Prologue
He forcibly relaxed the grip on the knife under his pillow when he woke to the sound of a squeaky faucet shutting off the shower. He turned over to his side for several more long moments and listened to his younger giant of a brother finally shuffle his feet into the bedroom.
"Sam," he slurred. "What time's it?"
"Six-thirty," was the prompt and altogether cheerful return.
"Why?"
"I'm going for a jog. Don't worry, Dean. I'll bring you back breakfast."
He opened one eye to see his brother give him a short smirk before pulling on a windbreaker and grabbing his keys. "I'll see you at about seven-thirty?"
Turning his back onto his brother and pulling up the covers, he mumbled, "No."
"You know the sooner we check out dad's storage, the sooner we head back. Anyways, I'll see you later."
He held up finger. "Wait, get me bacon—!" But with a click, the front door to their motel room closed.
It was an altogether routine morning for the brothers—be it in chilly northern Buffalo, New York. And their operation for the day was a particularly routine check-up on their late father's old storage unit of weapons, Curse Boxes, and other miscellaneous items.
It was very unlikely they'd ever realize that their discovery this day would lead to events in the future which will affect everything they knew about the supernatural world.
"It's glowing."
Dean shot his brother a dirty look. "Way to state the obvious." His flashlight flickered around the chest and onto the padlock.
It was unmistakable from the gleaming yellow light shimmering through the edges of the rusted and dusty metal. Something inside the box was glowing. It wasn't rattling or making noises though. Just glowing in soft pulses like a calmly beating heart. It was hard to miss in the dark and damp storage room that was cluttered with odds and ends and the occasional spider web.
"Well, do we just ignore it?" Sam wondered. Contradictorily, he pulled on the leather gloves they saved for just this sort of situation.
"Well, the logical thing to do is keep it locked up or destroy it," Dean replied, but his face was painted with skepticism and curiosity. "I mean something living could be in there that just woke up and waiting to get out."
"Destroying this, if we even knew how, would be the sensible thing to do," the taller brother agreed. He crouched by the box and his leather-covered fingers barely skimmed the edges of the metal. At the same time and instead of stopping Sam, Dean set down the flashlight and positioned his shotgun.
Sam looked back at his older brother as he touched the padlock. "Wait, we're not doing this here are we?"
They glanced around at all the potentially "flammable" boxes and weapons and shrugged. Sam quickly made up his mind and picked up the box. "Let's take it back—woah!" He dropped the box and it clattered against the pavement, the sound echoing in their garage.
"What happened?"
"It just got really hot all of the sudden!"
Dean stuck a foot out and toed the box. "You were just touching it earlier…"
"I know. And it suddenly got hot!" Exasperated, Sam knelt down again and reached for the box at a distance. Dean raised his gun again.
With just a brush of his fingers, the box shuddered, the light blared brighter through the seams of the opening, and suddenly there was a clang! as the lid of the box fell open and the padlock slid off simultaneously.
"What the hell?" Dean said, just as the light flickered out and all was dark except for his flashlight which faced the other end of the room.
Sam hastily grabbed the flashlight and shone it onto the chest, which now lay on its side. A long piece of wood had rolled out of the chest that had what looked like a hand grip on one end. Dull, unremarkable. It couldn't possibly be the source of all that glowing and heat, could it?
Sam reached out, heeding Dean's cautious warning, and pushed the stick. It rolled.
"What do you think it is?" Sam asked.
"A stick," deadpanned an unimpressed Dean. "A magic one," he tried again.
"Well it's not doing anything anymore," Sam noticed and picked up the wood before placing it back in the chest. He tucked it under his arm before waving the flashlight about the rest of the facility, checking for any other unusual signs.
As they silently and mutually agreed nothing was currently a danger at present, they both headed back out to their car. Neither remembered the padlock, which now lay on the floor of the storage unit, and neither noticed the initials H.J.P. carved into the metal.
Elsewhere, lying far removed from the two brothers, and pretty much far removed from any human society whatsoever and strangely lying in what could be a coffin, the eyes of a young man with jet black hair and a lightning bolt scar snapped open. And his first breath in a century was drawn in sharply.
TBC