a/n:
Torch the Wood of the Supernatural
CHAPTER I
Dean looked around Bobby's house; everything boxed up and packed—all except for his desk.
It had been about six months since Bobby had died—natural causes believe it or not—liver disease. Dean still couldn't believe it; he had always thought that Bobby would live forever, but then again he had always thought that his Dad would too. Just like he believed that he, Sammy and Dad would always be together and that they would be happy—but again Sam had left for Harvard plenty of years ago.
There was nothing left here for Dean anymore, this life he had had was no longer his. The Singer Salvage was just a sad reminder of the hectic life he had lived, one that he had six months before disowned; that was why he had been looking for a buyer for the Yard, and that was why he was selling this place. Dean knew that his view though had started to change ever further before that—the day that Sammy had left for collage, had left his family, which was the day that Dean started to believe that Sam was no longer his little brother too.
Dean wanted to start a new life, one that was normal and that didn't include Hunting. And the reason he knew that he would be able to, was because there were no longer any monsters left in all of America, not after the Angel Warriors of God Brigade that caused the sudden Monster debacle. Dean still didn't understand what the Hell it was or how it could happen, but there were no longer any Monsters in America—besides the occasional angry Ghost and that was no reason for Dean to stay in the 'family' business. He could go to Canada—he was sure there was a bunch of beasties up there—but he didn't want that life anymore.
Dean sat heavily on the wooden rolly-spinney chair that adorned Bobby's former desk; it was rather hard and uncomfortable, and Dean had no idea how Bobby could have sat in this hours at a time.
First he put all of the knick-knacks and papers from the desk in a box before he started on the drawers. The top drawer was locked so he cleared the ones on the sides first; they were filled with files and folder that were in turn filled with old news paper clippings about old and odd Hunts.
Dean picked the lock on the top drawer, the single tumbler falling into place before the drawer popped open. He looked inside of it with raised brow; this drawer was the neatest thing that Dean had ever seen in Bobby's house—ever. He picked up a manila envelope; it was thick and heavy, and when he curiously opened it, he pulled out a stack of photos.
He shifted through them.
Some were of places that Dean wasn't familiar with. Some were of lights in the night sky. Some where so blurry that Dean couldn't even make what the picture was, and then he came across many that were of a man.
Dean couldn't tell how tall the guy was from the photo, but what he could tell was this: He looked to be in his early thirties, with his a clean shaven face. His eyes were the color of clear sapphire-jade. His hair was the color of dark chestnut brown cut in a style an inch or so longer than Dean's. He had a handsome face and broad shoulders that went with the Captains uniform coat around his shoulders.
There were many of him, each with a different angel for his profile. In some he was alone, in others Bobby was present. Dean had never met him, but from the age that Bobby looked in these photo's he was probably only in his late twenties—Dean didn't even know Bobby when he was that age. He put the photos back in the envelope and set it in the box. There was another one, this one smaller and instead of having pictures, it had a disposable cell phone. He put it on the corner of the desk so he remembered to throw it out later. The last thing in the drawer was a folder and upon opening it he discovered a slip of paper that had the word TORCHWOOD scrawled in block letters on it.
Dean looked down at it before crumbling the piece of paper into a ball and tossing it in the bin next to the desk. He had no idea what this nonsense was, but he did know that it was of no use to him. All of Bobby's things were no use to him, but he couldn't bring himself to throw all of what Bobby Singer was away so he had bought a storage unit where he could store all of the things in this house—minus all of the empty bottle and that slip of paper.
Dean leaned back, causing the chair to squeak loudly in protest to his weight. He blew out a long breath with puffed cheeks, and laid an arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight that shone from the open window. He felt so exhausted lately, not physically, but mentally so. He didn't know why, just that he was tired, oh-so tired.
His heart stopped for a minute as his phone rang and sat up and took it from his pocket. Dean furrowed his brows, his phone was off and Dean had taken out all of Bobby's 'government' issue phone lines, so . . .? He glance out of the corner of his eye at the cell at the corner of the desk, its screen was lit with a call. Dean slowly reached out for it, not sure if he should answer it or not. But again his curiosity got the better of him and he picked the phone up and looked at the callers screen; it read TW.
Dean looked at it confused, but flipped it open any way. "Hello . . .?"
"You're not Bobby Singer."
"No. Who's this?"
"A friend."
"And your name?"
"Where'd you get this phone?"
"Answer the question."
"I want to talk to Bobby Singer."
"Bobby Singer isn't available at the moment. Now tell me who you are."
"You tell me who you are."
"I asked you first."
"Tell me where you got this phone, boy."
"Who do you think you are?"
"I think I'm the person that want's you to hand the phone to Bobby Singer."
"Bobby Singer is dead! Six months ago..."
"..."
"Happy now?"
"How?"
"Liver disease,"
"Oh."
"..."
"You do what he does, right?"
"And what did Bobby do?"
"He Hunted."
"Not anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm out of the game,"
"You're never out of the game."
"You are when there's no Monsters left to Hunt."
"What do you mean 'none'?"
"There are no Monsters left in America."
"You're kidding?"
"Why would I kid about something like that?"
"If there aren't anymore Monsters to Hunt, then come work for me."
"Ha! Seriously?"
"Does it sound like I'm kidding?"
"... I told you that I don't Hunt anymore, and I have no clue as to who you are."
"Captain Jack Harness."
From the photo...?
"So I have your name; that does nothing for me."
"I can also give you a Hunt."
"I don't—"
"But you want to."
"... I already told you... Plus I don't know what it is that you do anyway."
"I Hunt Monsters just like you do."
"..."
"I could use the help."
"If you need help with a Monster, fine. Tell me what your Hunting and I'll tell you how to kill it."
"It's not as simple as that."
"Everything's as simple as that."
"..."
"You must not be in that much trouble then."
"Why are you so reluctant?"
"Why are you so insistent?"
"Because if you were with Bobby Singer, then that in itself means that you're good."
"..."
"So come and work for me."
"There are no more Monsters in America, so how do you Hunt?"
"That's good. That means you now have a reason to work for me."
"You sound American..."
"So do you."
"But you're not in America..."
"The UK. Cardiff to be more exact."
"... you don't even know me."
"And I told you that if you're with Bobby Singer..."
"I don't fly."
"You don't have to—"
"I told you that I don't Hunt anymore, and that's final!"
Dean snapped the phone shut before he placed it on the desk none to gently.
"Then we'll just have to discuss it in person." a voice from the doorway piped up.
Dean pulled his gun and had it trained on the doorway in an instant. Slowly he stood up, carefully looking the man up and down. He looked exactly the same as the man that was in the pictures that Dean had found—exactly the same. And his voice was exactly the same as the man that was on the phone.
"Captain Jack Harkness, I presume." Dean raised a brow as he stayed behind the desk.
Jack smiled, not at all conflicted with the gun pointed at his heart. "The Hunter that I'm trying appropriate, correct?"
Dean didn't smile back. "I suppose you planed this."
"No." Jack said evenly. "I came here to see Bobby Singer. I did not know of his death until you told me."
"You could just tell me what you're Hunting and be on your way." Dean told him.
"It's not as simple as that." Jack said, his hands in his Captain's jacket pockets. "I want to recruit you."
"I already told you—"
Jack nodded, turning on his heel and went to the kitchen. Dean only fallowed because he had to, he watched as Jack opened the fridge and retrieved two beers. He pooped the caps off and turned around to face Dean, he took a drag off one as he handed the other to Dean. He sat at the kitchen table as he looked up at Dean. Dean didn't sit, but took a drag from his beer by reflex.
"Let's talk." the corner of Jack's lips turned upward as he watched Dean carefully.
Dean's brows furrowed slightly as he watched as Jack's appearance started to blur, the gun in his hand started to waver. "Wha...?"
Jack was out of his seat and there just in times as Dean's legs gave out and the beer bottle and gun fell to the floor. Jack looked down at Dean in his arms. "What a Pretty Boy you are."
