Chapter 2: That Was Yesterday

Dean worked on the generator the rest of the morning. It had so many problems he felt embarrassed for his younger self. It may have been the first convertor he'd designed but it was crap.

At its base magic, the magic airheads used to give their spellwords power, was just free-floating energy. Physicists had already discovered that energy was impossible to destroy; it could be altered, moved, converted and harnessed, but never destroyed. Dust Bunnies disappeared when the infection ran its course, but they didn't just go into a void. Their bodies broke down and returned to being energy without the intervening decaying corpse stage that every other living thing had to go through. That energy, since it wasn't needed as a human being anymore, floated around the world available for anyone or anything to use. Airheads pulled that energy from the atmosphere then they repurposed it with sigils and released it back into the world with their spellwords. Once its current purpose was complete, it dispersed and went back to being random energy floating around, waiting to be used.

Convertor-generators did the same thing as airheads but within very limited parameters. They pulled the free-floating energy from the atmosphere and used it to generate electricity.

Dean had been fascinated by the theory when he'd read it in a battered old Scientific American. He'd had a few magazines to give him ideas but there weren't any blueprints out there because the world had barely adjusted to everything that had happened and all that had changed, so he'd doodled and designed, built and fiddled but in the end, like the healing he'd done on Jim all those years ago, Dean had essentially felt his way into figuring out how to make the machine do what he wanted.

Back then, and even now, the academics and theorists felt more comfortable calling magic a science. Last Dean had heard, they still hadn't decided on a name for it. Institutions called it ether-physics or etherdynamics—fucking awful names Dean thought. Most real people called it airbending which made it sound like a craft or an art-form, which it kinda was because no two people did it the same way or had the same results. It also sounded way cooler than 'ethernautics', which was the other label the scientists were trying to throw on it.

Whatever.

Nobody actually knew why certain people could tap easily into the energy, why some had to work at it, and why others never managed to sense it at all. Some said genetics. Even chemical imbalances had been argued. Dean didn't care. As long as it did what he wanted they could call it bullshit and he wouldn't give a damn what some jumped-up lab guys called it in Massachusetts. It wasn't his concern. What was his concern, however, was this one machine that had this one ability and wasn't even doing that right.

It occurred to him, as his hands moved sure and confident through the guts of the machine, that his first ever convertor was like a B-list starlet: she looked pretty and did essentially nothing, and like that B-lister, not even plastic surgery was going to help her get better at her job. He'd given Missouri a list of parts he'd need in order to build her a better convertor. One that would generate twice the amount of power yet be three times as dependable. Ash had helped him with the design (and registered the patent) and no matter what you thought of the hair, the guy was an engineering genius. But for now his aging starlet was all the Den Mother had.

He worked quietly and steadily since all he could do was clean and check parts for damage. It didn't require much brain power, which meant lots of time to think about what Sam had said about wanting normal.

Sam had never experienced 'normal'.

In 1983 the Winchesters had been what they used to call a nuclear family; mom, dad, two kids. It had been stable, typical, expected. Then the Storm hit. Fires popped up throughout the country, some big—city destroying big—but most small—burning individual houses with illogical abandon. The Winchester's home in Lawrence had been one of those houses. When they'd made it out to the street, they were faced with madness: neighbor fighting neighbor, families killing each other. It was a riot without a cause.

One in every ten American had died in the first week. Thirty million people wiped off the map. Same thing in South America and Europe. Almost as bad in the rest of the world.

In the week following the Storm, disease swept through the people who were left and weird ones nobody had ever heard of, or odd amalgams of old ones. Then the Dust moved in, rippling across the landscape in waves, and where it went people turned murderous, going on rampages until they keeled over and their bodies dissolved into air. Hunters called those infected with the virus Dust Bunnies, because it was cute and because they spread the disease as fast as real rabbits had babies. Dust Bunnies took that first thirty million and doubled it then redoubled it, infecting dozens of healthy people with their disease before… disappearing.

Six months after the Storm and the healthy population of the United States was barely one half of what it had been.

Unsurprisingly, most of the remaining population clung to the coasts and the big cities where there were still active ports and manufactured goods still moved in and out of the country. They tried to pretend things hadn't really changed or that it would soon go back to what it had been. There was a government, of sorts. There was an entertainment industry, kind of. There was culture and trade and professional sports that all clung to the past with their fingertips because, as much as they tried to deny it, to say it would go away, the Dust still swirled. Its inky-blue smoke ran through cities and farms alike and people touched by it changed into monsters out of horror stories and myths.

Still, even in the decimated Midwest, pockets of safety existed. They usually centered around the people who'd believed in all that hippie new-age Aquarian stuff and had put up spiritual protections. The other group who'd carved out safe zones called themselves hunters. They'd brought out the salt and the holy water, the iron knives and the consecrated rounds, and they'd killed the monsters when the National Guard and the police couldn't.

End result? People finally believed there were more things in Heaven and Earth—and Hell too—than were dreamt of in their philosophies and normal—old normal—went out the window.

Dean remembered a little of his life before the Storm. There'd been pancakes for breakfast and PB&J with the crusts cut off for lunch, but Sam had been just a baby so what he thought was normal was only what he saw on TV, which was mostly reruns of shows from the 60's and 70's. So many people everywhere, staying in one place collecting stuff. To Dean it was plain weird—a world as alien as any ever shown on Star Trek.

Of course, there were new shows being produced on the coasts that were just as unreal. There was one Dean had caught a couple times where all the main characters, and there were about seven of them, spent all their time in a coffee shop having lattes—whatever the hell those were. None of them carried holy water or silver weapons. They didn't even carry salt!

How the hell could Sam think that was normal?

It wasn't what the world was anymore, not for them, not for anyone. This was normal. This, looking out over a township full of ruined buildings and small gardens to where the wards kept out the inky cloud. Watching the individual streamers swirl and twist along the barrier as if seeking a way in before it rejoined the larger cloud and the whole thing moved on down the road. Normal was taking an afternoon to walk the ward walls, checking the sigils and the anchor stones for wear. Normal was what Henrikson was doing: gathering up a crew to go out and brave the Opens to see if there were humans left alive in there because the world needed all the unaltered humans it could find.

Okay, maybe someplace back east there was enough people and big enough safe zones they could have cafés and delis like the ones they showed on TV. Places where everyone tried to pretend the world was going to get back to what it was before the Storm, but how was that more normal than what they had here? Here they had friends and family and a routine that worked for them. Their future was here.

His hands stilled and his breath caught. He was going to be a Dad.

Deep breath… He could do it; he'd be a good father. Pastor Jim had always said so. Sam believed in him. And okay, John Winchester had taken off and didn't want to be found, but if he were here, he would be encouraging too. His dad would send a message when he found out Dean's news. It was a big deal out here, being asked to become a father. Surely his old man would be proud?

Dean sighed and dropped the wrench back on the work table. Truth was he had no fucking clue what his dad was up to or where he was. He didn't believe John Winchester would call with an update or even to make sure they were alright. Ever since Pastor Jim had been killed, Dad hadn't been the same.

Dad had seen the guy, or sort of seen him, standing in the room while Jim had bled to death on the ceiling. Dad said he was all dark, like the stranger was a shadow and not merely hiding in it. The only thing that had stood out was the glowing yellow eyes as it had grinned at John. Dad shot at him but he'd vanished. Then the room had burst into flames and Dad had been forced out of room just like with Mom.

The yellow-eyes meant Jim's killer was a monster, and the blue-black smoke said demon, but it had been inside the township's ward walls, which meant it had to have moved over the sigil lines without disturbing the anchor stones or being trapped. And that should've been impossible.

When the sigils for the warding were being designed, it was assumed they'd fail at least occasionally so a two-line defense was only logical. The spell had been specifically engineered to capture creatures that got past the first wall. And the spell worked. At least they'd always assumed it worked. What if it didn't? What if lots of demons were inside, pretending to be human and working toward some evil purpose nobody knew about? What if that's what the Storm had been for: to create a new future?

Jim had believed it was Biblical—the apocalypse out of Revelations or something—but Jim had been trained as a preacher so of course he'd see the Storm in the Bible and maybe it's why Dad believed it too. After all, they'd been together over fifteen years. They'd discussed it—fuck, had they discussed it—but they couldn't know. It was as plausible as all the bullshit stories the authorities had come up with so he'd always backed his dad up when people laughed at his theories about the cause of the Storm.

Privately Dean was skeptical. From what Dean remembered of Jim's teachings the apocalypse would be random—widespread, but random. Heaven and Hell fighting over the world and people getting caught in the cross-fire and getting hurt. They didn't get targeted by yellow-eyed bad-guys who vanished into smoke when shot at.

Still, ever since Dad had told him about Jim's death Dean had been thinking about it, letting ideas and theories stew in the back of his mind. How could Dean protect the people he cared about against something that looked human?

What kind of world would his kid grow up in if Dad was right?

When Dean broke for supper Sam still wasn't back from the fields. Which fucking sucked because it meant Dean couldn't break out of the melancholy gripping him. Past and present and future all winding around in his brain making it hurt. Maybe he should've gone down to Missouri's instead. But the diner was more private because Missouri couldn't read his mind from here (he'd checked it out once to be sure). Still, he could've used some company…

"Hello Dean."

And he should learn to be more specific when he wished for things.

"Henrikson, you're still here." His voice was flat, uninviting. Henrikson sat anyway.

"I couldn't leave without saying good-bye," the agent smiled. The smile didn't go any further than teeth and suddenly Dean had had enough; enough of the jibes, the pussy-footing, and more than enough of the contempt.

"I don't get you, Henrikson," he said. "I've never done anything to you, never worked against the Homies. I go out there, fight monsters, fix the ward walls, help people survive, and all you do is sneer."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. You're fighting the Apocalypse," Victor's voice was over-loaded with skepticism.

"And axis shift due to polar ice melt is such a better theory," Dean snorted his opinion of the government's latest explanation. "It's just as silly as Soviet attack, meteor strike or 'The Big One'. Even alien attack is better than polar ice melt."

Victor was already shaking his head. "Sorry Dean. Truth is, your daddy brainwashed you with all his devil talk and no doubt touched you in a bad place. That's all. That's reality."

"You know nothing about my father." Dean's jaw was clenched and his hand tightened on his knife. There were severe penalties for attacking a federal agent, Dean reminded himself, harsh penalties he really didn't feel like living through.

"I know he taught you well: look after your brother, protect him at all costs and don't let him go." Victor tipped his head. "Do you realize how unique your brother is, how powerful? And he's out there walking the back-90 like a plain old ward walker."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Dean ground out. "It's honest work."

Victor tsk'ed. "He's more than a normal airhead and you know it."

"What does Dean know?" Sam asked before seating himself. He nodded his order at the boy behind the counter. He had the same thing every day so he didn't even have to say it out loud anymore.

"I'm holding you back, Sammy." Dean growled. Even though he was sure there was more to the agent's comments, this wasn't the place to get into a discussion about it.

Victor nodded at Sam and followed Dean's lead; it wasn't far from the truth. "I want to renew the government's offer to have you come back to Washington. We'll give you a house, a car, a salary—"

"—a tube you can donate your sperm in," Dean interrupted. Victor ignored him.

"You'll be doing essentially the same thing you're doing now but more efficiently and with a higher purpose. It's a good offer." The agent's smile was bright, bright, bright against his dark skin.

Sam's smile barely lifted a lip. "What about Dean?"

"He's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

"What about Dad and the rest of my family? What about my friends?" Sam kept talking. "The Feds, they get out to the Midwest what? Once every couple months? What about all the people out here I help every day?"

Victor was shaking his head. "There are lots of hunters—"

"Not like me. That's what you mean when you say the Feds want me back in Washington: that I'm special?" Sam tipped his head and looked at the agent as if he were a bug. "Hunters respond instantly when shit goes down. Bunnies invade and it's intense, it's dangerous, and sometimes, it's overwhelming and we barely escape alive. If I go with you then the next time a ward wall breaks, I'd be safe in Washington while people out here could be dying. People I know." He pushed out his lower jaw, "That's not going to happen."

Henrikson's mouth lifted; it wasn't a smile and it wasn't his usual smirk, but something in between. "Well. You know how to find us if you change your mind." Without another word the agent stood and left the diner. The Winchesters watched him go.

"That's seriously scary, dude." Dean's food was cold but he was eating it anyway—no need for it to go to waste. "I'm starting to wonder if we should worry about them kidnapping you or arresting you on some trumped up charge."

The server came over with Sam's order so he waited until the boy left before responding. "I don't like being singled out like this, Dean."

"I know," the older hunter murmured, his mind still caught up in how much danger Sam could be in, assessing the possibility the Feds knew the truth. Unfortunately, it was entirely possible.

"It makes me feel like a freak."

"Well that's 'cause you are a freak," Dean said before his mind kicked in and he knew he'd made a mistake. Sam didn't like being different and he knew it. Telling his co-pilot he was a freak was a little tactless, even for him.

Sure enough, Sam glared at him. "Yeah, thanks," he said sarcastically.

Dean reached over, slapped Sam's arm and smiled uncertainly, "Well, I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you…all the way."

After a pause Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I know you are," he agreed. Then he dug into his salad and Dean knew he was forgiven.

"So how's the work out in the field going?" he asked because ward walking was a good unemotional topic.

"Both slower and quicker than I thought," Sam answered looking over his shoulder towards the door.

"How's that possible?"

Sam looked at his brother and gave a small smile, "It's slower because the wards are in worse shape than they should be. The sigils are worn down way more than expected and the anchor stones are more corroded. They're only four years old and they look like it's been a decade."

"What the hell?" Dean frowned. "They're not near the road, are they?" Traffic could wear down the anchor stones—warded vehicles passing close by caused them to vibrate which disturbed the markings—but Sam shook his head. "Animals?" Wildlife—natural wildlife—hitting the stones and shifting them was the other most common way anchor stones wore out early.

Again Sam shook his head. "The anchors were buried so the weather wouldn't disturb them. In fact, small tornados probably couldn't shift them."

"That's fricking weird, man." Weird was not good, not in Dean's world.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Mike can't figure it out either. There's no sign of any physical damage but something's weakening them. The only thing out of the ordinary is the number of Dust Storms this year—nearly twice the average."

"Huh," was Dean's only comment but he filed the information away with the other bits of oddities he'd heard lately. They weren't adding up to anything but maybe one day… "What's the good news?"

"I wasn't the only decent airhead walking." Sam waved over at the doorway, inviting a couple of newcomers over to their table. "They showed up halfway through the afternoon."

This time Dean's smile was genuine. "Hey Demian. Barnes." He leaned over and snagged a chair from the next table. "Take a load off."

Demian's greeting was big and filled up all the empty space in the large room. It matched his personality and his build. His partner, Barnes, was the opposite. Taller by more than a foot, skinnier by twice that, his voice was small and a little nasal, but they'd been a team for long time and were considered two of the best walkers in the Midwest. Other people called them hunters, but they didn't call themselves that since they didn't like danger, not serious danger. They never cleared roads or opened new areas for settlement but they could assess and reinforce established sigils lines like nobody's business.

"Dean, I heard about the Invite!" Demian thumped his arm, "Congrats, man!"

Barnes nodded in agreement. "She made a good choice."

Dean couldn't help it; he blushed. Their words were honest and genuine and open, and the complete opposite of Henrikson when he'd said the same thing. "Thanks," Dean mumbled before quickly changing the subject. "What's this about the anchor stones failing?"

They ordered a pitcher of beer and soon they were immersed in theories and remedies which lasted until the street was growing dark. Conversation then passed from anchor stones and ward walls, to odd news and new jokes, and finally to reminiscences of jobs they'd teamed up on: most good, some bad. Sam's face lost the crunchy brow it had carried for weeks and his gorgeous smile lit up the room.

It was the most relaxed evening they'd had since Dad had taken off and Dean didn't want it to end.

That night Dean ran his hands over Carmen's body, enjoying the slick and slide of her skin, and he knew. He could feel the change in her rhythm, her energies concentrating and jumping up a notch.

They'd started a baby…

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

It wasn't much right now, more of a possibility than an actual person, but it would turn into a human being with needs and opinions and a future unless something happened along the way to stop the process which was all too possible. Still, it was a baby and part of it was his. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. Not his mind, not his heart, not even his lungs, and he sure as shit couldn't fucking move.

"Dean," she asked concerned. "What is it?"

He wanted to tell her, wanted to announce what they'd done in a burst of awe and fear and pride. He looked into her soft brown eyes, the news right there on his tongue, and stopped. He couldn't tell her. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't because then she'd ask how he knew and the truth was too dangerous: for him, for her, for their kid whenever it was born.

Tinmen didn't have air bending powers. End of story.

"It's just…" he thought quickly "It struck me. We're trying to make a baby, a little person. It's… amazing."

She chuckled. "If you and your brother are anything to go by, it won't be so little."

He smiled back then bent down for a long, soft kiss before pulling away and gazing down at his hand, resting on the flat surface of her belly, aware of the activity below the skin. "As long as it's a boy or a girl I'll be happy," he said. "My mom used to say that when she was pregnant with my brother."

She covered his hand with her own. "I like it," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. Great, he'd completely killed the mood. He'd have to work hard to bring it back. He ran his hands over strong, smooth thighs. He breathed in her rich arousal.

Good thing he was a hard worker…

The next morning, as expected, Missouri announced Carmen's pregnancy. She did it in the dining room over breakfast and it instantly turned the meal into a celebration with squealing and jumping and hugs and shit. Dean ducked out as soon as he could, hoping he'd stayed long enough not to hurt Missouri's feelings. He needn't have bothered; she caught him at the dining room door.

"Dean Winchester, are you sneakin' out on you' own party?" She frowned at him and he couldn't help but flinch a little. She was small but fierce and sometimes? She scared the crap out of him with her whole psychic 'read your mind' thing.

"Ahhh," Dean's mind went blank like it always did around Missouri… well not blank exactly, but he could rarely get it out of his mouth. Didn't matter; Missouri already knew what he was trying to say.

"You are such a liar."

"I don't lie to you," he defended himself.

"Because you can't get away with it. Otherwise you'd try." She smiled and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "You're an attention hound when it don' matter but as soon as people wanna congratulate you or thank you or try an' make you feel special, you run away like a rabbit afraid of a skinnin'."

"That's very, um, graphic." Dean shifted his shoulders like he could feel the knife.

"You should let them coo at you," she told him. "All it means is they like you."

He'd rather be dragged naked behind the Impala.

She smiled at him again, wrapping her arm around his and pulling him through the door and into the empty hall beyond. "You know, the women talk, discuss who's gonna be a Daddy an' who's just a Sire. You understan' the difference?"

"Um." He shrugged, "All guys are Sires, aren't they? I mean, like horse breeding; we're chosen for abilities we might pass on to our kids."

She shook her head. "When women talk of Sires they mean men who will show up, do the job an' never be heard from again… most of the time that's a good thing too," she added with a huff. "Daddies are the ones the women want to have aroun' in their kids' lives, an' in theirs."

Dean could sense where this was going and he resisted the urge to squirm like a little kid.

"Always uncomfortable with praise," she teased. "You an' your brother are both in the 'daddy' column, if you hadn't already guessed."

Yeah, that's what he thought she was going to say. Although he was glad to know Sam was considered a good guy. If anyone deserved to be a Dad—

Missouri stopped and cuffed him on the back of the head. "You deserve it too, Dean Winchester." She glared at him a moment to emphasize her point before continuing down the hall. "You know what they say about you?"

"Actually I'd rather not know I think." He thought for a moment and then nodded his head quickly. "Yeah, I don't want to know."

She ignored him. "They talk about your massages as if they're a slice of heaven come down to earth. They say, whether or not you're gettin' sex out of the deal, you always take the same amount of care with them an' they always feel a hundred times better than when you started."

Dean could feel the blush, heat enough to roast a marshmallow off his cheeks. "I like making them feel good."

"But it's more than that, isn't it Dean," her voice was quiet. "When Carmen first arrived here, the demon had messed her up bad. The healers said she'd never have children. Now here she is two years later strong, healthy and pregnant."

"Missouri…" Dean started to protest because he really, really couldn't talk about this but anything he thought to say would only lead to more questions about more stuff he couldn't talk about.

He didn't have to say anything. Missouri patted his arm and gave him a soft smile. "You keep so many secrets for so many people; I'll keep this one for you. You know I'm good at keepin' secrets." And Dean did know that. As a psychic—an honest-to-God, mind-reading psychic—Missouri probably knew more secrets than Homeland Security.

She chuckled. "I 'spect mine are more fun. Small towns are better for secrets than any of them daytime dramas they broadcast." She gave his arm a final pat. They were at the front door of her den and she was letting him escape. "You go out an' fix that convertor you built, an' when it purrs for you? Remember, it's only a reflection of what you do for all my girls."

Dean ducked his head in embarrassment. He managed to mumble out a thanks, or something close to it, before opening the door and gratefully backing out through it. Fucking emo-overload moments.

"Don't you be cussin' around me!"

Psychics, Dean repeated once he was far enough away for it to be safe, were fucking scary.

Missouri walked back to her office. She had paperwork to file, supplies to order, and a notice of pregnancy to send out to all the other Den Mothers. She also had to remember to schedule a return trip for the boys since Dean had been right about poor Jessica Moore feeling safe around the youngest Winchester. She might be ready to take the next step in a few months and it was only fair the chance be given to Sam. She'd have to talk to Jessica first, of course.

She entered her office that she'd decorated in warm colors and soft fabrics. It was her sanctuary for when she needed to escape from everyone and their thoughts. Today, however, there was no escape. An older man sat on her couch playing with a worn wedding band. She knew he was tall but he sat hunched over as if a great weight was crushing him. Soft, sad, brown eyes looked up at her. "Did he do it?" the man asked. "Is he going to be a father?"

"You already figured he would."

He didn't deny the accusation so Missouri continued. "That boy… He has powerful abilities. Don't know why nobody's ever noticed." John said nothing to confirm her suspicions and she could read nothing of his thoughts: he was one of the very few who were completely blocked to her.

Suddenly she'd had enough. She loved those boys like they were her own sons and this man was keeping secrets from them—secrets that could cost them their freedom or their lives.

"John Winchester, I could just slap you," she snapped. "Why won't you go talk to your children?"

John didn't try to hide from her or justify himself, she could give him that, but he didn't give in either. "I want to. You have no idea how much I wanna see 'em." His voice hitched and she could see he was choking back tears. "But I can't. I can't put them in danger like that."

"They're already in danger just by being what they are." John's eyes popped up to hers fearful and suspicious. She rolled her eyes. "Of course I know. I'm not a two-bit carny sideshow after all. I've kept their secrets all these years; I ain't gonna stop now."

He was quiet as he absorbed that truth. She nodded in satisfaction when he accepted it but her eyes remained as fierce as before.

"Caleb's dead," he said by way of explanation. "I'd gone to the telegraph office, only a couple minutes before, when neighbors saw a yellow-eyed man enter his shop. Then there was a fire and Caleb was killed. Just like Mary and Jim. And Daniel Elkins, too. That bastard is targeting the people I care about."

"I know, John—"

"Then you know why I can't risk it."

She put her hand on her hip and glared at him. "I know you think you're protecting them. It's the only reason I didn't jus' kick you out the door in front of one of them."

John smiled slowly. He was nearly twice Missouri's height but she would've found a way to do it. "I appreciate it. I promise. Once I know for sure… then I'll find them."

"Uh-huh," she responded. It was obvious she didn't believe him but she must have realized there was no budging the man because she was giving up.

"Speaking of knowing the whole truth, I've got something of yours and I'm mighty tired of trippin' over it every time I turn around." She walked over to the shelves in the corner of her office and pulled a large leather case from off the lowest one. There were initials on the worn cases: MMW in brass letters that were bent and scratched. John recognized it right away. It had been his father's case, and his grandfather's. The history of the Winchesters passed down from oldest son to oldest son.

She dropped it into John's lap. It was heavy. "Maybe some of the answers you're lookin' for are in there."

John looked down at the box that had belonged to his father and doubted it. He doubted it very much.