things that go bump in the night
by silv
disclaimer: If I owned the Winchesters you can bet I wouldn't waste time writing fanfiction about them.
summary: Seriously. Winchesters just don't do 'wanted dead or alive,' okay? AU set directly after Nightshifter, done in two parts
warnings: Well, Dean's language got a bit colorful at times, but hey. He's Dean; what else did you expect?
author's note: This is how the boys SHOULD clear their names. 'Nightshifter' made me want to break something and it took me awhile to be able to watch ep 13. While I was worrying over my boys in the meantime, I wrote this. That damn Special Agent Henrickson better appreciate my efforts, that's all I have to say.
--
PART ONE
the day after
(dean)
12:07 pm.
I can't remember the last time I drove for more than twenty-four hours without stopping, but I sure as hell know why it's been awhile since I did.
It's exhausting and horrible and I feel like shit.
No, I feel like worse than shit. Damn, is that even possible?
We've stopped a couple of times in middle-of-nowhere type places to take a leak but neither of us are hungry and neither of us are thirsty and we just want to keep driving until we get far enough away from that bank and that night and those feds.
"Let me drive," Sam says from the passenger seat. "You look horrible, Dean. C'mon, sleep for awhile."
"No." I tighten my knuckles on the steering wheel as though Sam will pry me away from it. "I got us into this mess. I'm getting us out."
"Dean, this isn't your fault." Sam's voice is calm, reassuring as always. "Really, man. You did what you had to do and you saved a lot of lives doing it."
"Not enough," I snap. "And dammit, it is my fault. If I hadn't gone outside where all those camera crews were…"
"Then that guy would have died," Sam finishes in that annoyingly geeky-smart way of his. "There has to be a way around this, there just has to be." For the sixth time in a hour, he fiddles with the knob on the radio, turning it to NPR. I grimace—I'm getting sick of hearing about how two dangerous serial killers are prowling the streets and are wanted (I kid you not) dead or alive. Next thing you know they'll be putting prices on our heads and kicking down saloon doors, twirling pistols in hand. Seriously, does this look like a fucking Western to you?
"…and in further news, the Winchester brothers have still not been found," a shithead reporter announces cheerfully. "If you're just tuning in, be warned that both men are extremely dangerous and reportedly armed. They were last seen driving a black, 1967 Chevy Impala and should not be approached at any costs. If you have any information, please contact your local police station. We'll be right back after these important messages."
Impulsively, I reach out a hand and hit the off-button. Silence fills the car and it's so loud I feel like covering my ears or something.
I mean, really. We've been in a lot of tight spots before but this—this is a whole new level, even for us.
We. Are. So. Fucked.
Sorry, but it's totally true.
"What are we going to do?" Sam says after a moment, voice quiet and terrified. "Jesus, Dean—we can't win this one. They'll have our faces all over the news and people on lookout and this car is gonna stick out like a sore thumb. Something has to be done."
"Damn straight," I mutter. And then I think, really think, absentmindedly staring at the endless stretch of empty road in front of me. It takes awhile, but I eventually begin to form something vaguely like a plan and the more I think about it, the more I see a million and a half ways this could bite me in the ass.
Unfortunately, short of plastic surgery, I'm not seeing anyway around it.
Okay, so first we have to do something about the car, because as usual, Sam's right. If we were dancing around naked in Time's Square with signs around our necks saying, "HEY EVERYBODY, WE'RE THE WINCHESTERS AND WE'RE ON THE FBI'S TOP TEN MOST WANTED LIST! YAY!" it would be less obvious than pulling into a town anywhere in the Impala.
Lucky for me, it's been raining. I pull off into one of the many corn fields and then proceed to practically do donuts, crushing crops and spraying mud all over the place. Sam's mouth is hanging open (because really, I bet he would have expected me to call up that dickhead FBI agent and turn myself in before I voluntarily get even a speck of dust on my baby) but I ignore him, hop out, and start smearing more mud and dirt as thoroughly as I can over the license plate and trunk and backseat windows. I'm pretty disgusting myself by the time I manage to get back in, but that's nothing compared to the Impala, who's so caked in the stuff she looks more like a mud pie on wheels than the perfect specimen of a car that she is.
Don't worry baby, I mentally soothe, patting her dashboard apologetically. I'll get you cleaned up as soon as me and Sammy aren't wanted for being Bonnie and Clyde Reloaded, okay?
"Well," Sam manages as I start the engine and run the windshield wipers enough to clear a grimy patch on the glass, "I'm not sure if this make us more conspicuous or less, to be honest."
"You can't even tell it's black anymore," I announce proudly, and then proceed to put the next stage of my master plan to action. I put the pedal to the metal and confidently do a 180—we're only an hour away, maybe forty-five minutes if I drive fast and don't hit traffic (or pedestrians).
"What the hell?" Sam cries, now thoroughly worried about me. "Dean, where are you going?"
"Lawrence," I bark.
"Why?" Sam demands, looking horrified. "That could be the first place they look!"
"Because, Sammy, if we ever needed a psychic, it's now."
--
the day after
(missouri)
1:30 pm.
I can feel those boys coming before I can hear them.
It's the pure terror radiating off them, understand. I can feel Sam's heart racing as though it were my own, a steady pumppumpump that screams of fear and gnawing worry. Dean's anxiety is more subtle, but it's there—grinding teeth, a dark, troubled aura. The smell of defeat and anger is on the wind too, makes me weak with worry myself. Something tells me this is not anything supernatural or evil. Something tells me this is someone doing what those infernal police hate most: obstructing justice.
Well, Lord, don't that beat all.
That car of theirs screeches to a halt, doors slam. Dean's got his hand an inch away from pounding on my front door but I pull it open before he can so much as get in a rap.
I reach out without preamble and seize that hand of his without permission—it'll be faster this way, and I'll get the straight-up version, not the garbled one those poor boys will feed me.
First, I feel nothing, and then—
Myfaultmyfaultmyfault
(Yellow eyes and something so evil you can taste it)
(Burning flesh and hot tears and blood)
(Choking gasp, a Ouija board that spells out R-E-A-P-E-R)
Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfaultohnod on'tdie
(Sam, Sam, Sam)
(Curses, a man with as much darkness in him as those that he hunts)
("If Sam ever becomes something he's not, Dean, you have to kill him.")
Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault
(A bank and a skinwalker and a girl who's not dead)
(Driving and driving and driving and—)
My fault.
I stumble backwards, gasping partly from shock, partly from all that guilt and pain and hurt and hate Dean has bottled up inside. It's been three seconds but the flashing images have already seared an imprint on my memory, painted a picture of the hell these boys lives have become.
"You hide that car behind my shed," I say at last, "and then you get your butts in here."
They do not have to be told twice.
Ten minutes later they're drinking iced tea and eating ham sandwiches and I'm crying for their father. Not with tears, not on the outside like I'd like to be doing, now.
If there's one thing I've learned from all these years poking around people's minds, it's that souls can sob too.
"I didn't feel it," I say softly. "I'm so sorry boys, I didn't know."
They don't say much, not even Dean.
Boy's gotten better about watching his thoughts around me, but I can still feel the whisper of a guilt-suppressed, We should have called her.
"Your daddy was a good man," I finally manage. "A damn good man. And Dean, he did what he did 'cause he loves you and Lord knows he would have done anything for you. Don't you ever think any different, you hear me?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Now," I say, "about your little run-in with the law. There's only one way to go about this, you understand?"
"Sure," Sam agrees, and I feel trust and a bit of hope calm the thumpthumpthump of his heart a bit. "What do you have in mind?"
He's not going to like this one little bit, but it can't be helped.
"Dean, go on and tell him what you've been planning, now. You done good, honey."
"Hey!" That snarky child looks at me in the most highly affronted manner. "You've been…been…hacking into my thoughts!"
"Yes, Dean," I say deliberately slowly, "that's called being psychic." Did I say he was doing a better job guarding his thoughts? Well, never mind—Lord, that boy has a temper the size of Texas. Don't take too much to fire it up. "You keep swearing at me like that and I'ma whack you with a spoon for real this time, you hear me? Tell Sam your idea or I'll do it myself!"
A few more mumbled curses under his breath, but he finally manages to exhale most of his tetchiness.
"What is it, Dean?" Sam asks. Don't have to be psychic to see he's a mite surprised his brother's thought of something so fast.
"Look, here's the only way I can see us getting out of this," Dean says after a time. "We have to prove that we're innocent."
Sweet Jesus, does he have to be so blunt about it? He should've prepared poor Sam for that one—child's heart-rate just went off the charts.
"You want to what?!"
"It's the only way, Sam," Dean says, shoulders tense and arms folded. His sandwich is mostly uneaten; he's sick with the worry about this. Oh, my boys. These two have done enough for the world—would it be so much to ask it gives a little back every now and again?
"What, we couldn't get plastic surgery or something?"
"Considered it," Dean admits, smirk settling back into place, "but nah. Where'd we get enough credit cards to scam that one?"
"He's right Sam," I put in. "You two gotta come clean and actually talk to those fools at the FBI."
"But—but they'll lock us in the psych ward or something!" Sam splutters. "And that'll be after they've sentenced us to about one hundred and fifty years in maximum security prison! Do the words no parole mean anything to you?"
"C'mon geek-boy, think about it. We need proof, okay? We're not gonna go in there without backup."
"How? How are we going to prove it? I mean, short of luring them into a haunted house and setting a poltergeist on them, they're not even going to listen to us. Trust me."
"Yeah, that's about as far as I got before I headed for Lawrence," Dean sighs. They turn to me expectantly, obviously praying I've got a plan.
I do, of course. They just really, really aren't gonna like it.
"Well, you need three people," I say at last, meeting each boy's eyes intently.
"Who?"
"Detective Diana Ballard. That Sherri girl."
"…And?" Dean prompts, a little stunned.
I smile serenely.
"And me."
--
two days after
(sherri)
3:34 pm.
I, I have decided, hate police stations.
And banks. Yep, those sort of bug me too, come to think of it.
"Now, miss, we've put this off for as long as we can afford to," one harassed looking officer (what was his name again?) says to me, "but we need to talk about your sister."
"My sister?" I blink. "What of her?"
"Did you witness her death?"
I choke.
"What?"
"Her death," he repeats, as though I'm stupid. "We found her in the bank just after you were sent to the hospital. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Lena is just fourteen!" I cry. "She wasn't anywhere near the bank two days ago—what the hell are you talking about?!"
"Your other sister, then?" He squints at me. "Your twin?"
"I don't have a twin."
He smiles at me disarmingly. You can practically see the gears turning in his head—twenty bucks says his explanation for my "memory loss" includes the words Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
"Look, I've told you," I say before he can open his mouth, "these two guys, at first they tried to stop that nutcase with the gun. I don't know what happened or why they took his side or why they killed all those people, but I'm not an idiot. I'm not insane. I think I would know if I had a twin sister or not." I stand, ignoring his incredulous expression and stomp towards the door. "You call me if you have any other stupid questions," I call over my shoulder. "You know how to reach me."
I drive back to my apartment, shaking with anger and a little fear.
Twin sister.
Something in my memory flickers, a girl who looked like me covered in blood, dead, then leaping to her feet. Someone's arms around me, pulling me back.
You were seeing things, I tell myself for the thousandth time. You were traumatized.
I wince—no wonder that cop thought I had PTSD. Hell if I know, I probably do. Uncomfortably, I head up the three flights of stairs, slip the key into the lock of my door and shove it open.
The first thing I see is a guy sitting on my couch.
A guy who looks an awful lot like…
"OH MY GO—" I start to scream, but before I know it a strong arm is around my waist and a huge hand is clamped around my mouth and the door is slamming shut and someone hisses in my ear,
"Calm down, we're not going to hurt you."
Oh my God they're back to finish the job, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God I'm going to die they're going to slit my throat and—
"Sweetheart, sweetheart!" A kindly-looking woman suddenly is standing in front of me and she places a comforting hand on my cheek. "Don't you be worrying none about these boys. They don't kill anything that's not already dead." Her gaze jerks up angrily to fix on who I realize must be Dean and she says, "You better let this child go 'fore you give her a heart attack. She thinks you're here to kill her, poor thing."
"I told her we weren't going to hurt her!" Dean protests, but he releases his hold on me and I stumble forward, panting, terrified.
"What—what are you doing here?" I manage at last, and I at once realize it is an incredibly stupid thing to ask. They're here to kill me of course, no matter what the sweet old woman says.
"I'm not that old, child," the woman snaps. "And I ain't that sweet, either."
"How did you—?" I throw my hands in the air, the confusion and fear pressing in too close to me, and I have to fall backwards onto a chair and try to breathe properly.
"Hey, listen." The tall, lanky one, Sam is suddenly crouching in front of me, looking more sincere and earnest than I ever saw him that awful night at the bank. "We're not murderers, okay? We're hunters, and there's a difference. We're not going to hurt you, we wouldn't even think about it."
"You did just a couple nights ago," I manage to pant out. "What changed that?"
"We didn't know you were you," Dean says simply, coming around the side of the chair. "Thought the damn thing had killed you already. Sure as hell looked like it."
"What—what thing?"
They exchange looks.
"Boys, you two let me handle this one," the woman says, and she sits down on the couch and regards me seriously. "My name's Missouri Mosely. I'm a psychic, honey. These boys? They hunt down supernatural, evil things—spirits, demons, poltergeists."
And then she begins to tell me more about it. She tells me about a skinwalker, some creepy shape-shifter-thing that kills the people it becomes. She tells me how these two boys have spent their entire lives saving the world and then some, that when I was a little girl hiding under the covers from the monsters in the closet and things that go bump in the night, they were out there destroying them.
"You know you don't have a twin sister," she says to me, "and you know what you saw when that thing leaped at Dean. Don't keep telling yourself you were hallucinating 'cause baby, you weren't."
It takes her an hour and a half before she stops talking, before I can process what I've been told. Without me even asking she's read my thoughts a dozen or so times, getting irritable when I mentally voiced skepticism.
And now I wonder if I'm crazy, if we're all crazy, but some part of me knows I'm not, knows they're not.
"Oh, good God," I finally mutter, letting my head slump to my hands. "I've had a hell of a week so far."
"You're taking this pretty well," Dean observes. "You seemed kinda hysterical back in the bank."
"Yeah, well, I thought I was going to die," I snap. "And God, you're right Miss Missouri. I know what I saw, and I don't have a twin sister at all and Jesus. This is way too messed up."
"Great." Dean beams at me, and I can't help but feel my heart flutter, just like back at the bank. What a heartbreaker he must be. "So you can help us then."
Uh-oh. I don't like the sound of that.
"You do realize you're wanted criminals, right? I mean, I'm supposed to call the police if I so much as get a postcard from you."
"Yeah, well, we're not criminals," Sam says, "wanted or not. And if we're going to keep doing our job, we have to get the FBI off our case."
That seems pretty reasonable. I do kind of feel like I owe them a favor; after all, it's probably thanks to them I'm even alive, right? Never mind how incredibly screwed up my life has become. Nope, never mind that at all.
"Okay," I agree. "I'll help you, I guess." I pause, narrow my eyes. "Exactly what kind of help are we talking about here?"