Summary: AU. Set roughly season two-ish. A series of highly unlikely coincidental events lead to Sam and Dean going on a time-traveling adventure in their trusty Metallicar. Not crack, but sometimes we get a little close. Each chapter should take place in a different time and location in the world.
Warnings: Profanity, violence, sexual situations, terrible misuse of science (or lack there of), historical inaccuracies, and sensitive themes. Individual warnings on each chapter. Lots of blatant "explanation for the benefit of the audience via character dialogue" and scene-setting in this chapter.
A/N: This should be a lot of fun.
You do realize you're starting a brand-new, incredibly complicated project that is going to take a lot of time and effort, without first finishing your other Supernatural fic? Even though said fic has been given amazing support and most everybody is patiently waiting for you to update it?
Yep.
*Sigh* And you don't see a problem with this?
I'm choosing to ignore it. C'mon, this is going to be a blast!
Kind of a douchebag move, isn't it though?
Yep.
. . . But?
Full speed ahead.
There's going to be no dissuading you, is there?
Nope.
Why do I even bother?
I have no idea.
Salt Lake City, Utah. 2006.
The night was neither dark nor stormy, though a few grey clouds were bravely struggling to draw themselves together above the southern horizon. A full moon and the dull orange glow from the nearby city kept it from even being properly dark. Still, the air was thick with humidity from the possibility of rain, and an unsettling smell of ozone lingered in the air, so the effect wasn't completely ruined.
Dean stepped out of the Impala, boots crunching on the gravel, Sam mirroring his movements on the passenger side. The patchy driveway curled around a copse of scraggly desert-beaten trees and lead right up to a small house. More of a shack, really, grey boards nailed over the windows and the whole building listing slightly to the left. The roof did not look like it could hold up beneath the impending rain, nor did it look like it was going to even try.
"This is the place?" Dean asked.
Sam was struggling to fold a map back up along its original lines and failing utterly.
Eventually he gave up and growled to Dean, "I sure hope this is the place, otherwise those last six hours of driving are going to seem like a bit of a waste, aren't they?"
Dean tsked. "Somebody's grumpy."
"Let's just get this over with." Sam sighed, glaring at the (now much thicker than when he'd gotten it) map with distaste before shoving it in his pocket.
The brothers made their way over to the trunk, Dean giving the gleaming black hide of his car an affectionate pat as he popped the lid. They armed themselves with shotguns and lighter fluid, and Dean quietly hummed under his breath what sounded suspiciously like the Stones' "Play With Fire."
Sam and Dean walked up to the house, the gravel shifting beneath their footsteps the only sound in the curious hush. The old boards of the porch creaked in warning as the climbed the steps, but held.
Sam paused before the door, hand hovering above the knob.
"Hey," Dean asked as his brother didn't moved and the silence grew thicker, "You okay?"
Sam shivered in the warm night air.
"Yeah, uh. . . yeah," He cleared his throat. "It's just. . . it's like I can feel a lot of bad things happened in this house, you know?"
Dean squinted at him. "Is this a 'I have creepy psychic visions' kind of feeling or a 'I'm just paranoid and my older brother made me watch a lot of horror movies as a kid' kind of feeling?"
Sam shrugged. "It's probably just a 'I stayed up all night reading police reports and newspaper articles about Halden Cleo's childhood' kind of feeling."
"He killed fourteen people, Sam. And that was just when he was still alive," Dean pointed out.
"I know, I know," Sam said, sighing. "It's not like it excuses what he did. But, man, Dean, the things that his parents did to him here. . . it was pretty bad. And he kept coming back here. He brought all of his victims back here."
"Hey," Dean said. "Lots of people have crappy lives and they don't turn into serial killers. Hell, look at us. We haven't always gotten the long end of the stick, right? But you don't see us going around killing people left and right."
Sam shot him a look.
"Oh, you know what I mean. Nobody who doesn't deserve it." Dean huffed.
Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. I'm just. . . I guess I'm just tired."
Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon Sammy. Let's get this done."
Sam opened the door. It shrieked on its un-oiled hinges, opening slowly. The brothers stepped into the darkened shack, guns first.
Twin circles of yellow light flickered on the far wall as they each snapped on their flashlights, the light skittering over the warped wooden floorboards, a twin bed with a sagging mattress and a patchwork quilt, and distorting when it passed over the smudged glass in the windows.
"Okay, let's divide this puppy up. I call the left side. Find anything that looks like a stuffed rabbit, holler." Dean said, moving away from Sam to the left side of the room and toeing a decaying pile of newspapers with his boot. "I still can't believe the guy was that attached to a damn bunny."
"All the reports say it was the only thing he asked for when he was finally caught. And he never stopped asking for it, according to his prison guards. He said it was his only friend." Sam said, peeling the quilt back on the bed with the muzzle of his shotgun. He wrinkled his nose.
"Yeah, that's like eight levels of creepy right there," Dean responded, tugging up a loose floorboard.
Sam rocked back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He glanced up out of the window. Behind the chipped surface, the moon was luridly white.
Frost began to blossom across the glass.
"De--" Sam began, before something hauled him up by the back of his collar and yanked him backwards into the wall.
Spots of the bright and dark exploded across his eyes as his head slammed against the wood, and Sam only dimly saw Dean being thrown into the opposite wall.
Sam tried to catch himself as he slid down the wall, shirt catching on the rough boards, and then Halden Cleo was there.
"Hello," Cleo's ghost said, yanking the shotgun out of Sam's limp hands and throwing it behind him. His cold hands caught Sam's wrists and pinned them above his head. "What are you doing here?"
"H-Halden," Sam got out, his vision still not focused, like Vaseline smeared over a camera lens.
"Ah, so you know who I am," Cleo said cheerfully. "Then I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Who are you, pretty little thing?"
His grip tightened, fingernails digging into Sam's skin.
Sam struggled to say something, head pounding and tongue heavy in his mouth.
"You know, you remind me of someone I knew once. His name was Charlie, Charlie Dawson. I met him in a laundromat. Do you know how hard it is to get bloodstains out of a silk/cotton blend? At any rate, there was Charlie. He was tall, like you, with these big soulful eyes. . ." Cleo leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of Sam's ear. "I still have his fingers."
A shotgun blast echoed in the tiny shack, and Cleo screeched, flickering and then disappearing like a light bulb burning out. Sam felt a sudden, sharp pain in his side as rock salt peppered him. Without Cleo to hold him up he sank down to the floor.
Dean was standing there, shotgun in hand and a severely pissed-off look on his face.
"You okay?" He demanded. Sam looked down at his side, where a few small blotches of blood were appearing on the plaid of his shirt.
"Yeah," He answered. "You mostly missed me. Thanks."
Dean shrugged, handing Sam back his shotgun. "Crazy McCrazypants was getting a little close there. C'mon."
He reached down a hand and helped Sam to his feet.
"Let's find Peter Cottontail and get the hell out of here, Hannibal Lecter could be back any time now." Dean said, studying Sam to make sure he was really alright.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked him, noticing the smear of blood on Dean's forehead.
"Fine," Dean said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Sonofabitch tossed me into the wall, I was out for a minute or two."
Sam nodded slowly, stopping when his headache swelled with the motion. "Always knew that thick skull of yours would come in handy."
Dean made a face. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Get a move on, though."
The brothers split up, going back to opposite sides of the room and resuming their search with a new rush.
Sam finished stripping the bed, pausing as he lifted the pillow up. There was an odd lump near the bottom. Curious, he reached in the pillowcase and pulled out the hidden object.
Sam froze.
"Hey!" Dean called from across the room. "Earth to Sam! Did you find it?"
Sam cleared his throat. "Ah. . . no. No I didn't.'
He stared down at the bundle of severed fingers in his hand, tied together with a red ribbon. The flesh was shriveled and desiccated around the spiny phalanges, mummified over the years. There was old, black blood dried around the base of each finger. Dimly, Sam recognized that each digit had been clipped off while someone was still alive.
"No," Sam said. "But I think I just found Charlie Dawson's fingers."
"The freezer. Of course." Dean said, holding a bedraggled rabbit by one ear. "Because I mean, who wouldn't keep their beloved stuffed animal in the freezer?"
Sam rubbed at his arms. "Just burn the damn thing Dean, let's get out of here."
Dean cleared a spot on the floor, laying the bunny down.
"Silly rabbit," He chided, dumping lighter fluid and salt on the thing. "Serial killers are for. . . well, no one, really."
Sam struck a match. Before he could drop it on button-eyed rabbit, a cold breeze suddenly flared, blowing out the tiny flame.
"Shit," Dean said, before both brothers were once more thrown into the shanty walls.
Distantly Sam could hear Dean mutter, "I really getting sick of this crap," but the words were fuzzy in his mind. He sat up slowly, realizing belatedly that he was on the floor.
Halden Cleo was standing over him, pale grey eyes aflame with anger.
"Now, that's not very nice," Cleo growled. "Coming into my home, making a mess, trying to set fire to my bunny. Nobody sets fire to my bunny."
Sam lunged for the shotgun on the floor next to him, but Cleo's shoe came down on his hand, smashing it into the floor. Sam gave a choked-off cry.
"None of that now," The ghost said, kicking the shotgun away so it went skittering across the hardwood.
He spun around suddenly, flinging his hand out. Dean, who had been sneaking up on the ghost, went flying up into the air. He slammed against the crossbeams on the ceiling, before falling back down and landing on the bent twin bed.
"Oh, gross," He groaned, flinging the bouquet of severed fingers he'd almost landed on away from him.
"I suppose I should feel lucky," Cleo said, grinding his heel harder into the back of Sam's hand. Sam gave a whimper through clenched teeth. "Normally I have to go out hunting for my prey. You two walked right in all on your own."
He flung his hand back again as Dean moved to get off the bed. The older Winchester brother gave a low moan as his head crashed into the wall once more.
"Not to mention, you're both just my type," Cleo finished smoothly, stepping off of Sam's hand and crouching down next to him. He hooked a finger under Sam's chin, lifting his head up to look at him. Sam glared. "I'm sure we can have lots and lots of fun."
"I don't think so," Sam snarled, lashing out with his uninjured hand. Cleo gave a pained roar as the iron knife Sam had surreptitiously drawn slashed through him.
He flickered and drew back, and Sam dove for the shotgun. He grabbed it, spinning around and pumping it, then fired off a shot. The blast of rock salt splattered Cleo, making him vanish.
Sam stumbled to his feet, cradling his hand, scanning the dark floor for the book of matches.
"Hey," Dean croaked from the bed. Sam looked up at him. His older brother held up a hand, and the moonlight reflected off of a small silver lighter.
Sam smiled. Dean tossed it towards him, advising, "Catch."
Sam did, flicking the lighter on so the tiny orange flame appeared. With a grim smile, he let it drop onto the lighter-fluid-soaked rabbit, just as Cleo reappeared.
"It's wabbit season, bitch!" Dean called as the bunny burst into flames.
"No!" The ghost screamed, face contorting as his cherished rabbit burned. His hands clawed futilely for the toy, and then Cleo was gone.
The bunny slowly disintegrated into ash, and Sam stomped out the last of the licking flames before they could spread. Then he sighed, walking tiredly over to the bed and dropping down next to Dean.
"You alright?" He asked.
Dean tapped his forehead with one finger. "Yeah, thick skull, remember? Howabout you?"
"I'll be okay," Sam said, examining his hand. It was rapidly swelling but he didn't think anything was actually broken.
The two brothers sat quietly in the smoky room. After a while Sam broke the silence.
"'Wabbit season?' Really?" He asked.
Dean laughed.
"Hey man, don't be jealous of my awesome one-liners. I'm like Bruce Willis over here." He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, let's blow this joint before we get lice or something."
Sam's face scrunched up in distaste and he followed his brother out of the creepy shack, stepping out into the moonlight. He breathed in the clean air with relief.
Dean stopped in his tracks, causing Sam to slide on the gravel to avoid running into him.
"What the hell, man--" Sam began before Dean cut him off.
"Sam. . ." Dean said, voice strangled. "Where the hell is my car?"
Sam stared at the driveway. The empty driveway. There were deep grooves carved in the gravel road from tire tracks, but no Chevy.
"Oh," He said dumbly. "Shit."
The storm had finally broken. Lightning lit up the southern horizon in flashes of white and blue, and great piles of purple clouds were slowly over-taking the sky. Each clap of thunder raged a few seconds late.
At 895 Wells Drive, the rain was coming down steadily, filling up the cracks in the pavement and soaking the brown lawn. 895 was a small house surrounded rather completely by a junkyard. The haphazard piles of scrap metal and rusted eviscerated chassis of cars scattered around like headstones in a cemetery were slowly drowning in the noisy rain.
The Winchester brothers watched their taxi cab pull away, sending up a wave of muddy water that narrowly missed them. Dean was still grumbling under his breath about cab rates and exactly what he was going to do to the bastard who stole his car when he found him.
Sam ignored him, wet, cold, and rapidly becoming miserable, the rain slowly seeping through the shoulders of his coat.
Together they walked up the pathway to the house.
Dean knocked on the front door. After a few moments, it opened a crack, revealing a pair of large shifting dark eyes.
"Mr. Perrypetty?" Dean asked, pulling off his sunglasses and holding up a badge. "I'm Agent Roth, this is my partner Agent Zander. We're with the FBI, and we'd like to ask you a couple of questions."
He gave Perrypetty a blinding smile and waited.
"Can we come in?" Sam asked, when Perrypetty hesitated.
"Uh. . . yeah. Yeah. I guess. If you want to. Come on in," Perrypetty said nervously, stepping back and pulling open the door to allow the two brothers entrance.
Sam and Dean glanced at each other and then followed the man in, stepping over drifts of newspaper clippings and stacks of textbooks. The walls were papered with pictures and blurbs of text, red string tracing a haphazard route through it all, colourful pushpins skewering hundreds of pieces of paper from different media.
Dean whistled lowly.
"Hey, Marty McFly," He said, examining a glossy poster with worn fold-lines segmenting it, half-buried under a collection of what looked like blueprints. "I love that movie."
"Oh yeah, me too," Perrypetty said gesturing with his hands, "I mean, obviously the semantics are largely unrealistic but I think Zemeckis and Gale had some really interesting ideas under it all. For one, the idea of the flux capacitor --"
"Uh, Mr. Perrypetty? If we could get to our questions. . ." Sam cut him off.
"Oh, sure. Of course. Yeah. And, uh, you can just call me Benny," Perrypetty agreed, his hands flying down to grasp each other nervously.
"So, Benny," Dean began with an easy smile. "Where were you two nights ago?"
"Uh. . . here. I was here. Yeah. That's right. I was here. Nowhere else. Where else would I be?" Benny answered nervously.
"Gee, Benny, I dunno. Is it maybe possible that you could've been at the old Cleo house? At, say, two in the morning?" Dean said, smile turning predatory.
"No. No. Uh, no. That's not possible. Not possible at all. I mean, sure it's possible. But it's not. I wasn't. I. . . no." Benny said, running a hand through his already-messy hair.
"You sure about that, Benny?" Dean demanded.
"Completely sure. One hundred percent. Well, not quite one hundred percent, because absolute certainty like that is mathematically impossible. But yeah. I'm sure." The man answered.
"Really? Because you see Mr. Perrypetty," Sam cut in. "The problem with that is that a car was stolen two nights ago from the Cleo residence, at around two in the morning. A black 1967 Chevrolet Impala. And we have quite a few witnesses that claim they saw you driving around a black Chevy these last two days. So you can see where we have a problem."
"Yeah," Dean agreed, smile nothing less than dangerous by now, "A problem."
"Uh. . ." Benny began. He was cut off by Dean lunging for him, hands twisting in his collar and slamming him into the wall.
"Listen up you evil car-thieving piece of scum," Dean growled inches from his face. "You're going to tell me what the hell you did with my baby, and you're going to tell me right now."
"Dean," Sam said, placing a placating hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Where. Is. My. Car?" Dean snarled. "Don't make me pull out the big knife. Do you want me to pull out the big knife? I think you want me to pull out the big knife."
"It's in the back!" Benny yelled, squirming in Dean's grip as the hunter reached for the knife at his waist. "Right there in the back. Please don't pull out the big knife."
"There," Dean said, releasing Benny and patting his cheek. "That wasn't very hard, was it? Now, stay here, dirt-bag."
Dean spun on his heel, walking towards the back door. Sam gave Benny, who was rubbing the back of his neck where his collar had dug into his skin, an appraising look.
"I'd do as he says," He advised casually. "He's really a big fan of that knife."
Benny nodded, trembling slightly.
Sam followed his brother out.
"Oh, baby," Dean was spread over the hood of his car, fingers digging into the smooth black metal. "My poor baby. I missed you."
"Uh, should I give you guys a minute?" Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm never letting you out of my sight again, darling," Dean whispered to the Impala. "I'm so sorry that nasty man took you. Did he treat you alright?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
"Dean? If you two are done with your bonding moment. . .?" Sam pressed.
"My sweet girl. You're beautiful, you know that? I don't tell you that enough. From now on, I'm gonna tell you as often as I can. And it's only premium from here on out." Dean's breath fogged up the metal of the hood. "Only the best for you, baby."
"Okay! Seriously, what you're doing is illegal in some states. Can we just get out of here, please?" Sam demanded.
Dean turned his head to glare at him. "Fine. But first I have to go teach Grand Theft Auto in there what happens when bastards like him touch my car."
"Dean, murder is still illegal." Sam pointed out.
"Extenuating circumstances, Sam. Any jury would understand." Dean said, hands stroking over the hood.
Sam sighed. "Dean. . ."
"Fine! Fine. We'll go. Happy?" Dean grumbled, straightening up and crossing his arms. "Let's go."
He walked over and tugged open the driver's door, sliding into his seat with a low groan that was more than a little indecent. His fingertips ran over the steering-wheel. Sam got in the passenger's side, ignoring Dean, but rather happy himself that the Impala was back in their possession.
Dean's hands froze on the wheel, grip tightening until his knuckles paled.
"What the fuck is this. . .?" He gasped as he caught sight of the dashboard, voice hoarse with surprise.
There was a soft rap on the passenger window. Sam and Dean turned to see Benny standing outside the car sheepishly.
Sam rolled down the window.
Benny's voice quavered, "Uh, there's something you should probably know. . ."
Benny had shoved enough papers off of the couch to make room for the brothers to sit. His offer for coffee had been tersely turned down.
Sam had only just realized that there were dozens of clocks in the place, digital and analogue and everything in between, all set to different times. The ticking filled the tense quiet between the three men. Idly, he watched Felix the cat's eyes twitch back in forth in time with the second hand as his tail swished.
Dean finally spoke up, voice quiet. "Are you telling me you tried to turn my car into a time machine?"
"Uh. . . yeah. Yeah. That's exactly what I did." Benny answered, nodding.
"Why our car?" Sam asked before his brother could lunge off the couch and throttle Benny.
"Well, you see. . . this is the, uh, twenty-eighth attempt with a fully working vehicle. I sort of. . . ran out of cars. Yeah. I'd almost give up, and I was out that night just walking around, trying to clear my head. And I sort of wandered onto the Cleo property -- normally I don't go there, I mean, that place is freaky, isn't it? -- but then I saw your car there, in the driveway. . . I figured it was a sign." Benny explained.
Dean's left eye twitched. "What happened to the other twenty-seven cars?"
"They, uh. . . the experiment. . . failed." Benny hedged. "They were no longer. . . salvageable. But this time, this time, I've finally got it to work!"
"Wait," Sam said, holding up a hand. "Are you trying to say that you actually created a working time machine?"
Benny nodded frantically. "Yeah! Yeah, I have. I mean, it's still not fully tested, but I'm positive that this one will work. Well, almost-positive. As close to positive as possible!"
Dean stared.
"You're absolutely bat-shit insane, aren't you?" He asked slowly.
Benny scowled. "No. Well. . . no. Mostly not. You see, I finally figured out a way to create a portable energy source that would --"
Dean held up his hands, cutting him off. "Look, I don't care about your crazy theories of. . . craziness, okay? Just tell me what you did to my car."
"Uh," Benny said. "Well, I had to modify the engine, of course."
Dean's hands flinched in his lap, and Sam put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"To make room for my. . . well, I've been calling it the flux capacitor, you know, just for fun, but really it's an self-sustainable dilation-equalized propulsion device powered by--"
"Benny," Dean said warningly. "What did I say about the crazy?"
"Uh, right. Sorry. Anyway, besides the. . . adjustments to the engine, really the only thing that's changed is what you saw in the dash. That's the nav system. I even put it in above the tape deck and radio, so you can still listen to music."
"How considerate of you," Dean deadpanned. "Nothing like traveling through time with a good soundtrack."
"What's the nav system do?" Sam pressed.
Benny kept his eyes on him, apparently finding him a safer target than the still more than a little pissed-off Dean. "It should, ideally, tell you when and where you are in the world, and how long you'll stay there."
"Hold on," Sam said. "Two things there. Well, besides the obvious. First off, what do you mean 'when and where?' Are you saying that your machine allows for instantaneous transportation through space, too?"
"Sam, don't encourage the insanity," Dean muttered. Benny and Sam ignored him.
"That's right," Benny said, nodding eagerly. "The TM -- that's, uh, time machine, obviously -- won't just send your Impala to a different era, but to a different place, too."
"Okay. Fine," Sam granted. "Second thing -- what was that part about 'how long you'll stay there?'"
"Well, see, the nav system also contains a timer that counts down how long the TM will be able to stay in one place in space/time before it becomes unstable and has to travel to a new date and/or location." Benny explained.
"How do you program it?" Sam asked.
"Uh. . . that's one of the, uh, kinks, I still haven't worked out yet." Benny hedged.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "You can't program it? So, what, it pretty much just spits you out in some random era at some random place for an unknown amount of time?"
"Pretty much," Benny nodded.
"Hey!" Dean held up his hands. "I think we're forgetting here that it doesn't work. This is time travel we're talking about. Science fiction. I don't want to be the downer of the party, but the idea that this guy built a time machine is in-fucking-sane."
"I can show you my research," Benny defended. "Look, it all checks out. . ."
"No," Dean said flatly. "Look, Perrypetty, just be glad I've decided not to pull all of your intestines out of your ears, alright? Enough of the tinfoil hat psycho ramblings. What's going to happen now is my brother and I are going to get in my car and drive far, far away, and we're never going to have to see each other again."
"But all my work. . .!" Benny protested.
Dean gave him a level stare. "That decision to not rip out your intestines can be revised, Benny. You're not touching my baby again."
Benny visibly deflated. "Alright. . . fine, fine."
"Let's go, Sam," Dean said, standing up. Sam shot Benny an almost-sympathetic look and followed Dean out.
Outside, the rain was still coming down, running in slick rivulets down the Impala's hood and freckling the windshield.
Benny hovered in the open sliding glass door, looking crestfallen. Dean gave him a cheeky wave.
The brothers slid into the Impala's seat, Dean giving a happy sigh. Carefully, he started up the engine, smiling at the familiar roar.
He glared at the 'nav system' with distaste.
"Look what he did to my baby's dash," Dean moaned.
"You can hardly notice it. . ." Sam ventured.
Dean snorted. "Hardly notice it? Hardly notice it? He put in an entire new. . . thingy!"
Sam sighed, ignoring Dean in favour of watching the rain twist on the windows.
Tires sliding through the mud, the brothers pulled out of 895 Wells Drive and headed off into the storm, leaving Benny Perrypetty alone to try again once more.
The Impala gleamed in each flash of lightning, tearing through the rain with abandon. Dean was enjoying having his car back a little too much. The car slid on the road, but he only laughed as the wheel fought him. The radio pounded in disharmony with the rain.
Sam glanced at the steadily rising orange needle of the speedometer. Later, he would think it was just a coincidence that it had come to rest on eighty-eight miles per hour just when the lightning struck.
Or maybe not.
At any rate, the world suddenly flared indigo and white and harsh as the bolt hit the car. The colours bled out of Sam's vision, and there was a curious sound. Or lack of sound, maybe. Some high rushing feeling that filled his eardrums and thundered in his ribcage and then everything was gone.
The Impala raced at eighty-eight miles per hour, lightning struck, and the Winchester brothers weren't in Salt Lake City, Utah 2006 long enough to hear the thunder.
Wait, are you telling me that that entire opening section was completely unrelated to the plot?
Uh-huh.
But--
MOVING ON. . . Thanks for reading, I'd love it if you'd review.
Don't do it. You'll only encourage her.
Hey! Whose side are you on?