September 7th 1984
It was supposed to have been a simple case, just go to the town, find who was haunting the freeway and then salt and burn the remains. It was nothing David and Mary-Margret hadn't done a thousand times. They were so sure, in fact, that the job would be easy that they brought their barely year old daughter, Emma, along with them, intending to drop her off with the towns best nanny claiming they needed and evening out while they dealt with their little problem.
The road itself was in Maine, just out of a town called Storybrooke, the same one where the woman in question, Regina, who haunted the highway after her untimely death in 1969 had been from. She'd been married to a man named Leopold with whom she had a young daughter, Snow. The two were happy, Leopold was mayor of the quaint little town and Regina worked brilliantly as his first lady and as the mother of their beloved child. That was, of course, until Daniel came to town, a mysterious man with a beautiful face and the charm to match. The mayor's wife had been smitten at first sight before the two even became involved.
The story went the same as most others did. The wife, so tired of the small town life she'd been doomed to since her birth, decided to run away with the handsome stranger and live a happier life where she could raise her daughter the way she wanted, and not the way her foolish husband demanded. It would have all gone perfectly had the mayor not found out of his wife's infidelity and her plan to leave him. He'd threatened her, something incredibly out of character for the usually loving and benevolent mayor. He'd told Regina that should she try and leave him or ty to take his daughter away that she would reap the consequences. His words, however, did nothing but spur the already determined woman to follow her heart, and not her head.
The night of September 9th, Regina snuck from the house, a single bag of clothes for Snow over her shoulder and a few necessities she wouldn't be able to pick up in the next town over before retrieving her daughter from the nursery and sneaking out into the night. She made it past the town line, at least, planning to meet her lover at a diner not far out of the town.
Her plan had been thwarted by the headlights illuminated behind her, the sleek and well cared for car she recognised as her husband's crawling against the side of the road behind her. He'd rolled the window down, demanding that she get in and come home, that they could be a real family with Snow, that they could raise her right. Regina had refused, telling him she was meant for more than a small time life. She wanted it all, to be free and in love, something she couldn't have with Leopold. In a fury, he'd revved the engine of the car, nothing more than an idle threat. Regina had laughed. She was a vindictive woman when she wanted to be, her time encased in the town of Storybrooke driving the sweet woman to bitterness. And so, she'd laughed at her husband's threats, turning on her heel and stalking away. Then the threats become full, the car even scraping the back of Regina's legs harsh enough to mark.
She'd run then, clutching her no longer slumbering daughter in her arms as she ran beside the road, tears tracking lines on her face as she panted through the burning of her lungs. The first collision hadn't killed her, but the impact of her body against the tarmac, baby Snow caught in the middle, had killed the infant. Everything faded to black then as Regina looked upon the bloody face of her child, red staining the front of her white nightgown as she balled into the darkness. That was when Leopold, stricken by the grief of the horror he had committed tried to run away. A scuffle had ensued, Regina refusing to let her husband get away with such an atrocity. The first hit of his fist hadn't killed her, neither had the second, but by the time her head had hit the tarmac once more, blood pooling around her like a morbid halo, she'd been dead.
Leopold lasted another year after the tragedy, claiming his wife had run away with another man, only for her to be found dead in a ditch the following morning. No one questioned their mayor in his grief and no one suspected him of the crime, the kind man that he was, he had no reason to lie. He'd been driving to the scene where it had happened the following year, ready to place flowers as red as blood by the ditch where Regina had been found as though he could put his mind to rest.
He had been her first victim, his body found the next morning with his face blooded up, the back of his skull crushed in and his legs broken as though hit from behind by a car. His vehicle was found near the carnage, it's bonnet crushed beyond repair from where it had impacted with the town's welcoming sign and a single word written across the windscreen in deep red liquid. Snow.
This continued every year. There were always two victims, one for the mother killed by her jealous father and one for the child she had lost that night.
The deaths, though close together, never happened on the same day, yet Mary-Margret and David had never spent the time to figure out the pattern. They had figured that she would haunt the road the night she had died as most other spirits tended to, and they hadn't been wrong. What they hadn't considered, however, was how the spirit would mourn for the loss of its child, the wailing sounds of a woman's grief sounding through the forest. And so, on the anniversary of her daughter's birth, the spirit of Regina Mills would take another victim in penance.
David and Mary-Margret should have realised the pattern sooner, and not when the tyres of their truck screeched to a halt before the woman in white, her dress seeping blood like a saturated bandage on a bone deep wound. It had been a massacre. David had been torn from the car first, his body slumping before Mary-Margret could even reach for her shotgun already loaded with rock salt. She'd gone next, franticly scrambling for the gun to protect their child, to protect baby Emma from the spirit intend to kill them all. Then it was all over. The truck was crashed and the bodies dumped in the ditch, ready for whatever poor soul was to stumble upon them, their windscreen graffitied with blood.
John Winchester, who'd been staying at the motel behind the diner outside of the small town intent on meeting David and Mary-Margret in the small town the following day heard the police radio buzz to life.
"Dean," He said, looking to his eldest son, nearly six years of age and already wearing his plaid pyjamas as he laid beside the sleeping toddler on the bed. "Get Sam, we've got to go," He said. John should have known better, truly he should have, but hearing of the bodies found in the ditch and the totalled truck surely only meant one thing, and he'd be damned if he left his children alone at this time, especially with the accusatory glances of the stern woman behind the desk. The last thing he needed was for the woman to grow suspicious of the shifty man in room 6 with the young boys he'd already left alone with some food for the entire day.
His guns were ready and waiting in the trunk of the Impala when he threw in the duffel bags containing his and the boys clothes. Dean had settled a still sleeping Sam into his car seat before clambering in the other side, watching his brother with the watchful eyes of a boy much older than Dean was.
"You wait here, Dean," John said, zipping up his jacket as he slipped his FBI badge into the interior pocket. "You lock the doors and you don't let anyone know you're here. I'll be back." And then John was gone, making his way over the commotion of police cars and an ambulance.
Dean was quite content to stay where he was, unbuckling his seatbelt and scooting closer to his slumbering brother. He'd always been taught to look after Sammy, ever since he'd been passed the sleeping infant over a year ago as his nursery burned. It was something he was sure he did well, enough that his father would entrust little Sammy to Dean, despite his young years, even if only for a couple of hours. That was all well and good until Dean heard the crying.
It was faint but Dean heard it, his ears tuned to the sound of infants in distress. There were nights where Sammy would cry and Dean would be the one to wake, John either too exhausted or too busy drowning out the world to notice the cries of his son. It was no wonder that Dean, despite the chatter of adults, the buzzing of radios and the still prominent sounds of sirens in the distance, heard the wails of a child.
Without much thought to his father's orders, Dean made sure Sammy was buckled in tight, turned off all the lights inside of the Impala and then unlocked the doors. It didn't take him long between getting out of the old black car and finding the source of the sound. It was a wonder, Dean thought, that no one else had heard it. On the opposite side of the road, hidden slightly by a shallow ditch full of leaves and moss, lay a squirming bundle Dean soon recognised to be a wailing child. She, Dean guessed by the yellow blanket embroidered with purple writing, didn't seem much younger than Sammy was, but her lungs were no less powerful and she screamed to her hearts content.
Without much thought, Dean clambered into the ditch, shushing the infant during his decent. He took no notice of the blood stained blanket as he reached towards her, instead lifting the clearly terrified infant into his arms and rocking her the way that soothed Sammy. This baby, it appeared, was not like Sammy. Figuring he'd left his brother long enough, Dean climbed back out of the shallow ditch before shuffling through the shadows back towards the impala, unseen.
Well, apart from his father, who had turned just in time to notice the movement in the darkness. After excusing himself, John made his way back to his car, already dreading whatever it was that was lurking in the shadows. He felt his heart shudder at the sight before him. Dean, his son, was clutching a crying child in his arms and looking up at his father with his big concerned eyes.
"Dean -" John began, seeing as his son's eyes widened.
"I heard her crying," Dean said, holding the child protectively to his chest. It was a sad sight, John thought, to see his son, still far too young, with such responsibility behind his eyes, and strength to his stance that no child needed. "I couldn't leave her."
"Pass her over," John said, crouching to his son's height and reaching his arms towards him. Dean parted easily with the child, letting her rest in his father's arms.
"Emma," Dean said and John looked away from the still crying bundle to meet his son's eyes. "Her name. It's written on the blanket." Pulling back, John looked down at the bloody blanket with a pang in his gut. Emma. Emma Nolan, daughter of Mary-Margret and David Nolan, the victims he'd just identified. His friend's daughter soaked in their blood.
"What are we going to do with you?" John said, standing back to his full height, Dean's eyes following her. He was relieved that the crying had stopped, the little girl gurgling slightly before opening her eyes and looking up at John curiously. Emma, he noted, had her mother's eyes, green and full of hope and wonder.
"Can we keep her?" Dean asked and John fought the urge to groan. Of course he would ask. "I've always wanted a sister," He said and John's heart felt ready to lurch from his chest had it not already lost its fight.
"She's not a stray dog, Dean," John said reasonably, trying to find the best way to let his son down without attracting more attention from the already on edge police force. "We can't just take her home. She needs a family."
"We can be her family," Dean said and John would revel in the innocence of his son's voice had it not been towards such a situation.
"She needs a real family, with parents. A mom and a dad." John said, but he realised his words were pointless when it came to his son. Dean was young, he knew, but he was wise far beyond his years already. He was looking at the prospect of a new sibling like it was the greatest gift he could ever receive.
"Can't we be that for her?" Dean asked, but John could tell by his son's voice that he knew the battle was lost. Wise beyond his years, after all.
"No, Dean. We can't." And then he turned away, gesturing for Dean to climb into the car before him as he held the thankfully no longer crying baby in his arms. Once Dean was settled with his seatbelt on, John placed a wriggling Emma into his arms. "You hold onto her. We've got a drive ahead of us." Dean accepted the babbling infant as her arms wriggled out of the blanket to touch Dean's face. The young boy smiled, buckling his seatbelt over her to keep her close to him.
They reached Portland in just under two hours, Emma having fallen asleep along the way to Deans cooing words. Decided that it was best to get her cleaned up, John rented yet another room in a motel for the night, planning to leave Emma in the capable hands of the foster system the following morning.
Dean wasn't afraid to help, of course, bathing and dressing Emma in some of Sammy's clothes while John did his best to remove the blood stains from everything else. It worked for the blanket (for the most part at least) leaving only discoloured marks easily written off as baby sick behind. John had managed to salvage a crib from the motel owner and had set it up at the end of the bed he and Dean would share. Once Emma and Sam were both settled in the crib, John noticed that Dean seemed nowhere near ready for sleep. It was always a wonder to John just how alert his eldest son was, already ready to keep watch over his younger brother and now, with Emma in the fray, he seemed even more awake, looking at the slumbering infants like a guard dog.
"We could do it," Dean said as John removed his boots and somehow, John knew just what was coming. "We could be her family," Dean said, turning around from where he sat at the foot of the bed to face his father. "And she could be ours. It could work."
"It's too late, Dean," John said, running a hand over his even more lined face. Despite being only over a year since the incident with yellow eyes, the time had not been kind to John Winchester, leaving him more exhausted and feeling older than he thought he ever would. "We're going to give her her best chance, and that ain't with us."
"It could be," Dean said, barely above a whisper as she turned back around to the crib, his hand dangling over the toddlers like a human mobile as he watched their content slumber, neither of them aware of the carnage that had ensued that night.
"Get some sleep, Dean." Was all John said the night before heading into the bathroom, leaving Dean to look down on Emma with a loss he'd not felt in a very long time. The kind of loss that came from having hope for the future, only for it to be torn away.
When Dean awoke the next morning he was lying face down at the foot of the bed, his arm lazily hanging over the edge of the crib where Sam had then proceeded to nibble at his finger with his tiny teeth. He smiled, wiggling his finger slightly and making the two-year-old laugh before he realised. A blanket was around Dean's shoulders and his father was nowhere to be seen. Neither, it seemed, was Emma. She was gone already, John having taken her to the nearest foster home or social worker he could find within the area, dropping off the little girl with no history of who she was, where she came from, or any family to call her own.