A/N: Wow, the response for this story has been incredible. It's really encouraging to have so many people review and to know that so many like this story. Well, here's the next chapter. I'm going to try and keep the updates as regular as possible for this thing. Either every day or every second day. So keep checking back. The plot is just coming together in my head so…bare with me :D Oh and their may be mistakes, I type this up and post it right away usually. I try to work out the bugs but their are always some so, sorry :( Hope this is to everyone's liking. If so, or if not, let me know what you think. Push that lil review button :D
Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Sigh, but I wish I did. Oh, wait. Harrison IS mine!
Summary: Harrison Winchester has just turned twenty three. Everyone he has ever loved has died, a war his family had fought years before his birth is on the rise once again and just when he thinks he has his latest hunt in the bag, Harrison is sent back in time. Back to 2006 and to a father who never knew him and an uncle he never met.
The Winchester Effect
By: Babyhilts
Chapter 3: Hard to Believe
The elder hunter seemed at a loss for words. From where he stood, Harrison could not make out his face. The man's head hung low, hovering over the journal. He watched his fingers contour the dents and abrasions along the leather. The flap of binding torn from its spine; paper trying to unwedge themselves from the rest.
"Dean, what is it?"
Harrison's arms felt itchy. He scratched them with a nervous apprehension; nails digging recklessly along his tanned flesh. Suddenly taking out the journal didn't seem like such a good idea.
Hazel eyes shot skywards. Searching it seemed for answers from the ebony curtain. A pause, short lived and the hunter was moving. Harrison startled back a step or so, unsure of what now possessed Dean Winchester to move so erratically through the parking lot.
Sam was shouting something. Dean was running. He tore the passenger side door open and dove across the seat. The squeak of metal resonated through the air. Fumbling through the interior and grazing the upholstery with muddy boots. A sharp fist connected with the glove compartment. The plastic thudded twice before giving into the abuse.
The only remaining item left behind by John Winchester came tumbling towards Dean. As the door dropped, the journal landed with a solid clunk sound. A book he knew all too well. The one that had led them to so many victories and had saved so many lives. There it lay, waiting to be scooped into loving arms.
Dean's eyes flickered to the item held safely in the crook of his arms. The eyes flickered to the item on the glove compartment. Both, identical; both here and now; at this very time. These two journals were one in the same.
Hands shaking, he took the journal from the glove compartment door. It was in better shape than the one Harrison had given him but if what the kid had said was true-and it was starting to look that way- then it made sense.
The boy in question was waiting for him as he climbed back out of the car. His hands were rubbing the soft skin along his forearm raw. It was red and sore and Dean didn't think the kid knew what he was doing to himself. He had this wide eyed innocence buried beneath all this hate. It was the same look Sam would get sometimes.
Dean glanced wearily at the stranger. His possible nephew from the future. Sam was to his left, leaning against the Impala's front bumper. He was tense, confused, waiting to know what he did. Did Sam have to find out though? Dean didn't want to tell him. Didn't want to put more stress on his littler brother but at the same time…
"Dean, what's going on here?"
Harrison felt the sickness returning. His stomach felt knotted; it felt bloated. The bile dared to rise up into his throat and he was doing all he could to swallow it back down. He wanted so desperately to try and take this calm. The last thing the hunter needed was to start blowing chunks all over his long lost family. What an impression that would be.
He reached for his left arm once again. It was there, hanging, waiting for him to claw the itch out. The anxiety was pumping through his veins. Inches below the skin; he could feel it, like a small parade of insects marching through his system. Making him itch all the more.
Why did it itch so much? He applied more pressure. Scratched harder. Had to get the feeling out; had to try and stay calm. Why wasn't it working? Why wasn't the itch going away?
"Dude, relax."
Warmth invaded his body. Harrison lifted heavy eyes. A strange look reflected from the depths of Dean's gaze. His hand was latched about the boy's right wrist. Tugging the dangerous fingers away from the wounded arm; letting the itch grow.
Blood ran gentle rivers along his flesh. Red stained the tips of his fingers; pieces of flesh stuck beneath his nails. Harrison shuddered. Dean's grip loosened enough for him to let his hand fall back at his side.
Shallow cuts scarred the otherwise smooth skin. A dull pain was winding its way from the open wound. Harrison ignored the sting. He tried to forget that he'd inflicted it upon himself. The idea of slowly loosing touch with reality scared him. He didn't want to start have a psychotic breakdown. Not now. He couldn't. Even if he wanted to- and God sometimes he wanted to let go so bad- he couldn't. Like a good little soldier he had to push through this pain. Just like all the other times. There was nothing different about this one.
"Dean. What-the-hell-is-going-on."
Dean studied the boy in front of him. He didn't want anyone getting hurt, not now when so much seemed to be happening. He would need this kid fresh and alive. After a second, he let his gaze shift to Sam. His younger brother was getting impatient now and it was obvious that Dean wouldn't be able to lie about the journal. Too much had happened in such a short span of time. To lie to his brother would just be a waste.
"Sam, I think this kid is for real."
The journal-Harrison's journal- found its way into his brother's hands. Sam shook his head, not understanding. Dean took out their own journal and passed it over as well.
"He, has our journal. Dad's journal. That one there, that's ours and…yeah, you get it."
The two journals flipped and turned in the hunter's hands. He moved skeptical eyes over each marking, each identifying feature. He was looking for similarities. Looking for something that would make what Harrison was saying untrue. Sam knew the result would be nothing. His brother was a skilled hunter. If there had been something, anything, he would have found it already. Had there been something then Harrison would already be eating pavement with a brand new shiner.
"So, that means…"
Sam struggled to breathe. His mouth felt unreasonably dry. The stranger, the kid named Harrison was just standing there shuffling his feet. Although his head was held high, almost defiantly, he seemed to be struggling with this as well. Of course, if this was true, than that made Harrison his son. His future son, but his son just the same.
"You're my son?"
Harrison nodded solemnly.
"You don't look much of anything but I see him in you. Parts of him."
Dean stared from Sam to Harrison. How was this possible? How as this freaking possible?
"How is this possible?"
"I…I think it happened when I was on the hunt. There was this demon…"
"Wait, you hunt?"
Sam looked sick. His face paled considerably. He was running unsteady hands through his hair. Over and over again, not stopping, not even when Dean shot him the look. Harrison seemed unaffected by all of it. Why should it have surprised Sam that his son hunted?
"Yeah, I hunt. Don't you two?"
"Of course we do" said Dean.
"But…but you're my son." Sam was trying to get the words straight. "How come my son hunts?"
"It was always like that. From the time when I was a kid. You gave me my first .45 and…"
"Oh, God."
Sam wasn't feeling too hot now. Not only was his stomach doing flips below his uvula, he was also starting to get lightheaded. The parking lot tilted dangerously. The sky melted and was washing in waves onto the asphalt. Parked cars rolled in straight, intact lines. Stars rained down from the black tapestry above and the moon rolled out of orbit.
The young Winchester pushed what was left of his strength into the Impala's bumper. The metal scrapped as he dropped his weight against it. He could feel Dean grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him to attention. Sam only pinched his eyes shut, trying to keep out the tunnel vision. If he opened them the blackness would seep in and he'd pass out in his brother's arms.
"Sam? Sammy, come on…"
"Look, it's no big deal" Harrison called. "The hunting, you get used to it. After a while you understand that this is just supposed to be your life and you just accept it. It's no biggie, really."
Sam's body fell further into Dean's arms. The elder hunter grunted, now practically holding his baby brother off the cement. His eyes narrowed. He could hear the kid, Harrison, still blabbering to himself. What he was saying now he wasn't sure and he didn't care.
"Kid, will ya shut up!"
Harrison froze. He clenched his hands into tight fists to hold in the anger now boiling to the surface.
Dean slipped his arms beneath Sam and gently brought him to his feet. Sam was swaying gently. His eyes were open, wide and pained. They moved towards Harrison and stayed. For a minute neither boy blinked, just stared into the same brown irises. The same disheveled brown hair.
Harrison forced a lopsided grin. The fists disappeared and he combed his bangs out of his face.
"Well, that was a nice chick-flick moment. How bout we have another the next time you meet your son from the future."
Muscles parted Sam's lips. Through the dwindling sickness he smiled.
Harrison relaxed into the upholstery. Ten minutes now, driving along a deserted road; Dean behind the wheel and Sam at his side. It just made sense that they would take him along. There he was, the only heir to the Winchester throne, without a dollar to his name and stuck in the past.
The year 2006. That's what Dean had told him when he asked. It was a time he'd only heard about from his father. The days when him and Dean would drive the back roads of America, hunting the supernatural. It was a time before the full on demon war had come in to play and a time when his grandfather had been dead and gone.
Oldies played through the Chevy, filling the interior with heavy metal riffs. Sam didn't seem to care for it much whereas Dean tapped the steering wheel in beat with each song. Sitting in the back, listening to the music and having the presence of another Winchester around brought about a sense of calm for Harrison. The tension in his back released. He was even able to let his eyes drift close now and again without the thought of having his throat slit the moment they opened. He hadn't felt at peace like this for years.
It wasn't long until they were turning. Harrison was half awake and mostly asleep. The thick strap of the seatbelt did nothing to keep him upright. As the Chevy made her turn into the motel lot, the young man turned with her. He let his body fall awkwardly in the restraint before coming to rest across the bench seat.
The engine purred. Vibrations wound their way through Harrison's body. He mumbled his pleasure. The upholstery has this odd smell of onion rings to it. Deep fried grease. He rubbed his cheek hungrily against the rough fabric. So warm.
The Impala shook. Her driver rubbed her dash one last time; a loving goodnight caress. Sam pushed the passenger door open, stumbling, dead tired to the trunk. It was his job to take care of their bags. He knew his brother was starting to feel the after effects from those few shots he'd had at the bar. On top of that, he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle a father/son conversation with the man in their back seat.
Sam grumbled something about getting their room key. Duffel bags weighing down his back, the young Winchester made the short trek to check in.
Great, so it was Dean's job to wake up the long lost Winchester. He was already at the back, knowing he'd have to. One look on Sam's face and he could tell his brother did not want to deal with this tonight. He didn't want to deal with it either, but that was the curse of being the first born. Big brothers had to make sacrifices for their little brothers.
Dean tugged the back door open. Harrison was sprawled across the seat. His breathing even and steady, so at least he knew the kid wasn't dead. Dean leaned through the interior. He eyed the young man up and down. Same lanky body of his brothers; if he didn't know any better he'd say the kid was Sam. An inch or so short mind you, but covered in shadow Dean wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.
"Hey, Baby Sammy, you awake?"
Harrison shifted and the seatbelt tugged. A cool breeze was slowly chasing away his warmth. Artificial light glowed from the open door. He raised his head barely an inch off the seat and caught a dark figure hanging off the door frame. The smell of English Leather penetrated his deep fried haven. Dean, he surmised. Wonderful. Flopping back onto the seat, he ground and dug his face into the soft, comfort of his arm. Just another minute and he'd be able to drag himself out of the Chevy.
"Come on Jr. Wakey, wakey."
Two rough hands tackled him from the dark. They unleashed him from the seat and he sunk further into contentment. His chest was still tangled in the fabric of the seatbelt but he could care less. It was the shaking, the grubby hands on his arms and lower back that bothered him.
"Dude, piss off."
Harrison kicked out, not taking the time to aim and just hitting air. He choked back a sigh when his foot didn't connect and flung himself onto his back. Dean was leaning over him, pushed against the back seat after having narrowly missed the rogue boot sent his way.
"Just, go" the young hunter moaned. "I'll sleep in the car."
Dean laughed. "I don't think so. You may look like Sammy but doesn't mean I trust you. Now get your ass off the upholstery and start walking."
Harrison kicked out again, using both legs to pump himself upright and perhaps get a good shot in at Dean. The hunter backed off just in time and nearly tripped out the door. A tired Winchester was never a pleasure to be around and Harrison could care less at the moment whether or not he was making a good impression on his uncle or not. Fact was that although he didn't have that gaping stab wound from earlier, he was exhausted as hell. His stress level was potent enough to kill and he just wanted to sleep; anywhere.
Crawling out into fresh air, he was met by a weary Dean. Harrison shook him off and shut the back door roughly. The metal slam shattered any silence in the parking lot. The elder Winchester visibly cringed at the sound.
"Hey, watch the car!"
Another moan.
"Jesus, are you always like this?"
They were walking towards a room Sam had just disappeared inside. To Harrison he felt like he was being marched. Any second now and he was certain Dean was going to grab him by the scruff of his neck and toss him onto the time out chair.
"Am I always like what?"
"You just whine a lot…"
"Sam, whines a lot! I just get mad."
"Whatever, dude. I just want to sleep. Like I'd steal the car, anyway."
"Well, if you don't care where you sleep you can have the floor."
It was Harrison's turn to laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Not you. Come on Uncie Dean, you can read me a story before tucking me in."
Harrison forced a wide grin and crossed the threshold. His head felt heavy and his limbs ached. There was a bed smell that just seemed to seep out of the walls. He noticed water stains on the purple shag. He noticed the purple shag and his stomach churned. Purple shag? Come on, really?
He made his way to the back of the room; swiping the duvet from the first bed and a pillow off the second. There was a tight little corner at the back, made by the wall and bed stand. Silently he dropped his stolen items, gave them a keep kicks to get them in the position he wanted and slid to the floor. On the ground the smell was only worse but he was so tired, he didn't care anymore. He pulled the blanket up and around his shoulders. The stiff pillow wedge beneath his head. Sam and Dean were talking in low voices, kicking and moving their own stuff around. He heard a weapons bag drop unceremoniously to the floor. Minutes later the shower was running and the bed next to him was shifting. Springs squelched beneath the new weight.
Harrison let his eyes drift shut and listened to the light breathing of the hunter next to him. He wasn't sure whose it was, but it was relaxing. It gave him that same feeling he'd had inside the Chevy on the way over. He wasn't worried about having to look behind his back every few seconds. He could sleep in peace, even if it was on a purple shag carpet.