Havennatural
This is my first swing at writing in a very long time. Also my first swing at combing two shows I love—Haven, my long-term relationship, and Supernatural, one I've recently come to love.
Sam and Dean hear tales about a small town in Maine, and decide to investigate…
Sam was researching, as usual, and Dean was reclined on the couch, polishing off the last of his beer.
Sam's face furrowed, and he leaned closer to his laptop.
"Huh," he said.
"Huh what?" Dean muttered, wondering if there was any leftover chili in the fridge.
"I've been reading about this town in Maine—a place called Haven," Sam read aloud. "Town suffered a massive gas line rupture during an intense Northeastern storm."
"Damn. Anything left of the place?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, says they're pulling themselves back together. Man, a lot of people died," Sam replied. "But here's the thing—there's all these online conspiracy theories about this place."
"Like what?"
"Like people having supernatural powers—controlling weather, shape-shifting, wendigos, you name it," Sam mused, his fingers continuing to click at the keyboard.
Dean lifted his head off the couch.
"Dad never mentioned the place. You think this explosion or whatever was some massive demon deal-collection?"
"I don't know what to think," Sam replied, continuing to type. "According to one of these sites, Haven was allegedly like a town-sized safe house for people with supernatural abilities. Dean, I don't understand how we've never heard of this place."
"There's nothing in the Men of Letters files?"
"Nothing I've found so far."
"Think it's worth checking out?" Dean questioned.
"Couldn't hurt," Sam said.
Early the next morning, Sam and Dean loaded the car, and started their journey.
The following evening, they arrived on the outskirts, passing a sign that read Welcome to Haven, Maine.
All around the brothers, they could see the evidence of rebuilding going on—homes and businesses in various states of repair, or being razed due to heavy damage.
"Man, between the storm and the explosion, it really did a number on this place," Sam murmured.
"Yeah," Dean grumbled. "Look, you start at the library and I'll start with the local yokels, see if we can find out what's going on."
Sam agreed, and set off for the library, and Dean made his way into the police station. It too, seemed to be undergoing renovation, judging by the cracks running up the walls.
"Excuse me, Officer—Bannerman?" Dean read from the ID tag on the police officer's shirt, and held up his badge. "Agent Plant, I'd like to speak to your boss, if I could."
"You want to talk to the Chief? Why?" the officer asked. Was it his imagination, or was the guy suspicious, Dean pondered.
"We're here to investigate about this explosion," Dean said in his best authoritative voice, but clearly, Bannerman wasn't biting. Normally, small-town cops went out of their way to accommodate the FBI.
"Explosion happened, we're rebuilding. Nothing to investigate," Stan replied, his face calm, his tone polite but Dean detected a deep suspicion beneath it. He could read it in the man's eyes, his body language, and he began to wonder what the hell was going on.
"Chief's out at the moment," Stan continued. "If you'd like to leave your card, I'll make sure he gets it."
"Do that," Dean replied, and departed.
A short time later, he caught up with Sam, heading out of the library, and quickly climbed into the Impala.
"What gives with this place?" Sam said upon closing the door. "Like everybody in town is in on some big secret, but they are not talking, that's for sure."
"Yeah, I had a cop pretty much tell me to buzz off at the station, gave me some song and dance that the Chief was out at the moment," Dean told him. "Flashed the badge and he just looked at it like I got it out of a gumball machine." He shook his head. "Whatever went down here, they're keeping pretty quiet about it."
"So what do you think?"
"I don't know," Dean said. "Man, Sammy, something happened here, something major, and I don't mean just an explosion either. We need to find out."
After a long and fruitless afternoon of questioning the locals, the brothers stopped at a diner, and slid into the back booth.
Although the sun was beginning to set, it was still light enough out for Dean to see a vintage blue Ford Bronco pulling into the driveway, and a youngish man wearing a Haven PD jacket emerge from it.
He entered the diner, and spoke briefly with the waitress, who gestured towards their booth.
"Heads up," Dean mumbled as the man approached them.
"You Agents Plant and Page?" he asked. "I'm Chief Wuornos."
"Chief," Dean greeted cautiously.
"I understand you've been going around asking questions about the explosion."
"That's right," Dean replied.
"I called and checked with the FBI—they've never heard of you," Nathan continued. "So how about we start with who you two really are. Why are you asking about what happened here?"
"Why are you trying so hard to hide what happened here?" Sam asked in a low tone of voice.
"Because these people in this town have been to Hell and back and we've earned our peace and quiet," Nathan replied, and unfastened the snap on his holster. "So you can tell me your names here or back at the station, we can do this either way."
After a tense silence, Dean nodded.
"Pull up a chair, Chief," he gestured, and the man retrieved a chair from an empty table, and drew it up to the booth.
"I'm Dean Winchester—this is my brother, Sam," Dean began, Sam nodding acquaintance.
"Nathan," he answered. "Why are you here asking questions?"
"What are you trying to hide?" Sam asked. "There was no explosion, was there?"
Nathan gazed at him a few moments, his expression stoic.
"Look, if it was something—out of the ordinary—we can help," Dean told him. "We kind of specialize in it."
"You're not some paranormal group, are you? We've had no end of problems with them."
"You mean like Ghost Facers? Not a chance," Dean snorted derisively.
"Who?" Nathan questioned, his face puzzled.
"Amateur ghost hunters," Dean waved dismissively. "We're hunters too, but we're not amateurs."
"Look, I think what Dean's trying to say, Chief Wuornos, if you're still having problems, maybe we can help," Sam explained kindly.
"That's all over with," Nathan told them. "We solved our—Trouble," he finished, with a slight catch in his voice.
"I'm almost afraid to ask how you solved your problem," Dean muttered, imagining the worst; because it usually turned out to be exactly the case.
"What really happened, if you don't mind us asking," Sam told him.
"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Try us," Dean said.
"No, seriously, you wouldn't believe me," Nathan answered, gesturing for the waitress. "Coffee please, Josie," he told her and Josie scampered off, returning shortly with a steaming mug. "Now, you said you were—hunters?"
"We're—hunters of the supernatural and paranormal," Dean said quietly. "There is very little we haven't seen, heard, or done, believe us.
"And we're not here to exploit your misfortunes, we just wanna help if we can," Sam assured him.
Nathan took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the heat.
"Still forget about that sometimes," he said more to himself than the brothers. "What did you hear about Haven that brought you here in the first place?"
"That this was some kind of supernatural safe house," Sam said.
Nathan nodded. "Haven was pretty much exactly that for about 500 years," he began. "Haven was a place where if you had supernatural afflictions, as you said—you'd move here and you could live a fairly normal life. Most times."
"Most times," Sam repeated. "What does that mean?"
"There was a 27-year cycle. Every 27 years, the—afflictions—we called them Troubles—would return."
"So what happened to change all that?"
"A lot of things," Nathan answered softly. "They—the Troubles—would run about a six-month to a year-long cycle, and then disappear again for another 27 years."
"Like what kind of Troubles?" Dean asked.
"We had a woman who could control the weather."
"We've seen that," Dean replied.
"How about a wendigo?"
"Killed a few in our time," Sam said offhandedly, and Nathan blinked at him.
"Really," he said. "We had a serial killer skinwalker."
"Was it a skinwalker or a shapeshifter?" Same questioned. "They seem similar, but they're not."
"This woman had to wear the skin of other people because hers fell off," Nathan said, and both Sam and Dean looked shocked. "Look, can we discuss this elsewhere?" he asked, glancing around him. "We're trying not to run our new residents off. Town's hurting bad enough as it is."
"Where would you like?" Dean asked.
"Someplace with alcohol," Nathan sighed. "Also, there are a couple of other people who could help me explain all this to you."
"Not really the reaction we got around town," Sam pointed out.
"Look, all I want to do is set your minds at ease that we don't require your sort of services anymore," Nathan told him. "It's a place called The Grey Gull. Used to belong to—a friend," he finished, and for a moment, his eyes brightened.
Sam and Dean both knew that look—the look of someone who'd lost more than his fair share of family, friends, and friends who were like family along the way, and they nodded agreement.
"Sounds great," Dean said.
Nathan nodded, and rose from the table, leaving a few dollars for the coffee and tip, and departed.
"Dude, I never heard of somebody having to wear human skin because theirs fell off," Sam whispered. "Maybe we should call Cass in on this one."
"Only if we have to," Dean said. "The guy's willing to answer questions, but the answers ain't gonna come easy if he needs a drink to do it."
"Most of our answers never come easy either," Sam replied.
They found the place easily enough, and after asking the bartender, was pointed out to a fire pit overlooking the water, where they found Nathan, along with a large muscular blonde-haired man and an older woman.
Nathan rose as they approached the group.
"Sam and Dean Winchester, this is Dwight Hendrickson, and Dr. Gloria Verano," he introduced.
Dwight eyed the pair suspiciously. He'd put in a call after Nathan's text, and found out enough about the Winchesters to know that when they showed up to town, people had a way of dying.
"What brings you boys to Haven?" Dwight asked without preamble. "I heard you were all over town asking questions."
"We've been hearing stories about this place," Sam began.
"I've told them a little of what went on," Nathan put in, and woman looked at him critically.
"Have you flipped your lid?" she asked. "Talking about the Troubles to strangers?"
"I asked around about you guys," Dwight put in.
"What'd you hear?" Dean asked his tone casual.
"Enough to know that people tend to die when you show up," Dwight said succinctly, and then relented. "I also heard enough to know that you seem to know what you're doing when it comes to the weird and unusual. So if Nathan wants to talk to you about what happened, I'm in. Rather you hear it from us than the internet."
"I'll reserve judgment for the moment," Gloria answered, taking a swig or her drink.
"So you said Haven was a sort of safe house for these—Troubles, you called 'em," Dean began, and the three opposite him nodded.
"It was a well-kept secret—so well-kept in fact, that most of the town didn't really know about the Troubles, till the fog shroud happened," Dwight stated. "We wanted Troubled people to have to same right to a decent life, the same as any normal person would."
"How'd you keep a lid on that for so long?" Sam questioned.
"We had our newspaper, was run by two brothers, Dave and Vince Teagues," Nathan told him. "They could be pretty creative with some of the cover-up stories."
"Sometimes," Gloria said. "Other times, I think they were phoning it in."
"They did have a lot going on, to be fair," Nathan told her.
"At first, the stories were believable—but there were an awful lot of quote-unquote, 'gas leaks' towards the end," Sam replied.
"I used to think so too. In the end, though, all the gas-leak stories helped push the explosion story," Nathan explained.
"I-I'm still kind of tripping out about your skin-wearing serial killer," Sam put in.
"Arla Cogan," Dwight stated.
"Believe it or not, there were even worse Troubles than hers," Nathan told them.
"There really isn't much that can shock us anymore," Dean replied. "We've fought against werewolves, rougarous, Greek gods, witches, djinns, vampires, demons, angels—"
"Demons," Dwight repeated. "You mean like, Lucifer and the hoary netherworld type demons?"
"I know that sounds crazy to regular people," Dean muttered. "But yeah, real honest-to-God, pardon the expression, demons."
"We never said we were regular people, Green Eyes," Gloria quipped, and gave Dean a wink, who smiled slightly.
Nathan chuckled and took another swig of his beer.
"You said you fought angels?" Dwight asked, astounded. "Aren't they all like God's messengers of peace and light and stuff?"
"Yeah, you'd think that, but no," Dean sniped. "Angels are some of the biggest jack—"
"Well, let's say not all of them are good guys." Sam quickly interrupted his brother. "Except for maybe Cass."
"Cass?" Nathan asked.
"Short for Castiel," Sam told him. "But—we came to hear about you guys' issues, not tell you about ours."
"Well, as I told you at the diner, our issues are done with," Nathan began slowly. "Although it sounds as though you've had nearly as many as we have," he answered, a faint smile. "We had someone who could revive the dead, another person could cause earthquakes, one girl's touch could make anything explode—"
"That was gruesome," Dwight muttered into his beer glass.
"Yeah," Nathan answered, and glanced at Dean. "You said you fought a wendigo?"
Sam and Dean nodded. "Several."
"Ever fight a—shadow that could kill people?" he asked.
"Gone up against a couple of wraiths," Dean said. "And when demons leave people they've possessed, they smoke out. Is that what you mean?"
"Not quite," Nathan said. "Ever—time traveled?"
"Several times," Dean said. "You?"
"Twice," Nathan told him. "A guy had a trouble that could send people back in time."
"He wasn't a witch?" Dean asked.
"No, he was just an ordinary guy who happened to have a supernatural Trouble," Nathan explained. "Many Havenites were like that. Dwight and myself were Troubled," he continued.
"What was your problem, um, Trouble?" Dean questioned.
"I couldn't feel. At all," Nathan replied. "Cuts, burns, punches, bullet wounds, couldn't feel any of it."
"Lucky bastard," Dean muttered into his glass.
"Not really, it sucked," Nathan said. "Hard to walk when you can't feel your feet. And years of it meant injuries that didn't hurt then, but I can tell where they were these days."
"Wait till you get to be my age," Gloria warned ominously. "Arthritis is a bitch."
"What was your Trouble?" Sam asked Dwight.
"I was a bullet magnet—any gun that went off within 100 yards of me, the bullet would veer towards me," Dwight told him.
"Damn," Dean stated. "And we thought we had it bad."
"Yeah," Dwight nodded briskly. "But as Nathan said, that's all over with now."
"So nobody had like multiple powers or anything like that," Sam inquired. "Multiple—Troubles, as you call them."
Nathan's face grew sad. "Only one guy had multiple Troubles."
"Well, Duke only had the one Trouble—all the rest he collected," Dwight pointed out.
"What do you mean, he collected?" Sam asked.
"Duke's Trouble was that he could eradicate a curse from a Troubled person's family," Nathan began. "The only catch to that solution was that he had to kill a member of their family. He was sort of a Trouble storehouse. Only we didn't know that at the time."
"Was he a demon?" Dean questioned.
"No, he was not," Nathan stated firmly, and then relented, chuckling ruefully. "If you'd asked me that five years ago, I'd have probably told you yes. But no, Duke was not a demon." He blinked hard. "He sacrificed himself to end the Troubles."
"He saved this town, Nate," Gloria said softly, and touched his leg. "You all did."
They talked a while longer, and then as it was late, Nathan directed them to the Over the Way Inn, and the brothers made to bunk down for the night, intending on leaving in the morning.
Dean had just come out of the shower, when he noticed the lights in the bathroom flickering, and Sam's urgent call of "Dean!"
Dean stepped out of the bathroom, gun at the ready, seeing Sam wide-eyed by the table in the room, lights flickering madly.
He exhaled, seeing his breath fog in front of him.
"Ghost," Sam said, looking around wildly.
"Show yourself!" Dean barked at the room, and suddenly there was a man standing near the doorway.
"There!" Sam shouted, and Dean fired, rock salt peppering the wall and the figure dissipated.
"All over with, the man says," Dean grunted.
"Yeah, right," Sam answered, as the room warmed up and the lights stopped twitching. "That doesn't seem like it's all over, does it?"
"Well, you wanta tell him or shall I?" Dean nodded at the window, where the Bronco was pulling up outside, along with a large black vehicle that Dwight emerged from.
Sam opened the door to admit a very angry Nathan.
"First all the questions around town and now you're shooting up the hotel? What gives?" he demanded angrily. "I oughta run you guys in."
"We saw an intruder," Dean defended.
"You shoot at all your intruders with rock salt?" Dwight asked, inspecting the salt-speckled paneling.
"We do the ghostly ones," Dean answered. "And this was a ghost."
"There's never been a report of hauntings here at Over the Way," Nathan told them.
"M-maybe from shipwrecks from long ago or something," Sam said helpfully. "He was kinda dressed like a sailor, from what we could tell."
Dwight looked at him curiously.
"How like a sailor?" he asked. "What'd he look like?"
"We just saw him for a second," Sam stated. "He was a young guy, dark hair, I guess dark eyes. He was wearing a black coat, like a pea coat that sailors wear."
"He have a goatee?" Dwight questioned.
"Yeah—looked like some kind of hipster ghost," Dean said, and the lights flickered again.
Dwight paled, and said something inaudible to Nathan, who looked stricken; and then reached for his wallet. He took out a picture, and handed it to Dean.
"Did he look like that?"
"Yeah, that's him," Dean said. "Who is he?"
"His name's Duke, or was, Duke Crocker. We told you about him."
The lights flickered again.
"What—what's going on with the lights?" Nathan asked.
"When a spirit is trying to manifest itself, it draws energy from its surroundings, lights, the room might get colder," Sam explained, as the lights returned to normal.
Nathan looked stricken.
"Any idea what he wants?" Dean asked. "Although I don't suppose he's going to be in a big hurry to try manifesting again after our reception."
Nathan looked as though he were about to cry, and Dwight put a hand on his shoulder.
"It's not your fault, Nate," he said gently.
"What's not his fault?" Sam questioned. "That may be why Duke is trying to make contact. Where was he buried?"
"At sea," Dwight replied.
"Well, that'll make torching his bones difficult," Dean remarked, and Nathan looked at him as though Dean had slapped him.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"It's one way to put a vengeful spirit at rest," Sam explained. "You salt and burn the remains."
"I wouldn't let you do that to Duke even if he was buried on land," Nathan said angrily. "No, it's my—"he choked. "It's my fault he's restless."
"Why would you say that, Chief?" Dean interrogated.
"Because I killed him," Nathan finished in a whisper.
"Nathan," Dwight put in quickly, eyeing the Winchesters' expressions. "You did the only thing you could do. It was the right thing to do, even Duke knew that."
"I'm sensing there's more to the story here," Dean spoke. "Look—we've been in the same situation. We know what it is to have to sacrifice people for the greater good—good people," he went on in a gentler tone. "And I know he was your friend. And if you're a friend to him, then let us help you figure out how to put him at rest. The longer he remains here, the worse he'll become."
"You said he was a—vengeful spirit?" Nathan asked. "Like a poltergeist?"
"Poltergeists are often the result of vengeful spirits—souls who can't or won't cross over and they're frustrated by it, and it just gets worse for them over time," Sam told them. "They don't even remember why they're still here, they're just—anger and rage, that's all that's left."
"How do we help him?" Nathan asked Sam. "I don't want Duke to hurt anymore. He had enough hurt for three lifetimes. He deserves his peace."
"Well, one, we have to figure out what's holding him here—it could be an object-" Sam began. "Or it could be you holding him here."
"Me?"
"He might feel like he's got unfinished business."
"What can we do to remedy the situation?" Dwight said.
"Let us get hold of a friend," Dean replied. "We'll try to make contact with him and see what this Duke soul has to say."
Nathan and Dwight departed, promising to be in touch early the next morning, and after a few precautionary sigils and a thorough salting of the room, Sam and Dean bedded down for the night.
Elsewhere in Haven, a lone figure stood on the beach in the full moonlight, drawing spellwork into the sand.
He gestured, and the sigils flared into light.
"Come forward," he spoke, his voice's rich timber echoing. "Come forward—Duke Crocker."