On the last episode of Supernatural: Cursed.
"Are you saying I can't remember who I am because I don't want to remember?"
"John!"
"You let it take her! You let the other one get away!"
"If we didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have any at all."
"Don't you remember me, Dean? It's Agent Hendrickson. Agent Victor Hendrickson."
"Every grave robbery, desecration, vandalism. Every suspicious death. They're gonna pull them all apart. Sooner or later they'll be lead right back to us."
"You want us to got to Scotland?!"
Three months later:
Ten years ago, Sally Wandell had sworn to herself that she would never come back to this life. That this chapter of her existence was well and truly over.
And then her father was murdered.
What choice did she have after that? She got three months off to go back home and attend his funeral and to deal with the conflict inside her. Little did her friends know that the tough little commando was not the least shaken by this unforseen turn of events. She had always known that something would take Steve down.
But now she was angry.
There was little she could do to salvage the microchips in Dad's security system, but Steve was not just a pretty face. During the summer when she was seventeen, Sally had helped Steve rig it up. The surveillance cameras were connected to the computer, true, but Dad's paranoia had insisted he load the cameras with videotape just in case the computer failed.
You can never trust technology, he always said.
So true. Several years later, he was dead, and the camera tape that the intruder had overlooked lead Sally straight to Sam Winchester.
And so she did what her father always told her to do. She put the word around to find out about this Sam.
All she got in return were angry stares and furious whispers. 'You stay away from the Winchesters, Miss Wandel. Bad news, that whole family. I knew the dad a long time ago. They say he's dead but I wouldn't put it past the old bastard to still be going somehow.'
'Those boys of his are the epitome of crazy. Don't get in the way, or they'll go right through you. Don't worry about your old dad. We'll get the bastard that did it.'
And Sally knew without a doubt who did it. But for some reason she stayed silent. Perhaps she didn't trust these men. Or perhaps she was waiting for them to add two and two and get five.
Maybe she wanted to bring the Winchesters down herself.
Unfortunately, when her leave came around once more, both of them were assumed dead, and Sally could get no one to attest to the opposite. Either they really were dead, or those boys had a massive support network.
And then suddenly just as she was about to give up, both of them showed, in a shower of major demonic activity. It was too much for Sally to ask for. Her leave had swung around, they were alive, and the small nugget of revenge that she had thought she buried deep inside her began burning harder and fiercer than ever.
How could they walk around with their heads held high? How could they respect themselves considering the lives they had torn apart? For what they told themselves was the right thing to do?
There was no black and white. There never had been.
And so Sally was back in the slums where she had grown up. Devoid of her military greens, she was nonetheless still in a uniform of sorts, albeit a uniform of denim and leather. Her pistol was safely secured in her shoulder holster and her knife was resting against her skin, strapped firmly against the small of her back.
One could never be too safety conscious.
There was a man before her leaning dangerously far over the bridge railing. For a moment it looked like he might throw himself off, but as she walked forward, he stepped back smartly from the edge.
A moment of recognition flashed between them.
"So you're the bounty hunter. How did you manage to get out of jail?"
"So you heard about that."
"My father sent me packages each month. He kept me up to speed on things."
"I'm sorry about Steve."
"No you're not." Sally said. "The last time he saw you he was going to rip your head off and mount it on his wall. How did you get out of jail?"
A shrug. "Naming names."
"And signing on to inform for Victor Hendrickson, apparently. Or was it a perk to finally work with someone that made you look sane by comparison?"
"You should talk. Something's suckered you back in to the game, too."
"Yes. The same thing that's got you." She paused. "The Winchesters."
"Am I that transparent?"
"Only a lot. Gossip runs fast, and the brothers set you up."
"Revenge." He said.
"Revenge." She agreed. "Ever since I found out who took down Dad…"
"It was always there, gnawing at the corner of your mind. The one that got away."
"Yes."
"They'd been lying low for a while, but I picked up the scent again when they got real active around the first last month."
"But-?"
"About a week ago, it went cold. Like they'd disappeared off the face of the planet. No-one knows anything."
"Maybe they just got the hell out of Dodge."
She watched as the penny dropped. "There's no way they could have made it out of America without one of my boys knowing."
"I'm not talking about skipping across to Canada to dodge the draft." She said sharply. "I've seen every possible way of getting illegally out of a country."
"There's no way. Hendrickson-"
"Is a very clever man, undoubtedly. But he can't monitor everything."
"Even private flights take weeks of preparation-"
"And who's to say they haven't been planning their great escape for weeks?"
The pair of them were silent for a minute. "What do we tell him?"
Hendrickson.
"The truth." Sally said. "That the trail here has gone cold. And that I believe I have the contacts required to find them again."
"You're a piece of work, Wandell."
"Why, thank you, Gordy."
Sally walked back to her car, aware that Gordon Walker was watching her every step.
He had sold out, but was what he doing really any different to what she was going to do?
Sam decided within half an hour of being on the liner that he hated sea travel.
It was not that the food was bad or the staff rude or the beds hard, or even that Dean was unusually chipper as he watched the mainland shrink into the distance along with his beloved Impala…
It was the seasickness.
Yes, Sam Winchester found out the hard way that he got seasick. And didn't Big Brother love that.
"What I don't get is, you're in and out of water all the time. Then there's the vehicles, the planes, the buses, bumped around, up and down, back and forth, side to side, faster and faster…"
His stomach clenched uncomfortably. "I hate you."
Dean grinned through his peppered steak. Another not-so-subtle poke at his brother, since Sam had trouble keeping down half a sandwich. "We could have taken a plane, and we'd probably even be there by now, but nooo."
"Hey, I'm just phobic. At least I don't spend all night puking into a bucket."
"It was the closest thing!" Sam shot back. "Someone was in the bathroom at the time!"
"Hey, it's the first proper wash I've had since… for a long time. And I'm still breaking in these jeans." He plucked at the black denim. True to form, there were recent rips in both knees. "Come on, Sammy. It's like a prepaid holiday."
"Only there's a big, fat, nasty surprise we've got to deal with waiting inside."
Dean pondered for a moment. "Sort of like eating a hotdog." He said pensively. "A nice, gooey hotdog with extra chunky mustard and long, thick, sloppy strands of onion…"
He chuckled to himself slyly as Sam bolted. "Dean, Dean. You are so cruel." He popped another chip into his mouth, pushing the vegetables discretely to the side of his plate. His eyes strayed to the brochures scattered across the floor. Scotland, Land of the Brave. Shires of Scotland. Scottish Ghost Tours.
Okay, we're going to Angus, Scotland. Home of the most haunted castle in Scotland, with no transport and no clue to what the Scots want.
I wonder if anyone on the other side knows we're coming?
Alistair Crow grew up obsessed with ghosts, which was to be expected living in a place where seeing spooks and believing in them were the norm. With the castles and the history, how could there not be? Wales, too, had its share of spectres, though they tended to be more bloodthirsty.
Ireland's spooks were like Ireland's people, a bit odd but relatively peaceful. And England…
They probably had their share of the bastards, but being English, they weren't about to admit it. Though Alistair had to admit that he was a bit biased. He'd never met an Englishman he liked.
So God only knew what playing chaperone to a couple of Americans was going to be like.
He stood on the dock, waiting, along with several dozen other people. Americans. Loud and obnoxious. He had very little patience for Americans, even less than he had for Englishmen. But he had promised his friend, had taken his friend's word for it.
Trust me, these boys are the ones you're after.
Alistair Crow was a butler. He had worked for the one family for several years, and it was one of the most efficient ways he had ever discovered to gain his information. He was a butler, and he was good at it.
He was also good at other things.
His old man used to call it 'tickling the beasties'. Which was a fair enough description in itself. His niece used to think of it as something out of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer until the lass went out on a hunt when she turned eighteen. Come back refusing to say anything to anyone and put herself through school to become a nurse. Two years later, she joined a convent.
Trust me, these boys are the ones you're after.
Alistair stared up through his dark glasses as the ship pulled in. "All Americans look th' same." He muttered. Trust me. His eyes combed the people coming out onto the wharf. Trust me. Then he caught something out of the corner of his eye.
Two men, clutching their baggage, casually coming down from the ship. Maybe it was the way they walked, the confident swagger. Maybe it was the way they stood, straight and proud like they'd never slouched in their lives.
Maybe it was because no one had come out to greet them. All the small details, adding up to the one big fact. Alistair pushed forward through the sea of people to greet them. You only have to be nice to them until they do what they're here to do.
If I weren't so old, I'd try it myself.
"Yer th' Winchesters?"
The taller brother seemed slightly intimidated by the appearance of the bearded, grizzled old man. "How did you-?"
"Lucky guess." Alistair said. He held out his hand. "Alistair Crow."
The shorter man cautiously shook the offered hand. Alistair's thick, brown fingers wrapped around his smaller, paler hand. "Dean. Dean Winchester." He looked as if he hadn't introduced himself using his real name for some time. "This is my brother, Sam."
Weak grip. Check. Absurdly grating accents. Check.
"I'll be yer driver this evenin'." He said. You'd have to be an idiot not to sense the sarcasm. "If y' come this way."
Out of all the Scottish people gathered here on the English dock, this Alistair seemed much easier to understand. The majority seemed to be a boisterous people, but this man with his thick, silver streaked beard seemed a bit more subdued.
The brothers exchanged looks. Without waiting to see if they would follow him, Alistair started to walk away back to his 4WD, which was shockingly out of place among the cobbles and thatched cottages. If they don't follow in five minutes, they can walk to the border.
Americans.
The trio were silent, seemingly not knowing what to say to one another. Sam did not dare to say anything to his brother in the presence of this brooding man, though he could tell by the crease in Dean's brow that something about this picture wasn't sitting right with him.
Finally Dean cleared his throat. "So." He paused.
"So." The Scotsman echoed.
"You work for Raphael Rosalini?"
The big man gave a bark of laughter as he turned the key in the ignition. "Me? Work fer Raph? Yeh mus' be jokin'. I could pick the little runt up wit' one hand. No, there's a problem tha' needs sortin', and someone tipped Raph off tha' you lads might be able t' handle it."
"Really?" Sam asked, uneasy. "Why can't you-?"
"In case yeh haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a young man anymore."
"So. Are you a-?"
"God, no. I'm a butler. And ye'd do well t' remember tha'."
"Maybe you can fill us in, then." Sam said. His stomach was finally beginning to feel a little more settled now he was on solid ground. "Raphael Rosalini wasn't very clear with the… specifics of the case."
"There's good ole Raph for ye. Always suspicious of everythin'. Suppose he didn' want t' give ye too much info in case ye never made it."
That struck a cord with the boys. They glanced at each other, shocked. "He told us he was sure he could get us out safely!" Dean objected. "You mean we could have-"
"There was always a chance ye could get caught first. Raph is a magician with pushin' papers and pullin' strings, but he can't predict who'll be where an' when. Ye missed the FBI by three minutes, accordin' to my weasel."
"Weasel?" Sam asked curiously.
"No one told us that!" Dean snapped. "He never told us the FBI was on that dock!"
"So, he f'got to mention a couple a' things. Get over it."
Sam found himself grinning. Yes, he didn't like the idea of coming here that much at first, empting his stomach each day into the toilet, and he found that all the green made his eyes play tricks on him, but yes.
He actually might grow to like it here.