Dean woke to false twilight, and the sense of being watched. His eyes seemed to be having trouble focusing, and his body felt heavy and numb. But there was something happening, something important, and he needed to get up, get moving, so he took a deep breath--or tried to, it was a lot harder than it should be--and concentrated on getting his eyes to work properly.
Slowly, the dark shapes near him resolved themselves into the familiar interior of his car, and the still figures of his brother and father. Dean frowned. Why wasn't he driving? Why weren't they moving? Something was wrong, something was...
Something was sitting next to him on the back seat.
Dean tried to sit up, to assume something resembling a defensive posture, but his body wouldn't move the way he wanted it to. In fact, the only part of him that seemed to be responding to his brain's frantic signals was his head, which slowly swiveled toward the--person?--sitting in the car next to him.
The person smiled, a flash of extremely white teeth in an ebony face. It was a man, Dean realized. A muscular, bald man with dark skin and eyes that even in the limited lighting shone bright blue. It was hard to meet those eyes; they seemed to pin Dean in place and burn right through him. Dean focused on the man's teeth instead. Boy, he thought somewhat hysterically, those are some seriously white teeth.
As if he could hear Dean's thoughts, the man next to him chuckled softly. "So, you're awake," he said.
Dean merely stared at him. Nodding to confirm the obvious just seemed like too much effort.
The man shifted slightly so that he was turned more toward Dean. "I wanted to know if you were serious," he said conversationally, as though Dean and he were picking up the threads of a briefly interrupted discussion instead of sitting in the dark, surrounded by the smells of blood and gasoline. Vague tendrils of memory were working their way back into Dean's consciousness, trying to help him piece together why those smells were important, but he couldn't make sense of them yet.
"Wha..." Dean couldn't even form the entire word, his mouth tasted of iron and his tongue was thick and sluggish, but the man seemed to know what Dean couldn't ask.
"Back at Bobby's place. I wanted to know if you were serious, you know, about the whole marching into hell and killing all those 'evil sons of bitches' thing." Slender fingers put air quotes around the "evil sons of bitches," and the man grinned like it was just the funniest thing he'd heard in a long time.
Flashes of memory returned--a blonde woman in a chair, threatening dad, a cabin in the woods, a thing in dad's body threatening Sammy--rage overlaying feelings of fear and helplessness. Dimly Dean became aware that his body was shaking, some residual fight or flight response urging him to take out the threat, to protect his family.
"Hurt...dad. Sam. Kill...them." Was this man going to hurt his family? Finish the job the blonde woman--"Meg," his mind supplied suddenly, followed by "demons"--had started? Dean redoubled his efforts to move, to get between the stranger in their car and his father and brother, but sudden pain lanced through his body, stealing his breath. Bile mixed with the flavor of iron on his tongue and Dean fell still, panting shallowly.
"Hey, chill out," said the man, laying a hand on Dean's arm. Warmth spread from the point of contact throughout Dean's body, easing his tremors and clearing his head. He glanced up, startled, and met a steady blue-eyed gaze. Feelings of peace and safety suffused Dean's mind, and his fear and panic receded.
"I'm not one of them," the stranger continued, indicating the exterior of the Impala with a casual wave of his hand.
Dean's eyes slid away from the stranger's, and the fear and pain immediately returned. He anxiously searched the darkness outside. There--behind his companion's left shoulder--a shape was barely visible. Dean shuddered reflexively. Whatever was out there was evil, and he didn't think he could stop it--not like this. He looked back at the stranger beside him, unable to keep the pleading from his gaze. Dean Winchester didn't ask for help. He didn't beg. But trapped and immobile in the backseat of his own car, unable to do anything about the menace stalking his family, Dean would beg, for their lives at least, if not for his own.
"Please," he managed.
The stranger leaned forward, eyes narrowed, and Dean felt heat and pressure from his gaze. "Were you serious?" he repeated.
Dean nodded. "Whatever it...takes," he whispered.
"It's been a long time," said the man absently, as though he were talking to himself. Then he refocused his attention on Dean, considering. If his previous scrutiny had been uncomfortable, this was like being turned inside out, examined piece by piece, and then forced violently back into place. Flashes of white light obscured Dean's vision and the young hunter couldn't suppress a gasp, his brow furrowed in agony.
But when the pain stopped and Dean's eyes finally refocused, the man was smiling at him, blue eyes sparkling.
"Not exactly a price above rubies, but you'll do," he said. Off Dean's confused expression, the man laughed and leaned closer. In a conspiratorial whisper, he added, "Sleep well now, son. There's gonna be a lot of work to do."
Dean struggled against the weakness, pain and exhaustion overtaking him. He had to know if his family would be okay. "Sam? Dad?"
"It'll be okay," were the last words he heard as a bright orange flash drove him into darkness.
"I said to get some sleep, not hibernate," the rich voice sounded vaguely familiar, and faintly amused.
Dean fought his way back to consciousness, his first thoughts of Sam and his dad and the thing that was waiting outside the car. Once again, the only part of his body that seemed willing to respond to his urgent request to move was his head, which he managed to orient toward the voice.
Dean opened his eyes a little at a time, letting the light filter in gradually. He was in a hospital, surrounded by monitors and trailing tubes. The dark-skinned man with the bright blue eyes was seated in the chair by his bed. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt that showed off a well-defined torso. Around his neck the man wore a pendant that looked like a small silver sword. Sandal-clad feet rested on the edge of Dean's hospital bed.
Dean cleared his throat weakly. "Sam? Dad?"
The man rolled his eyes and dropped his feet to the floor, leaning forward a little as he spoke. "One track mind. They're fine. Beat up, but awake and healing. And as soon as your dad and kid brother find out you're awake, they're gonna come barging in here with big sad eyes and gruff demeanors and coddle you to death in some manly non-coddling and highly conflicted way, which I don't really care to deal with, so let me get straight to the point."
"This," the man said, reaching under his chair for a small duffel bag which he dropped on the bed, "is for you." He unzipped the duffel and pulled out what looked like a hunting knife inside a leather sheath.
Dean just stared at it, confused. When the man looked as though he expected Dean to say something, the hunter swallowed and whispered, "Thanks?"
"You're welcome. Do you know what it's for?" When Dean shook his head, the man handed the knife to Dean, who managed to grasp it weakly. The handle was smooth and cool to the touch, the weight well balanced, even within the sheath. Dean looked at it approvingly, then back to the man sitting beside him.
"It's to even the playing field a bit. Your dad's right--you need to finish that demon, and soon. That knife will help."
"But..." Dean didn't get to finish the sentence, as the man held up a hand.
"Don't look a gift horse, son. You've got more help than you know--just have a little faith." The man smirked at Dean's skeptical expression.
"Yeah, yeah, hardened warrior, believer in reality, blah, blah, blah. To paraphrase the Bard, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Dean Winchester."
Dean's eyes narrowed as he finally realized exactly what he was dealing with. "You've got a lot of nerve, you know that? Why don't you do your own dirty work?"
The blue-eyed gaze burned Dean's skin like fire. "You don't know what you're asking. The next battle I fight will be the last one. This one is all yours--yours and your family's. And since you're the one offering to tear up hell itself to keep them safe, I figured you might appreciate a little assistance."
"I'd appreciate not having to do this to begin with," began Dean heatedly, but he trailed off at the expression on the man's face.
"What do you want me to say, kid? Free will's a bitch? Shit happens? They're both true, as much as you'd like to use God as a convenient scapegoat when things aren't all candy canes and lollipops."
Dean bristled at the memory those words evoked, but remained silent.
The man stood, jerking his head in the direction of the knife in Dean's hand. "Protect your family, Dean."
"What if I can't?" it was a whisper, addressed more to himself than to the room's other occupant, but the stranger heard it just the same.
"You can and you will. I have faith in you." The stranger grinned at his own joke, then left the room.
Six months later, three men stood outside a two-story suburban house on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia. The oldest of the three walked with a slight limp and clutched an antique weapon in his right hand. The youngest, and tallest, carried a leather bound tome and a look of determination on his features. The last man held nothing in his hands save a hunting knife in a leather sheath. He looked over at the taller man and gave him a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, Sammy. We know what we're up against, and this time it's not getting away."
Sam looked unconvinced. "Dean, if this doesn't go well..." but he was cut off before he could finish.
"None of that last words bullshit, Sam," said Dean, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You've just gotta have a little faith."
The men entered the house, and climbed the stairs to the room where darkness awaited them.
Dean stepped in front of his brother and father, flipped open the snaps on the sheath and drew out the hunting knife. Once freed, the blade elongated and widened into a sword, the orange glow from its fiery surface reflected in the eyes of all three Winchesters as they moved into battle.