quick check-up in the infirmary, Dean darted into the showers and got changed. On his way out he happened to run into his miracle.

“Jack.”

O’Neill stopped short. “Winchester. Heard about your brother, that’s tough.”

Dean had long ago stopped being surprised at Jack’s ability to hear things before they even made it to the grapevine. Instead he jumped right into it. “Jack, I need a favour.”

“Sure.” The answer was instinctual, so he had to add a few addendums. “Wait, it doesn’t involve science, does it? Some old ruins? Something I really don’t want to be doing?”

Dean didn’t actually consider his answer, he just said no because he knew it was the quickest way to get Jack to agree.

“Then sure, what’s up?”

“It’s, well... It’s about Sam?”

Something unreadable crossed O’Neill’s face. “What about her?”

“I – wait, her?” Realisation dawned. “Oh, no I mean my brother Sam.”

“Oh.” Jack seemed to fall into ease. “I thought that was all sorted.”

“Not really.”

“George didn’t give you time to go see him and say goodbye?”

“No.”

Dean was right for banking on Jack seeing his plight, because at that answer, he seemed genuinely sincere. “Really?” That doesn’t sound like the General we all know and impersonate. Are you sure?”

“Not entirely. I haven’t actually spoken to him yet, but Paul gave me a heads up that he’s looking to decline my request.”

O’Neills’ eyebrows scrunched together. “Paul...?”

“Stanson.”

“Right.”

Dean suspected Jack still had no idea who Stanson was, but he wasn’t about to call him on it.

“So you want me to... do what exactly?”

Dean shrugged. “Back me up?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” Jack peered into his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” Dean replied. “Or I will be when I get the go ahead.”

Jack fell into step with Dean as they headed up to the briefing room. “Don’t worry. If there’s one thing I know about Hammond, it’s that he’s a softie at heart.”

--

Jack lounged in one of the chairs and began to spin it back and forth to amuse himself while he waited. Dean remained standing, even after General Hammond had taken his seat. He jumped in before Hammond could speak. “Sir, permission to-”

“Denied.”

“But sir-”

“Son, I think you need to hear what I have to say.”

Dean reluctantly took a seat.

“Now, given your recent circumstances, and Major Stanson’s report, I’m going to have to decline your request to return to see your brother.”

“But sir-”

“I know you may feel responsible for him, but it’s the opinion of both myself and Dr. Fraser that allowing you to return would be unhealthy to your grieving process.” When Dean looked ready to speak, Hammond continued. “If you were to return, you would most likely form an attachment to your brother which could very well compromise your judgement, do you not agree?”

Dean did, he really did. It was why he couldn’t say anything.

Thankfully Jack didn’t suffer the same problem. “Oh, for crying out loud! General, with all due respect, that is ridiculous!”

George turned to Jack as though he had just registered his presence. “Colonel, I wasn’t aware you were informed of the situation.”

“Yeah, well, I am. And I gotta say that whole excuse you’ve got going is a load of crock.” He gestured to Dean. “There is no man I know who is more capable of completing a mission without falling, um...” He clicked his fingers, “Without succumbing to distraction. Except for Tiel’c, but he doesn’t really count.” When Hammond looked ready to retort, Jack steamrolled over the top, knowing he’d already overstepped his bounds so he might as well get it all in while he could. “And when something like this happens, you need closure. I don’t care who you are, you’re gonna need closure. And really, what better way is there to get it?”

General Hammond wasn’t the only one considering Jacks’ words after that statement. Though, Dean doubted the General had the same train of thought as he did. He hoped not, because unless he was mistaken, Dean was beginning to suspect that for once Jack wasn’t up to date with the inner workings of the SGC, and had mistook Dean’s failed request to return through the Quantum Mirror as a rebuttal of shore leave to visit his brother’s grave (granted, that was something he had yet to do). It certainly would explain why he’d reacted so vehemently on his behalf.

Come to think of it, Dean couldn’t recall anything Jack had said that indicated he knew Dean had just returned from an alternate reality. Normally there would be jokes at the very least. He hoped Hammond didn’t pick up on that, though.

When he had finished giving Jack’s rant its due, the general in question turned to him. “Colonel, are you sure you want to do this?”

Dean didn’t even need to think. “Yes sir.”

“You are aware that I can’t allow Major Stanson and Sergeant Talley to accompany you, considering the circumstances.”

Dean noticed Jack starting to look confused, so he quickly replied. “Yes sir.”

Hammond then turned to Jack who, after a minute’s confusion, got the hint. “Hey, if it’s a case of needing a babysitter – and personally I don’t see why he would – I’d be more than happy to volunteer.”

“Do you have the time?”

Jack waved a hand. “Sure. PX22-something was a bust. Some weird-looking plants but nothing else, I got the time.”

George sighed. “Very well. Assemble SG-1 and be prepared to go at 1500 hours.” With that, he stood and left.

A beat later, Jack turned to Dean. “Wait, why do I have to assemble the team?”

Dean chewed his lip for a second before he reached over the table and slid Stanson’s mission folder in front of Jack. “Thanks, Jack. Really.”

And then he bolted before Jack could back out.

[onwards]

---

Long ago I had thought that this would be the halfway mark, being the middle of Stage III and all. Now that I'm finally here, I'm thinking of making it a little longer. Y'all wouldn't begrudge me for adding a few more stages to the grieving process, would you?

Yesterday I went to the Supernatural OzCon that Hub Productions put on. I got a day pass and an autograph with Jared which I later gave to SuperGirl in return for PIE. More about that later.

( Pre-amble: The Snoz Party )

SATURDAY - OZCON DAY ONE

Got up early, went to Macca's for breakfast. And then earnt my title as the Most Awesome Person in the World (I also have a Certificate of Randomnity - random sidenote) by returning not only with hotcakes, but V for bannerholic. She was happy, and had downed two before we even got to the convention hall.

Which was a goddamn experience in itself, let me tell you. Stairs. So. Many. Stairs. (Which, granted, wouldn't be a problem except I was lugging the esky back up because it still had drinks left over.) When we finally got there we had a moment of "do you think we might be first?" Because hey, we did have the shortest distance to travel. No such luck.

So while everyone milled around the doors in a collective mass, I hopped up on the esky (good thing I brought it) and started to spot people. Then I get a call from SuperGirl, who is waiting outside the hotel, so I run back down to help her find her way, because truth be told I'd forgotten to pay attention to my surroundings whilst hauling the esky. The run was literal, by the way.

We get inside and it's a haphazard mess of queues and crowding around the stalls (saw eternal_hayz , and yay for her and her sisters' pictures, which turned out AWESOME). I got two badges; "Snoz Rocks!" which I pinned to my Snoz nametag, and "Don't forget the pie!" in a blatant reminder to all those who owed me pie. It didn't have the effect I thought it would.

bannerholicand I meandered into the auditorium where they were playing random episodes "Wow, it's just like being at home, but with more people!" whilst kylz78  and all the others got their pictures taken. I mention kylz78  in particular because she has a wonderful story about her photo with Misha that involves devil horns, but I'll let her tell it.

MISHA'S Q&A

So after the first lot of pictures we had the first talk, which was Misha. And I have to say, Misha's talk was the highlight of this event for me. He was funny, and seemed genuinely excited to be here. Possibly because he hasn't been doing conventions as long as Jared and Jensen.

So, here's a low-down on some of the things Misha said that were lol-worthy:

"I have so many things wish I had a table." [turns to the emcee] "Table please, and a pony! A table with a pony on it!"

"Jared and Jensen are awesome to work with. I know, it's surprising isn't it?"

"I can't see you but I know you're lying."

"This is like a university lecture hall. I should talk to you about physics."
-To which someone at the back replied, "Physics, YO!"

(Also, it IS a university lecture hall.)

[on his inability to understand some of the Australian accents/slang]
"I would need someone that can translate the Australian - do you understand sign language?" [she gestures] "What's that? You wear a large sumbrero?"

[On the fact that Castiel always gets snapped in a fight]
"So, in other words, my character is an incompetent wuss."

[Still on the same subject]
"...I'm gonna get in and be tough and show them I'm not fluffy and soft... What we haven't met yet is anyone who is weaker than me..."

[About "The Monster at The End of This Book".]
"I e-mailed the writer and told them that this episode was the best one of this season... which wasn't the first e-mail I've sent this year."

"Wouldn't that be fun, to stalk a fan? Show up at their home with a camera? Follow their girlfriend to the video store..."

"Castiel? We have established he's a wuss."

bannerholic  asked about if he was enjoying the process of slowly humanising Castiel, based on the subtle smirk in "The Monster at the End of This Book":
MC: "That's what I love about you fans. I do next to nothing and you people pick up on it. Castiel shows a fraction of a smirk and it's; 'Woah, hats off to Castiel, he's really going wild'!"

[On urban legends]
"I heard one that if you flash your lights at someone they'll get out of their car and... kill you."

[After someone remarked that Jensen said Loch Ness as an urban legend in response to the question.]
"That's suburban, or rural - I didn't know we could do that."

After the having established Castiel as a wuss, someone asked, "How did he raise Dean out of Hell?" - to which Misha just shrugged. Someone from the audience then shouted out that he had "homies" to which Misha misheard as "Ponies, did you say? Mythical Homie Ponies?" It was then ascertained that Castiel can be badass, so long as he has his MHP with him. But when they're gone, like say in "Heaven and Hell", Castiel just falls to the ground after three punches. (Someone else suggested that his mother helped him, to which Misha said that he wished that we [the audience] all had microphones, because he was missing half the jokes/wise-ass remarks.)

[After someone commented on Kripke saying that Dean would have avoided Hell, had there not been a writer's strike.]
"So the writer's strike helped my career. 'Cos I was thinking, 'shit, when am I ever gonna get a job again'?"

And on the subject of Kripke, Misha diverted into a story of how Eric came up with the idea of Angels, which apparently came to him when he was in the bathroom.
MC: "He didn't tell me what he was doing in the bathroom..."

Q: What's your favourite memory? (beat) From working on Supernatural?
MC: "Oh, I was thinking back to my early childhood."
Random Audience Member: "Did you have a pony?"

Q: So you believe in the supernatural?
MC: "I believe in the television show Supernatural..."

Apparently his favourite colour is orange.

I can't remember the exact question here, but it was about Castiel's character and the possibility of backstory:
MC: "Uh, yep. How's that for a juicy bit of information? Whets your appetite? How's that for a SPOILER?"

Q: Will Castiel ever wash his clothes?
MC: "His most important power is that he cleans his clothes supernaturally. But he doesn't iron them supernaturally... He also darns supernaturally - whoever says I don't have amazing powers, you're eating your words now, aren't you?"

His favourite episodes, aside from the twelve he's in, are "Ghostfacers", and "A Very Supernatural Christmas".

Q: If you could have any song be about you, which would it be?
MC: "Not Happy Birthday..."
-The audience then unanimously decided on Macho Man.

[On Misha's method.]
"I pretend that I'm an angel, and I wear his clothes."

"Yeah, you didn't think I was gonna ask YOU a question."

Q: "If you could cast the role of Lucifer, who would you pick?"
MC: "Hannah Montana."

JARED'S Q&A

After that we had lunch, and then headed back inside for Jared's Q&A, which wasn't as entertaining as Misha's, IMO. I just can't shake the feeling that the J boys are just weary. Personally I'd rather they had a good night's sleep than go to the convention. But then again, I'm of the opinion that no person that you haven't met is worth that much adoration. (Ben Edlund is not a person, he's some kind of robot - possibly a mandroid - which excludes him from this. Because who wouldn't want to meet a robot like him?)
I didn't take down as much from this interview, only the highlights.

[On doing a scene with - I think it was Kripke - directing.]
"And he said, 'I want a little more regret than pain', so I blinked like, one extra time. And then he goes, 'that was great, now split the difference'."

"...He's lying on the ground because Sam had punched him, because if Jared had punched him he'd be like, 'what are you doing'?"

He also discovered the difficulty of eating when you've been given Fantales: "Yeah... probably... will you continue to ask the question?" He then had to spin around (it was a spinny chair) whilst he pried the caramel that was sticking his teeth together. Mah ah ah.

Q: This season Sam's gotten a lot darker-
JP: "I've been tanning."

Q: If you had control of the show and you could control where the plot would go-
JP: "Hawaii."
Q: I meant the plot.
JP: "Oh..."

"It depends if we get my Hawaii episode."
-When asked how long he wanted the show to fun for.

Favourite colour is green, and favourite band is Pearl Jam.

Oh, and when someone asked if he had ever been mistaken for someone else, he said that three weeks ago he was in San Fran getting coffee and one of the guys out back came in, saw the girls serving him was totally starstruck, looked at him and then said to his mate, "I think it's Zac Efron, but he has too much facial hair."

"I'm really bad, I'm really really bad. I'm really bad."
-He knew what would happen, but he couldn't stop going for the fantales.

They then gave him a shirt to put on, so they could auction "the shirt off his back". He drew little pictures on it of himself, Jensen, Jim and the doodling in "Bedtime Stories", and a fantale. It went for $1200.

Jensen came out after that, but I was tired and headachy so I left about five minutes into it. To be honest, I just didn't care. Everyone was asking the same questions over and over, I think I was as bored as he was, probably moreso.
I got out into the lobby area, which was thankfully vacant and quieeeet (everyone was in listening to Jensen), and I sat over at the only table I could find - which happened to be the autograph signing table - and started to write to help calm my head.

Five minutes later Jared comes out of "The Green Room", talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Now, I'm not sure if it's because I have a headache, or the acoustics of the corridor, but he was LOUD. And there went my first impression. I still managed three pages before I got booted from the table (and then went further down the corridor because it was quieter than disappearing back into the throng).

Jensen's shirt went for $4000, which just HAD to be mentioned. I wasn't even in there and I heard about it. After that, apparently all of them came out - Jared, Misha, Jensen and Danneel (she was there too) - to do autographs, but I didn't look up from the page I was writing to see them walk right by me. But then, I think I did them a favour by not being a gawking fangirl.

SuperGirl, who had gotten my autograph opp. with Jared, decided to leave early, and I had to race all the way back down to the Barker St. entrance of the uni to give it to her before she left. I then got to run all the way back up so I could get there before bannerholicdecided to bail on hers, which I suspected she was going to. And she was.

Well, I was tired, and I wasn't about to let her miss out on the one thing she wanted to take home from this day (besides the memories), so I managed to get in there and sneak her in the front of the line, because we weren't coming back tomorrow and if she didn't get her autograph I was going to demand she got her money back.

So we slipped in the queue, and as we approached the table I saw Jensen signing this, that and everything in between. Misha was talking to someone else sitting at the table with him, and Jared was next to Jensen, fiddling with his pen. I snickered. "Dude, you're feeling unloved."

He looked up. "Who?"

"You. I mean, Jensen's Mr. Popular, and hell, even Misha's got someone to talk to. You poor thing."

Any more conversation on either part was halted as Jensen had signed bannerholic's picture (and I think she was disappointed that he didn't look to see what he was signing). and we were rushed out the door by security.

We left; got all the way back to the car before bannerholicreminded me that I'd forgotten my esky. I said screw it and we kept going, said goodbye to kylz78 , Lammie, Sness and Sylvi who were shouldering one another in their rush and nervous haste (they had a cocktail party to be pretty for). I then drove up to the other end of the uni, ran in, got the esky, and headed home.

You'd think the story ends there. But there is actually one other piece of news to report on, and I think that if I hadn't decided to drive back for the esky, and then get held up at the same set of traffic lights FIVE TIMES (How do I loathe Sydney? Let me count the ways...), I wouldn't have looked over to my right during a pileup to see Jared in the car next to me, window down.

Jensen and (and I think Danneel? I don't actually know what she looks like outside of Ten Inch Hero, and I haven't seen her since) were both in the back with him. I couldn't resist saying something, so I made a crack about Jared's unlovedness and then not two seconds later karma swept down and stalled my car, the bitch (Yep, totally karma's fault).

And as they drove off - in the lane I later realised I was supposed to be in - I spotted Misha stuck in the very back. Poor bastard, being a newbie must suck. Or, just being shorter than the others must suck. I dunno.

And that, along with two hours of roadtrip karaoke ("I'll be Jimmy, you be Tina" - (Simply) The Best) was my convention experience.

And I'm sorry to admit that my distaste for Sydney, and its traffic in particular, means that the next time there's a con on, I won't be coming if I have to drive. (Though I will say that Sydneysiders are MUCH more polite in regards to letting people in than the Nouveau-Castrians are.

Oh, and to top the day off. Out of the nine people that owed me pie, not one of them delivered. Y'all have no idea how much that cut me. Really.

Other Con Reports: Emma/Fallen Angel | Hayz | Bex*

*To be updated as I find more.

 

Dean followed Sam back to where the Impala was parked and stopped in surprise. “Dude, you got Dad’s car?” He stopped and surveyed it as Sam went to the trunk, running a hand along the roof. “Hunh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just the little things.” At Sam’s look he pointed to the mirrors. “Different mirrors.”

“It’s better than no mirrors.”

“I suppose, but still it’s... Did you crash Dad’s car?!”

“What? No.” He’d never live it down. From the way Dean was eyeing the car Sam could tell that alternate reality or not, Dean was still in love with the thing.

“Sam...”

“You crashed it.”

“I crashed it?” He looked horrified.

“Yeah, there was this whole thing with a demon and he kind of drove a semi into it.”

“Oh. But it wasn’t my fault, right?”

“Yes Dean, even though you were driving it wasn’t your fault.” Sam had to remember that piece of information for the next time his Dean brought up the incident...

“Hey Sam, you alright?”

“What?” How did Dean suddenly materialise in front of him? “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He started to rummage through the trunk for a spare duffel.

“O-kaaay.” Clearly Dean wasn’t buying it. But thankfully he wasn’t pushing it either. He looked down to the trunk. “Hey, isn’t the trunk supposed to be bigger?”

As he leant down to inspect he caught sight of the gap between the false bottom and the edge of the car. Sam watched as he shoved a bag over to lift it up.

“Woah. That’s...” he looked over the weapons cache. “...What is that?”

“Rock salt.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“It deters spirits and demons.”

“Okay.” He spotted the rifle. “Niice.”

“You done?” Sam still needed to get a duffel, and it was a little hard to do while Dean was eyeing the weapons with child-like glee. When he finished perusing them he stood back and let Sam have access again.

Just as he slammed the lid closed – Dean looked ready reprimand but stopped as though it wasn’t his place – Sam’s phone started to ring. He checked the display and mouthed Bobby to Dean before answering.

It took Dean a few seconds to remember who Bobby was, and then let Sam field the call in private whilst he meandered around the parking lot. He managed to make his way back just as Sam hanged up.

“What’s up?” He asked as Sam started for the driver-side door.

“We gotta hurry. Bobby says it goes for the nearest family and tries to take the child’s place.”

“So it really is Evil Pinocchio.” Dean commented.

“Huh?”

“It wants to be a real boy.” Dean elaborated.

“Yeah, I guess. Bobby said that-” he stopped as the key went into the lock. “Hey, you wanna drive?”

Dean looked over the Impala with bright eyes. “You serious?”

Sam tossed him the keys in answer and swapped sides with him. By the time they shut the doors in unison they were both smiling. Dean because he was clearly enjoying the prospect of driving the Impala, and Sam because he had missed this.

“She’s yours, you know.” Sam said quietly.

“What?”

“The Impala was yours.”

“Sweet.” He replied. “Yeah, Dad offered me – my Dad – offered me the other Impala but I didn’t have enough leave to keep her up, and they won’t let me take her offworld, so...”

“Offworld?”

“Abroad.”

“Ah. Would probably be a bit of a liability anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, a scenario playing out in his head that wasn’t going the way he’d like it to. He blinked it away. “So, where to Jeeves?”

“Not sure. Probably aim for somewhere crowded but passing as many homes as we can along the way?” Sam suggested.

“Lay on, McDuff.” Dean kicked the engine over. “What?”

Sam turned back to retrieve his laptop. “Nothing, you’re just not much of a Shakespeare enthusiast in this reality.”

“Thank God, for something similar.”

“Then how exactly do you know MacBeth?”

“Lucy Miller needed a study partner,” Dean smiled fondly.

Sam snorted. “Something similar...”

As soon as Sam pulled up a map they discussed a likely direction and headed out. Sam argued that they should go east, as the closest houses were that way. Dean negated and said north, because the puppet wouldn’t know that, and north was the direction that looked like it had the most opportunities for cover from the vantage point of the locker. In the end Sam caved and they headed out.

Being in the industrial estate, they had a while until they had to tone up the searching. Dean decided to find out what else Bobby said.

“Oh, he said that the marionette’s cursed in the sense that it was once a boy, who was turned into a marionette-“

“-Could’ve figured that out on my own-”

“-And if he finds a boy, they take his place.” Sam ploughed on.

“Wait, so ‘take his place’ as in, they become the marionette?”

“And they live out the rest of the child’s life.” Sam nodded.

“Won’t they notice that he’s not their son?”

“Apparently can mimic the appearance of the person whose life he’s taking. Take a left.”

“Yeah, but still – don’t you think they’d notice the kid suddenly acting different?”

“Well, what are they going to do about it? Unless they know about the supernatural, they’re more likely to rationalise it away as some sort of personality disorder or... something. I mean, wouldn’t you?”

“After I made sure he didn’t have a snake living inside him,” Dean muttered.

“What?”

Dean cleared his throat. “So how do we kill it?”

“Bobby’s working on it. He says there’s no reason we can’t catch it, though.”

“Uh-huh. What’s up with Bobby?”

“Bobby’s... Bobby.” Sam fumbled at the abrupt change of topic. “He’s a hunter as well.”

“That all?”

“And a friend. Practically family.”

Dean took all this in. “Suspicious bastard though, isn’t he?”

“You don’t get to be Bobby’s age in this business without it. Left again.”

“Case in point – me.” Dean’s laugh died out when he realised Sam didn’t think it was funny.

They drove in silence for the next few minutes, with Sam only speaking to give Dean directions.

“Hey, Sam?”

Sam looked up.

“What if we got it wrong? What if the puppet really did go east? What happens then?”

“An innocent boy gets turned into a marionette.”

“So there’s nothing else can we can do. Like, undo it or something?”

“You can’t undo a curse.” Sam explained. “You can just get out of its way.”

“But what about the original kid – puppet – whatever?”

“What about him?”

“You said he was a kid once too. So we’re just gonna kill him? Poor bastard’s been wood for God knows how long. That’s gotta have some kind of effect on him.” He frowned. “That sounded a little dirty.”

“There’s nothing we can do. His family has probably been long dead, and like it or not, we have to stop him from putting another child through his fate. There isn’t another way around it.” Sam felt a weird jolt of role-reversal. Usually he was the one looking for a happy ending and Dean had to lay down the cold fact that you couldn’t save everyone.

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Another lull was just about to descend in the car when Dean’s radio crackled.

“Colonel Winchester, this is Stargate Command. Please respond.”

Sam looked up at the mention of Stargate, but Dean answered before he could get a word in. “This is Colonel Winchester.”

“Winchester, you have been ordered to return to the SGC immediately. Your team has already done so.”

“Yeah, about that. See, there’s a bit of a problem here that we caused, and I figured the least I could-”

“Major Stanson has informed us of the situation and the directive still stands. Return to the SGC A-sap.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, Colonel.”

Dean sighed. “Yes, sir. Winchester out.” He pulled over to the side of the road. And killed the engine. “Look, sorry about this. I wish I could stay and help but...” He shrugged.

“You don’t have to go.”

“Yes I do, unless I want a court marshall.”

“But – you just got here!”

Dean smiled at Sam and then opened the door.

Sam bolted from his side to meet him. “I can give you a lift back...?” He offered.

“Thanks, but you have to save the day.” He nodded in the other direction.

They stared each other down for a minute before Dean smiled again. “Take care, Sam.”

“It’s Sammy.” Sam replied, and then pulled him in for a hug.

When they broke, Dean started back towards the locker without looking back.

Sam watched as his brother left, presumably forever, simply because someone told him to. He blinked away a tear. “Something familiar.” He echoed, before he got in the car and drove in the other direction.

[onwards]

 

Index:
Stage I - Denial and/or Isolation (a.k.a. Avoiding the Problem by Escaping to Another Reality)
Stage I/A - Leaving the Second Reality for a Third
Stage I/B - Realising You Can't Run Far Enough
Stage II - Anger (a.k.a. Shooting the First Thing in Sight)
Stage II/A - When You Can't Hold it In Any Longer
Stage II/B - Taking a Breath
Stage III - Bargaining

Stage III/A - Assessing Your Position

"So..." Dean sighed. "Evil Pinocchio."

"Looks like," Sam agreed. And that was the end of that.

They had spent the last five minutes searching the rest of the floor for the damned thing. Bobby had straightened his cap and disappeared to find more information on what they were facing. Dean seriously doubted there was a Complete Idiot's Guide to Puppets, or Living Dummies for Dummies that he could just look up, but Sam had been confident that Bobby would be able to drum up something useful.

It was at that point Dean had scoffed and remarked that it's a puppet, Sam. What else do you need to know except that it's alive and flammable? He had replied with something typically geeky about ‘knowing thy enemy’ - Dean wasn't really sure. He'd gone off on his own track, contemplating what allowances he would concede where Pinocchio was concerned. If it knew where gold was buried, that would be handy to know. Or, if it could shoot lasers out of its eyes - definitely something to make a note of. Though if did have laser vision, I don't see why its the one hiding...

"Dean!"

“What?” He spun around, looking for any disturbances or causes for alarm. Instead he found a brother who was staring at him impassively. After a beat, Sam slowly raised his eyebrow.

Dean realised he’d just been had and nonchalantly lowered his arms as though his freak-out wasn’t anything worth commenting on. “You find anything?”

Sam stared a moment longer before he slowly drawled out a “No.”

“Then quit dawdling.” He continued down the corridor, and Sam fell into step with him.

“Dawdling?”

“It means loitering. To dally, linger...”

“I know what it means I just... I’m just wondering why you chose that particular word.”

“Geardon.”

“What?”

“High school. You don’t remember...” He stopped. “Did you go to Lawrence High?”

“No, actually.”

“Actually?”

“It was one of the few schools we didn’t go to.”

“Oh.” They started walking again. “Travel a lot?”

“Yeah, Dad... Dad thought it was best.” And I thought he was wrong. Still do.

“That explains how he has a locker in Buffalo.” He laughed. “Must have driven Mom nuts.”

Sam didn’t want to reveal that case of bad news when the opportunity to hear about the mother he never knew was right there, so he bit his tongue. “What?”

“You know, After growing up with Grandma and Grandpa she said she’d never leave home.”

“Howso?”

He frowned. “She’s not like that here?”

“No.”

“Jesus. Everything’s different. You are still Sam, though – right?”

“No, actually I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Page.”

Dean was set to reply when the name actually registered. Instead he smiled in approval. “Okay Samantha, but fair’s fair. I tell you about my Mom and you tell me about yours – deal?”

Sam felt bad that he was short-changing his brother, but he agreed non-the-less.

“Okay, well you know how Grandpa and Grandma were in the air force, yeah?”

“Err, yeah.”

“Well they kept moving depending on their assignments and as a result Mom grew up in like a dozen different houses. When she met Dad and settled down she swore she was never gonna leave the house.” Dean’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I remember Dad trying to convince her to move house once and she stuck her feet in. Drilled the furniture into the ground to prove the point.”

Sam smiled. “That’s... determined.”

“Yeah, well you know Mom.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Okay, your turn. What’s Alterna-Mom like?”

The sound of their footsteps was deafening in the wake of the conversation.

“Sam?”

“Hmm? Oh, She... She’s...”

Dean took the hint. “Oh. Hey, forget I asked.”

They walked on in silence, checking that each locker was in fact locked, and keeping an eye out for the marionette. They got to the service elevator, and Sam said they should go down; using the logic that it would want to get as far away as possible.

The uncomfortable silence became stifling in smaller confines, so Sam tried for conversation again. “So, Gearun?”

“Huh?”

“You were talking about someone from High School.”

“Oh right, Geardon. English teacher. Had him in Sophomore.” Dean struggled to recall why he had brought him up. “He... Oh yeah, he used to keep trying to come up with words for my tardiness, being an English teacher and all. One day he ran out of synonyms and just stood there all agitated and I suggested dawdle and he got so flustered that I one-upped him he let me off the hook.” Dean frowned. “And then busted me for smoking. The hypocrite.” Dean snapped out of his memory. “Anyway, the point was that from then on if anyone was loitering the word anyone ever used was dawdle.”

“Ahh.”

“Yeah.”

Sam noted that the conversation didn’t seem to help the uncomfortable silence at all, as it swooped back in instantly. He tried to think of something else to fill the void when Dean beat him to it.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What am I doing? I mean, what did I used to do? Before I was killed... by hellhounds.”

“Pretty much what we’re doing now. Hunting.”

“We’re... hunting?”

Sam nodded. “The marionette. We hunt Supernatural things: spirits mostly. Though recently there’s been a lot of demons on the rise.”

“Demons.”

“Yeah.”

“Demons.”

“...Yeah.”

“How the hell do you kill a demon?”

“It’s hard. We just send them back to Hell, mostly.”

“Hell.” Dean echoed.

“Yeah.”

“Hell’s real.”

You’re there right now, Sam swallowed. “Yeah.”

“So, it’s not a planet?”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” Dean shrugged it off. “So I hunt ghosts and demons and... Werewolves? Vampires?”

“They’re not as common as you’d think, but yeah, we’ve taken down a few.”

“Man, I am badass.” Dean smiled. “Wait, you said we.”

“Yeah, we.”

“So you...” He trailed off.

“What?”

“You didn’t go to Stanford.” He finished.

“No, I did.” And my girlfriend got pinned to the ceiling and burned alive. That wasn’t really something he wanted to talk about. “...Not.”

If Dean found something in Sam’s reply he didn’t say, instead asking. “And Dad knows about all this, too? What with the locker and curses and stuff.”

Sam looked away. “Yeah, Dad knows.”

“Maybe we should get him here then, think he’d be able to help...?”

“He’s...” Dead too. But Sam didn’t want Dean looking at him like he was the most kicked puppy in the world, so he said, “...busy with a job, besides it would look weird seeing you considering you’re dead.”

“Yeah, but you took it alright, surely he’d be able to-”

 

Sam cut him off. “Trust me on this. It’s better if we don’t.”

Dean stared into his eyes for a minute before relenting. “Alright.”

They left the confines of the elevator and Sam thought he’d finally found a safe line of conversation.

“So, you’re a Colonel?””

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you a little young?”

Dean smiled in that smug way of his and pointed to himself. “Awesome.”

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean changed the topic. "So what's up with you and Talley?"

"What?"

"You know him, don't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You can't hate someone you don't know."

"He killed me."

"Oh." He stood back as Sam opened the door to outside. We’re out already? "You look alright for a dead guy. Smell a little though."

“Thanks, Dean.”

"Seriously, I know it might go against the zombie code, but consider having a shower."

They looked around the vacant building, ears and eyes peeled for any sounds of movement.

“So, what do we do when we find it?” Dean asked, turning slowly in a circle.

Sam shrugged. “Grab it and stuff it in a bag.”

“Damn, I left my bag in my other reality.” Dean drawled. “Wait, what happened to the whole ‘it’s cursed’ thing?”

“Well, considering we don’t know exactly what it does, we can’t just let it run loose to cause havoc. Besides, we’ve got a bag in the trunk.”

“We do?” Dean asked.

“I do.” Sam amended. “This way.”

_____________

LJ is telling me that it's too big for one post, so the rest is here.

Twenty Years Too Late

Sam wasn't sure how the spell was supposed to work exactly, so he was a little surprised to find himself standing in a field at a rennaissance fair. Dean's going to love this.

"Oh, sorry."

"No need to apologise, it's entirely my fault."

Sam turned to see who had bumped into him and gave a double-take. Two redheads – twins – identical twins were currently bickering over who was responsible for bumping into him. Though, oddly enough they both wanted the honour instead of the opposite. He raised an eyebrow.

They noticed he was paying attention and looked properly chastised. "I'm sorry about that–" The one on the left started.

"–No, I am," The second cut in.

"–We both are," He amended.

"It's just that we didn't see you."

"Which is odd, because you are quite tall."

"Frightfully so."

"You wouldn't happen to be part-giant, would you?"

"But a very small part, obviously."

"Like a quarter."

"Or a third."

"Or a third." The first amended.

They both turned to him expectantly. Apparently he was supposed to answer the question. But in the rambling he'd forgotten what it was, so instead he said, "You're English?"

"He speaks!"

"He speaks funny."

"Sounds American."

"Oooh," they said in unison.

"Right." He tried not to smile at their antics. "I'm looking for my brother. His name's Dean. He's about this tall," He gestured, "And has hazel eyes."

"Well that's not terribly tall at all, is it Fred?"

"No, George, I must say I'm somewhat disappointed."

Well, at least he knew their names now. Not that he'd be able to use them if they switched positions.

"Fred, George – stop hassling that man!" Came a genial voice from what could only be their father. He stood by a tent with a matchbox and five or so matches in his hands.

"But Dad, he's American!" Fred protested, like it made all the difference in the world.

"And a quarter-giant." George added.

"Or a third."

"Or a third."

"And he's lost his brother."

"Who isn't really tall for a giant at all."

"But still quite tall for a normal person."

"Perhaps he is just a normal person then."

Fred turned to him, "Are you sure he's your brother?"

Sam sighed.

"Boys, come give mea handwith the matches."

"Coming Dad," They chimed.

"Look, I'm sorry, but we haven't spotted him about at all."

"–No, I'm sorry." George interjected.

"–But you could try the Lost and Found, out front of the pitch."

"People have been known to find each other there."

"Or the pub."

"That's where we'd find each other," George nodded.

"If we were allowed in."

"Unfortunately we're a smidgen too young."

"Breaks our hearts." Fred sniffed.

"But good luck finding your brother."

"And if it all doesn't work out, try going to a high spot and looking down over everyone."

"Like on your toes."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

It took Sam a few minutes for his mind to come back to the present after they'd left. It was in that time he didn't know where the Lost and Found or even the pub they had mentioned was. Though knowing Dean, he should probably try for the bar first.

He turned around slowly, taking in all the tents and stalls around him. No pub though. He snuck a glance back at the tent the boys had disappeared into before leaning on his toes to try and see further.

Nothing. Just more tents and rolling countryside in the distance. Wait, rolling countryside? Not exactly an American description. Crap, I'm in England? Dean is going to kill me.

If I can find him. He picked the direction with the most people and set off. The first person he stopped for directions was a young man about his age wearing a bright purple and orange dress – no, robes – and was trying to get a broom to fly into his hand by yelling at it.

"Excuse me, do you know if there's a bar, err... pub around here?"

The man looked up, a pleasant smile on his face. "Sure, just go down..." He turned around to get his bearings. Finally he pointed behind him, "That way, and then hang a left. Dragon's Mane, you can't miss it."

"Thanks."

Sam turned to go as the man looked back down at his broom.

"Hey wait!"

Sam paused.

"You're not American, are you?"

Sam turned around. "Yes..."

"You wouldn't happen to be a hunter, would you?"

"How did – have you seen...?"

"You mean you are?" At Sam's nod, the man beamed. "That's awesome! I mean, you ask and you ask, but I never actually thought I'd meet one..."

Sam felt his hopes plummet.

"I'm Osiris, by the way. Osiris Barnitch."

After a moment, Sam shook his hand. "Sam Winchester."

Osiris paused. "Really?"

"Yyyyeah...?"

At the admission, the guy was looking at Sam like he was the coolest thing to walk the Earth. He opened and shut his mouth a few times before he pointed in the same direction as before. "Hey, you want me to show you to the pub?"

And that was a little too much man-crushing for Sam to deal with. "No, thanks. I can manage."

"Are you sure? I mean I could..." He trailed off when Sam held up a hand to stop him. "Oh. Alright." Osiris looked crestfallen. "Well, I'll just be here if.. y'know... you'd like to chat or... something."

Uh–huh. Sam felt he should say something, but didn't want to give the guy an opportunity to start up again. He turned and left.

When he got down to where the bar was supposed to be, he realised he'd been duped. There were nothing but tents as far as he could see – not a single building or stall that could constitute a bar. He sighed.

A loud bark of laughter drew his attention to the left. A lot of noise was coming from the red tent, and now that he looked, there was an awful lot of traffic going to and fro for such a small encampment. He went over to investigate.

By the entrance was an old–fashioned sign swinging in the breeze. The Dragon's Mane. Sam rescinded any comments he had earlier made about the Osiris Barnitch and went inside.

...And then stepped back out.

And then stepped back in again.

And out.

As Sam calculated the size of the canvas, he realised there was no way that much space could possibly exist inside such a small tent. Which means magic. Which means they all know about it. Which means Dean's gonna be pissed.

Unless he hasn't noticed. Sam entered the tent a final time, his eyes searching out his brother's as he crossed to the counter.
When he didn't see him, he turned to the barman. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a man about this tall by the name of Dean, would you?"

The man didn't look up from the glass he was polishing. "You American?"

No, Spanish actually. "Yeah."

"And you're looking for Dean?"

He leaned back to a patron huddled over a nearby stool. "You hear that Bill? This guy's looking for Dean Winchester."
The other man chuckled.

I never said his last name, that means– "Have you seen him?"

"Sure kid, I seen him. Long before you were crawling."

"Wh-what?" Sam's mind raced to comprehend the implication in that statement. And it wasn't a very good one.

"Oh come on, don't act surprised."

Sam froze. No, it couldn't have – It just couldn't! "What's the date?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The date. What is it?"

"August twenty-fifth." He spoke slowly. When Sam motioned him to continue he added, "Nineteen ninety-four."

No, that wasn't right. It was supposed to be 2004. He didn't mean to go back fourteen years. And he certainly didn't mean to go back to England. And if he messed up that part, that meant it was very possible that Dean wasn't here, and hadn't been for a good long while if the bartender's comment was anything to go by.

He'd screwed up, and he'd screwed up big.

"You alright kid? You look like you could use a drink, and I'm not just saying that because you haven't ordered anything since you got here."

Sam looked up into concerned eyes, and let all his hope out in a long weary breath. "Sure."

"What'll it be?"

"Anything, just make it strong."

"Firewhiskey it is." He poured a glass, and after a minute's consideration, left the bottle. "You sure seem broken up about it, kid."

Sam looked into the glass, his eyes not really seeing it. "He was... family."

"Really? Then don't worry about the drink – it's on the house."

Sam looked up. "Did you know him?"

"Of him, sure. Man was a legend."

Sam smiled faintly. "I bet he loved that." He raised the glass to his lips. "Wait – 'was'?"

"Yeah, no one's seen hide nor hair of him in the last decade or so."

"But you don't know for sure?"

"Look, kid, I wouldn't count on it."

When Sam finally swallowed the drink, the man added. "Look, I didn't really know him, but some here did. How about you take a seat over there, and I'll spread the word. Who knows, maybe some people can share some of the stories they have."

Sam followed his hand to the booth in the corner. "Thanks." He smiled feebly and took the bottle with him.

He was nestled in the alcove for some time (three-quarters of the bottle, Sam was well and truly sloshed by this point) without anyone stopping by. In the next booth were two men who were waxing poetic, and clearly drunk "No see, even when Ff…Fv… You Know Who was around, we didn’t have to pay four galleons for a sh… schfuff – thingy. And those were desperate times!"). Two tables over, a group of people had found great amusement in tipping liquor into a bowl for a scruffy black dog every time he did tricks. Should they be giving him alcohol?

"Excuse me, but Donald mentioned you were looking to hear stories about Dean Winchester?"

It was an older gent that stood before him. Wrinkled and grey and thinning on top, he had a stomach for two and a pipe in his mouth. With his suspenders and unkempt shirt, Sam was reminded of Bobby. Wait, he doesn’t look anything like Bobby. Sam tilted his head. Though there is something Bobby-ish about him. Probably the beard. Sam nodded, happy to go with that.

The man took that as a cue to sit down. Once he was properly settled, he regarded Sam openly. "My word," He gasped, "You are but the spittin’ image of Sam."

"You know why?" Sam leaned over conspiratorially. "S’cause I am Sam." He sniggered. "I am Sam. Sam-I-Am. And I don’t-" he pointed for emphasis, "-like green eggs an’ ham."

He was fully prepared to tell the strangers all the places he wouldn’t like them – a boat, train, plane, a car, in the rain – when the man cut him off.

"Merlin!"

The rest of the patrons looked up at his outburst; even the dog ignored the neglected bottle that was currently tipped in his direction to stare.

Sam, however, was oblivious to all this.

"Pleased t’meet ya Merlin, I’m Sam." He held a hand out to shake, but it put him off-balance and he ended up tilted over the table at a downward angle.

"You… you can’t be Sam." The man continued, and Sam realised he should really find out his name. Strangey McStrange would only last so long. Or Emile LeStrange, perhaps. Or THE Stranger… The one stranger to rule them all.

In his internal rambling he didn’t notice that the man had pulled out a stick and was now pointing it at him. "Who are you?"

"Told you, m’Sam."

"Sam Winchester’s dead. And even if’ee were alive now, he’d be at least fifty. So who are you?"

God this guy had to be really slow. He’d told him twice already. Sam decided to drag it out for him. "I. Am. Saaaaaam."

Without breaking his gaze (or lowering his wand), the man reached into his pocket with his free hand and removed something. He placed it on the table and slid it over.

Sam had to lean down to inspect it, because it was too far away. Because I’m tall! I’m one-third giant! …Wait, am I? It was a picture. And with his nose practically pressed against the table he saw that he was in it. He was leaning against the Impala with-

"Dean!" He cried merrily. He smiled up at the man across from him "S’Dean!"

"Son, Dean gave me that picture going on twenty years ago." He stopped the bottle from reaching Sam’s mouth. "Are you following me?"

He was. Or at least, he thought he was. "Sooo… Dean would be… older now?"

"Not just Dean." The man finally decided to tuck his wand away. "So how about you tell me who you really are? It doesn’t do to go around pretending to be someone else."

Sam blinked. "Wha-huh?"

The man wasn’t making any sense, so Sam decided to look back at the picture. He vaguely remembered posing for it. Sarah had asked to take a picture of them before they left, so she could remember them for saving her life. Dean had suggested that he take a picture of the two of them, a knowing smile on his face. He relented in the end, and Sarah thanked them, giving Sam a copy because she thought he’d like one.

Sam frowned. How did Dean end up with it…?

As he mused on that point, the dog trotted over and peered at him curiously. It barked, and when Sam turned to him, stole the photo into its mouth and ran out the door.

"Heyy – Dog!" Sam stumbled out of the pub after him.

By the time he caught his bearings – it was taking a little longer than usual, the world kept spinning on him – the dog was at the end of the makeshift street. He chased it around tents and people until he finally caught up to it at a counter outside what looked like an arena. While he was distracted by the enormity of the building in front of him, the dog disappeared again.
Sam looked around for him, but couldn’t see him.

"Lost something?"

Sam’s head swung upwards to the voice. An official-looking man was watching him curiously. Though, if Sam had to be honest, he’d say he only looked that way because of the clipboard. "A Black Dog," Sam informed him.

The man glanced down at the clipboard. "No black dogs, I’m afraid."

"No, it was a black dog." Sam insisted.

"I’m sorry, but I don’t have a black dog on my list."

"What are you, the keeper of lost things?" Sam pffted him.

The man was about to reply when he smelled the alcohol on Sam’s breath. "Look, perhaps you should go lie down…"

"Not until I find it!"

"Find what?"

"The picture!" Sam declared.

"Ahh, a picture," The man checked his board again. "Which picture is this?"

"The one the black dog took!"

"I’ve told you, there aren’t any black dogs here!"

At that moment, a bark sounded from over by a table stacked with books and paper. Sam pointed to the dog he had been chasing! "Ha! Told you!" He then pointed to the man with the clipboard. "Liar!"

He cautiously approached the dog in hopes that it wouldn’t run off again. When he was close enough, he slowly held out a hand. "Heeeere doggy. Give me the picture."

The mutt tilted it’s head, and Sam was sure it was laughing at him. Slowly it stepped backward and Sam had a clear path to the picture it was guarding. He snatched it up before the dog could change its mind and held it close.

A soft whine brought Sam’s attention back down to the dog. When it saw Sam was looking, it nudged the table with its snout.

After a few minutes with no results, Sam decided to help it out. "Table," He said, and the pointed to the dog. "Dog." And finally himself. "Sam."

When he had sobered up, Sam would shrug it off, but at the moment he swore the dog rolled its eyes at him. It then turned back to the table and shouldered it until it tipped over.

"Hey!" It was the Official. Apparently he wasn’t happy. "You better get your mutt under control!"

"He’s not my dog." Sam slurred.

"Well he’s ruining the – stop that!"

The dog was currently wading through the mess, tossing books this way and that.

The man pulled out his own stick and pointed it at the dog.

"Hey, leave him alone!" Sam snatched the stick from him.

"Give that back!" The man insisted.

"Nuh-uh!" Sam retorted, and stuffed it in his jeans pocket.

"Stealing a wand from a ministry representative is a punishable offense!"

"Pffft!"

"I’ll report you, I mean it."

"Yeah, go ahead," Sam taunted.

"Fine, I…" He trailed off, looking at Sam anew. "Are you… American?"

Sam glared at him. He was getting sick of that question. "Yeah."

The man seemed to shrink back. His eyes widened and his mouth stopped working. When he bumped into another counter, he came to and stammered. "I… I…" And fled.

"Weird guy." Sam frowned. The liquor was starting to wear off as he turned back to the dog.

It was staring up at him with a letter in its mouth. Sam removed it and quickly sobered up at the writing on the envelope.

Sam.

It was Dean’s writing.

He tore it open, his hand dropping the bottle of firewhiskey he’d unconsciously brought with him from the pub. The dog snatched it up and, with one final glance at Sam, took off.

Sam didn’t pay any attention to that as he read the letter before him:

Hey Sammy,

We both know I'm not good with writing, or girly moments but... here goes.

You sent me to the past, bitch. 19-friggin’-74. And England, no less. Good one. And you sent me there alone. I don't imagine that was intentional, so I'll let it slide. But still...

Thanks Sammy. You wanted me to have more time, and I got that. All things considered, it's not bad. I ended up teaching kids at a friggin' magic school. Hogwarts - what kind of weird-ass name is that? They know next to nothing about cars (I'm working on it). Oh, and there's some war going on with Vuldamort (no idea how to spell it, half the people won't even say his name). What else, what else...

I'm still hunting. No shortage of fuglies that need to be put down here. Killed a Nundu, apparently it's a big deal. You can probably look me up in the Book of Awesome Things Done Singlehandedly for that. Not that many demons around, though. Speaking of demons, I went back to Lawrence.

Now, I know you're gonna give me some spiel about changing the past, but damnit - I had to try. As you can tell, it didn't do much difference anyway. (You were an ugly baby, by the way.)

Not much else to say. If you're reading this than it means I ain't there to tell you in person, which is a damn shame. Though, I probably went out doing something awesome.

Oh, one last thing - consider it a dying wish (Yeah, I know I've had a billion of those, but this is important). I got a son named Blaise. And yeah, his mother named him. He's got her last name too, because I kind of made a few enemies. It's Zabini. So if you could track him down and... I dunno, make sure he's alright. I've got a picture, though he's only four so I don't know how much help it's going to be. As you can see he takes after his mother, which is a shame, because we all know I have gorgeous eyes.

That's about it. Take care, Sammy.

And thankyou.

Dean.

Sam checked the envelope and found a picture – a moving one, no less – of a small, dark-skinned boy riding a broom. He had Deans’ cheekbones and freckles. And Dean’s smile. But everything else belonged to someone else. Someone he’d have to meet. Soon.

____________________________

[tbc]
 

I waited until I saw the ep to post this, to see if I had to change anything. I didn't. (yay)




[ Prologue ]

 

Remember, Remember...

November was a special case, delivered to them by the woman that funded their operation. The one that created the Dollhouse. Lilith. That wasn’t so different in itself. 50% of the Actives came from Lilith. Pretty men and women delivered with their memories already wiped. No, what made this one special was that Lilith had shown up personally to hand him over.

"Take special care of this one," She said. "And if he starts to show any indication of remembering, I want you to wipe him immediately."

Adelle was quick to reassure her but the words died on her lips. Last month’s fiasco with Alpha was a blemish on their impeccable record. With her mouth already open, she fumbled for a reply, "Anything else?"

The little girl – a blonde this time – paused at the doorway. "Call him November," she smiled, a twinkle in her eyes. "An apropos name for his new life."

They’d taken him through the process of the setting him up, giving him a wipe even though he’d already been brought to them on a blank slate. He was of special interest to Lilith and Adelle was going to make sure nothing went wrong, especially after Alpha.

When the treatment finished, he woke up like they all did – an innocent child. They’d told him his name and something flashed in his eyes. Adelle feared that he may have remembered something – even though she knew it was impossible; she had been standing over Topher’s shoulder during the process.

When nothing was forthcoming, they sent him along to meet his new friends. He fit in without a glitch, though they did notice he had the tendency to form attachments with some, and distant himself from others. From what they could tell it wasn’t indicative of any personality, simply the circumstances in which he’d met them. He had bumped into Bravo crossing the pond water-feature and ended up tripping over and seeing Dr. Saunders for three stitches when he’d split his forehead open on the edge. He avoided Bravo after that.

He developed a friendship with Delta after an incident at the dining hall. Being new, he wasn’t sure what food he’d like, and Delta had offered him some of her cherry pie. He always saved her a seat at his table after that.

They didn’t mind those little idiosyncrasies. They were children after all, and to erase the memories of one would mean they would have to also wipe everyone they’d interacted with, and that would just be tiresome.

There was however, one interaction that brought them up short. Somehow, November always managed to find himself in someplace else whenever India entered the room. It was something they couldn’t explain, especially considering they had no knowledge of who either of them were in their past life; only that they had both been sent by Lilith within a week of each other. They would keep an eye on that.

Singularly these events were insignificant, but together they sent up flares. They decided to quell the bursts of personality as best as they could. They set up a ‘playdate’ with India, and after four games of checkers he was less wary of her. They assigned set seating in the dining hall, with Delta three seats down. The idea was originally to separate them, but Topher started a spiel about subtlety and mind-games and Laurence finally admitted he didn’t care so long as they weren’t getting buddy-buddy.

He still wrinkled his nose whenever someone called him November – himself included – but there was nothing they could do about that. Lilith had requested the designation personally, and Adelle wasn’t going to change it unless they had good reason.

The last thing they stamped down was his affinity with pie. November took a liking to it like bears to toothpaste. Apple, cherry, custard - he gulped them all down merrily until Dr. Saunders regrettably informed him that they conflicted with his treatments. She had a line of flimflam prepared about the chemical properties of the food when she realised that he wouldn't understand anyway. But gosh darnit, she felt as though she owed it to him to give him something more than "I'm sorry".

He was going to be the death of her. And when she remembered the last Active she thought about with that sentiment in mind, she transferred herself out of his care, leaving the nurses to deal with November for the everyday check-ups, much to their delight.

After his quirks had been seen to, he was as placid as the rest of them, and they – Topher, Claire and Adelle – cleared him for use.

His handler was Jasper, a dainty woman that barely reached his shoulders, another recommendation from Lilith. She unsettled Adelle in the same way that Laurence did. In fact, the same way that all the employees personally hired by Lilith did, but she didn’t say anything. It was a silly idea, anyway.

She was quiet and competent, and when she returned him from his first appointment she followed him all the way back to Topher’s office, pulling him out the door whilst November - sorry, Alec McDowell, thief extraordinaire – laid down on the chair.

"He needs to be wiped," She stared at Topher, unblinking.

"Yeah, it’s kinda why he’s here," The duh was evident.

"From scratch." She added.

"What? Did he remember something?"

"Not that I was aware."

"Then he doesn’t need to be."

"Yes he does." She insisted.

"Look, how about we both stick to our areas of expertise – I’ll handle the brain stuff, and you take care of the sitting and watching stuff. How does that sound?"

She didn’t move.

Topher sighed. "Do you know how painful it is for him to do a full wipe, not to mention how long? And how pointless considering he doesn’t remember anything? I got two words for you – ‘nuh’ and ‘uh’. Now shoo," he waved her off.

She left, and returned with Adelle.

"Topher, I think in November’s case, it would be wise to heed Miss…"

"Jasper."

Adelle frowned "…Miss Jasper’s decision in this instance."

"What, you want me to go through that whole process every time he comes back from a job? Come on, He hasn’t remembered anything."

"But he has shown signs," Adelle countered. "And my superiors have a special interest in this one. I think erring on the side of caution would be prudent in this instance."

"But-"

"Thank you, Mr. Brink."

Great, the surname. That was the equivalent of pulling rank in this place. He bit his tongue and smiled. "You’re welcome, Miss DeWitt."

After she had left, he threw up his hands and frustration. "Come on!" He screamed, halting when he noticed Jasper still standing there. Though she was as straight-faced as always, Topher got the distinct impression she was holding in her smile.

"Don’t you have someplace to be?" When she didn’t move, he feigned realisation. "Oh, that’s right, you don’t. You’re a lacky. You don’t have anything else to do but lack."

He went back into the Treatment Room, and began setting up for the long process. At Alec’s - inquisition, he fumbled for some answer before giving up. "Fuck it, you won’t remember anyway."

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Topher was suddenly struck with how intimidating November Alec could be. He swallowed. "I said lie down, please."

Alec grudgingly complied, and Topher turned the machines on.

It wasn’t until Alecvember was flinching in pain that Topher noticed Jasper finally smile.

________________________


[tbc]

[ Prologue | Over the Rainbow ]

Lost and Found

There were hardly any people left by the time Dean made it to the pitch. He noticed a few wizard/warlock people walking around the outside flicking their wands in what could only be described as a girly manner. The walls of the pitch unfurled from the top and folded until the seven-storey tall arena was reduced to a six-foot high block.

"Can I help you there?"

Dean turned to see a tall, gangly stick of a man in official looking clothes. Well, as official as a man could look when he was wearing a dress (he suspected that the clipboard was what did it).

Dean spread his arms wide. "Lost and found?"

"Just over there," The man nodded to a haphazardly constructed table/stall setup by the wall.

"Thanks." Dean made it all of two steps before Larry Longlegs spoke again.

"American?"

"Yes."

"Right, right." He nodded as though that explained everything. Dean was tossed between wanting to punch him, and find Sam.

Sam came first. As usual.

There was only one other person perusing the haphazard stall/counter set up that was the Lost and Found, and Jesus if he wasn't the textbook definition of Merlin. The man was old and grey and had more beard than bones. It was because of this person that Dean decided to refer to them all as wizards from now on, because if anyone looked the part, it was this guy.

He was sifting through the clothes stand with a curious expression on his face. Dean wondered if he had actually lost something, or just liked to rifle through other peoples' things.

He shrugged it off and crossed to a table of assorted knick-knacks where another official looking wizard (matching robes, he had no clipboard) was standing.

"Excuse me... Uh, hello?" When the portly gent – portly gent? I’ve been here ten minutes and already I’m talking plum crazy… I didn’t just think that–

“…Of assistance?”

“What?”

The wizard sighed. “American.”

Dean sent him his best glare, the one reserved for demons and whatever fugly he had to save his brother from.

Being all of five-feet-zero, the man swallowed and repeated much more politely, “I said how can I be of assistance?”

“I’m looking for my brother Sam. He’s about this tall,” He held up a hand, “brown hair – old ladies like to pinch his cheeks and tell him how adorable he is.”

The man blinked. Dean suspected he was sifting through the statement to find something he could reply to. Serves him right.

“That tall, you say?”

“Yeah, practically a giant,” Dean nodded.

The man raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I haven’t seen…”

Having already lost interest at “I’m sorry”, Dean turned around to address the barking that had cut the man short. A little clump of fur that Dean had mistaken for… well, a clump of fur, had in fact been a sleeping dog. A Jack Russell, the residual memory of grade three fantasies for a pet informed him.

Said dog was currently alternating between growling and barking at Dean something fierce. I can see why he hasn’t been found yet.

Dean was about to comment to that effect when he noticed that the wizard was furiously scribbling something down on a piece of paper, casting slightly panicked glances in Dean’s direction.

Okay, this guy is officially weirder than the little girl with the rabbit ears. At least he thought they were ears, he was too preoccupied chasing Regulus to stop and check.

“Thanks for all your… help. If you see my brother, let me know.” He didn’t bother leaving a number, the phone was likely dead by now and they probably had some magical way of compensating for technology anyway.

“No, no you can’t go!” The man waved his arms about frantically. Yep, definitely beats bunny girl. “I, uhh… I think I see your brother.”

Dean didn’t need to look to see that he was lying. Or stalling. Or an idiot. He turned to go with a sigh. “Right, English...”

“Oh come now, surely we aren’t all bad?”

It was the old guy who had spoken. Merlin. He knelt down by the dog and managed to soothe him with a few strokes. Either he had the worst possible timing or Dean had somehow been outed and they were starting to converge.

Time to bail. He turned around, and came face to face with a three wizards, two of which had their wands pointed at him. “Something wrong?” He bit down the officers part.

“That’s him! He’s the muggle!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“A muggle, eh?” The foremost wizard said, his suspicious gaze sizing Dean up. “Well, you’re gonna have to come with us.”

“You’re gonna have to make me,” Dean retorted. When he saw him raise his wand, he conceded. “Or we could talk here. Here is good.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.” The man smiled. If he didn’t know better Dean would swear the man was itching for a fight. The wizards behind him seemed to sense it, and were bracing themselves for Dean’s resistance. Well, they’re right about that much, I ain’t going without–

“Is everything alright?”

Merlin – Did that guy stick his nose in everything? He was currently standing to the side, watching the interaction with rapt interest.

His would-be imprisoners seemed to know him, as they – with the exception of the unwavering leader – fumbled. “Everything’s fine, Albus. Just taking care of a wayward muggle.”

“I see,” he stroked the part of his beard that wasn’t tucked into his belt. “However did you manage to discern that he was in fact a muggle? I daresay I would have had a hard time telling him apart, particularly here.”

The man turned to Shifty McWeirderson, who straightened up proudly. “That was me – Auron Shantz, sir. I noticed that the crup reacted strongly to his presence and notified Mr Moody here.”

Crup? What the hell is a… He caught sight of the dog tied to a pole. That’s gotta be the lamest name for a dog, bar none. Dean was about to try and talk his way out of this when the old man who was apparently named Dumbledore beat him to it.

“That’s some fine work, Mr Shantz,” Dumbledore commended. “But forgive me; do crup also react to a squib as they would a muggle?”

At his words, all the wizards present turned on Dean in scrutiny. He in turn glanced at Auron and raised an eyebrow. “Well, do they?”

The man ducked his head, and fumbled for a reply. “He thought Giants were six feet tall!”

Dean let his sarcasm show. “I was joking.”

The contingent of wizarding… police(?) All considered Auron Shantz – and what the hell is up with the names in this place? Wizards are cracked – anew. When Moody apparently decided that he wasn’t the reliable source he once thought, he glanced at Dean and asked in his gruff voice, “Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A squib?”

Dean snuck a glance at Dumbledore. The old man seemed to be on his side, so he might as well go with him, for now. Even though he wasn’t sure that being a ‘squib’ was much better than a ‘muggle’. “Yeah.”

“And you’re from America?”

He was getting sick of that question. Thankfully they weren’t really expecting an answer, as Moody seemed to be merely thinking aloud.

“…Which means we can’t validate your ancestry. This is sounding a little far-fetched.” He glared at Dean. “Who’s to say you’re not a Death Eater in disguise?”

Dean didn’t know what exactly a person that ate death was (besides gross), but he doubted they would make their presence known. He said as much. Moody didn’t seem impressed.

“If I may…?” Dumbledore interjected. “Perhaps we could simply ask him something of the magical world?”

Moody nodded. “Good idea Albus.” He turned to Dean. “In which year was the first Quidditch World Cup?”

Dean opened and closed his mouth. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Perhaps something not so… historic?” Dumbledore suggested.

Moody waved Dumbledore as if to indicate he could take the floor.

“How tall are giants?”

Dean paused. “Taller than I can gesture with my hand.”

“Oh please, like that’s hard.” Shantz scoffed. Though he still quietened up when Dean glared at him.

“I got one for you;” Dean turned the table, “how did I end up here, if not by magic?”

“That’s not a convincing question, Mr…”

“Scott.”

“Mr... Scott.” Moody finished. “You’ll need more than that to convince us.”

Dumbledore held up a finger for attention. After a minute’s consternation, he looked to Dean. “Name one spell which can return the dead to life.”

Dean blinked. How the hell was he supposed to know that? In all his years of hunting he hadn’t heard of any such thing. If he had, he would’ve used it last year instead of making that damn deal.

He looked over to Dumbledore. The mans’ eyes were sparkling and when their gazes met, he raised his eyebrow the slightest fraction as if to say you should know this.

But he didn’t. All he knew was… Wait a minute, maybe it was all that he needed to know. “There isn’t one. Short of going to a crossroads or playing puppeteer to a bunch of zombies, dead is dead.”

Apparently this was something out of Shantz area of expertise, as his face was scrunched up in confusion. The others fared little better; they looked to Moody in anticipation. Dumbledore was smiling.

“And what do you know of crossroads?” Moody’s voice commanded.

“That’s it’s dark stuff that only leads to badness, or death. Or both.”

Moody stared him straight in the eye for what felt like the longest time. When he reached a decision, he held out his hand. “Sorry to bother you Mr… Scott.”

“It’s alright.” He shook it. “Actually it’s not, but it’s also not your fault, so don’t worry about it.”

The sound of Shantz’ swallowing was audible.

After Moody and his lackeys – or trainees? They were awfully young – departed, Auron Shantz made himself scarce. Which just left…

“Lemon Sherbet?”

…One crazy-ass octogenarian.

____________________________________________

[onwards]