Author's Note: This chapter's a little short, but I promise I'll have a longer one next time; I'll be out of town for a couple of days and didn't want to leave everybody with four days and no update. Jack's just digging himself a little deeper in this scene...


The boys are supposed to be dead by noon on May second, 1994.

It is currently seven in the morning on Sunday, May first, 1994.

Thirty-five hours to go.

Jack is already up and has been for several hours, having procured a car from a local rental place in case it becomes necessary. He's not walking to Hanging Rock again, that's for sure; he doesn't have an extra hour to waste. The car is also a useful stake-out point, from which he can see when the Winchester boys leave for breakfast.

He can't pretend that he doesn't feel like the kind of person who ought to be passing out cards to warn people about his presence as he sits in his car in the car park, waiting for two young boys to exit their motel room so he can follow them. But he's better than their alternative guardian, and as that thought passes through his mind he glances down at the silver dagger in the passenger's seat. Definitely still there, which, distressingly, means that last night actually happened.

It's not like he could deny it anyway, given that he still has some raised skin on his stomach where the shredded flesh is still healing. It doesn't hurt anymore, at least. But he was killed by the Black Annis and brought back to his motel by a demon. The Doctor hadn't put that possibility in the letter, Jack thinks grimly.

Jack's not a fool and he's not naïve. He has no illusions that Azazel is looking out for anyone but himself, and he has no illusions that he is a friend to the Winchester boys. He said he had no use for them yet, which obviously means that he has use for them in the future. He can't see how using the weapon, if it should come down to it, could hurt, but demons are tricky. Well. He's always heard they are. Until last night he wasn't one hundred percent convinced that they truly existed.

He's drawn out of his reverie as the door to room twenty-six opens, and Dean Winchester steps out. Jack doesn't see a gun, but the jacket that Dean is wearing despite the heat is covering where it's most likely that he tucked it in his jeans—if the boy hides his gun where his father does, at any rate. And the Doctor did mention that Dean tries to imitate his father as much as possible, so it's not an unreasonable guess.

Dean stands in the doorway, and Jack can make out frustrated body language as he leans back in and shouts something. A moment later, Sam comes stumbling out of the room, and Dean closes and locks the door behind them. Sam follows close on his brother's heels, glancing around nervously. Jack is for a moment afraid that the boy's seen him, but Sam's eyes slide right past the car without stopping. Jack releases a breath.

The boys take off down the road, and Jack figures out where they're going pretty easily. Not a lot of diners in this town to pick from. He turns on the car when they're out of earshot, and drives past them, arriving at the diner first.

He picks a booth, set back a bit, but still central enough that if he's listening he'll be able to hear any conversations he needs to pay attention to. The waitress comes, and he orders a water and salad to keep her placated. And he waits.

It's not ten minutes later that Dean and Sam get to the diner, bickering quietly. Dean's shoulders are tight, he's cracking his knuckles rhythmically, but he's hiding his tension as much as he can, shoving his little brother fondly and giving the closest he can to an easy grin when the younger boy says something to him. Something about the façade stings Jack—hits him right where it hurts. He can see the anxiety in Dean's posture, but he's doing everything in his power to make sure he doesn't worry his brother with it.

For his own part, Sam looks more relaxed than he did in the car park. He stays very close to his brother, hovering inches away from him at all times until the waitress seats them.

Again Jack holds his breath as the waitress leads them to the booth right behind his, but the boys don't notice anything as they slip into the seats. He can't see them anymore, but he can hear them, clear as day.

"Thanks," Dean says, and the waitress walks away. Jack hears the boys settling into the booth.

"Dad seemed pretty upset last night," Sam says, his voice uncertain.

It takes Dean a moment to respond. "I thought you were asleep."

Sam's shirt scratches against the back of the booth seat as he shrugs. "I woke up."

Another moment passes. "He...the hunt didn't go too great."

"He looked okay this morning," Sam says, and his tone is alarmed and full of worry. "Did he get hurt? He didn't look like he got hurt. Is he okay?"

"Hey, hey, Sammy," Dean scolds, shushing his brother. "Come on. Chill out."

"Sorry," Sam says, not sounding terribly sorry at all. "But what happened?"

There is a bright note of curiosity in Sam's voice, and it evidently gives Dean pause as much as it does Jack. "Apparently some civilian got in the way," Dean says, and Jack hears both disgust and sadness in his voice. Sadness at Jack's own death, he realizes with a wry smile. "He found the nest but the Black Annis took out the civilian. Dad had to retreat."

Sam whistles, which Jack thinks is a weird reaction. "Oh. No wonder Dad was upset."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "He doesn't know where this guy came from but there was something weird about him, Dad thinks. Might be a whole new can of worms, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam breaths. Then a quick shift of position. "Did you feel something?"

Dean's response is sharp and quick. "Like what?"

Sam settles back down into his seat. "I don't know," he mutters. "Just like, something weird."

Dean laughs, dry and without much true humor. "You're gonna have to be more specific than that, Sammy," he says.

"I don't know, never mind," Sam says, sounding a little grumpy.

The waitress takes their drink orders, and Dean orders for both of them: two waters, and two orders of pancakes and eggs. She stops at Jack's table, glancing at him with a smile. "You need anything, hon?" she asks.

Jack looks up at her, smiles, and shakes his head. She looks a bit put out, but leaves him alone, and that's what he really needs. If he talks, Dean is going to recognize his voice. Silence is suspicious enough as it is, but to talk and remove any doubt isn't going to end well at all.

Once the waitress is well gone, Dean asks, his voice quieter, "Have you seen that guy again?"

Awkward, Jack thinks briefly.

"Nope," says Sam. "Not since yesterday. Have you?"

"Just outside," Dean replies. "He didn't do anything. I don't know, man, maybe we're for once seeing things."

Another rustling of fabric as Sam shrugs. "Maybe."

Dean sighs. "But how likely is that."

"Not," Sam suggests.

"And you didn't like him," Dean adds.

There's a long pause after that, and Jack finds himself pressing his back into the seat of the booth to hear what Sam has to say. The kid did react extremely strangely to him—he'd done literally nothing, and yet the look of revulsion on Sam's face was stunning. "I don't know, Dean," Sam says for the third time. "He just...I don't know. I felt weird. He felt weird."

"Like, weird like not human?" Dean asks, extremely softly.

"No," Sam says. "Well, maybe. But he just...he felt...wrong. Like he's not supposed to be here. Like he's not supposed to be anywhere."

Jack frowned. Sam thinks he felt wrong. Could it be the artron energy? It's mostly faded after all these years but he knows it still clings to him, like a film, like an oil slick on his skin. After all the time traveling he's done it'll never really be gone, not fully. He doesn't know why on Earth the boy would be sensitive to artron energy, but if he is, then Jack's not safe being this close to them.

It's a little late to move now, though.

Could this have something to do with what the boys are important for in the future? If they've caught the attention of the Doctor as adults, maybe it's because Sam has some connection to the Vortex. He'd wonder if the kid was fully human, but the Doctor would have said something if he wasn't, just in case of a situation requiring first aid if nothing else. Sensitive to the Vortex, to artron energy...it doesn't make any sense, not from a normal, twentieth-century human boy.

Then again, this is a case from the Doctor. Making sense is never guaranteed, and hardly likely.

"Well, you don't have to worry about him, okay?" Dean says. "Dad's gonna take care of the hunt today, and we're gonna be out of here."

Sam sighs deeply, a sound of age and weariness so far out of sync with his years that it strikes Jack. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

Jack can hear the frown in Dean's voice as the older boy says, "What? You sound bummed."

"It's just..." Sam hesitates, then plows forward. "It's just that the school year's almost over, you know? I don't want to get held back."

Dean laughs. "Whatever, Sammy. They'd never hold you back. You're way too smart for that."

The waitress comes back by with three plates on her tray. She places Jack's salad in front of him, and he flashes her an appreciative smile, staying silent. "Here you go," she says curtly, obviously offended by his laconic demeanor. She turns quickly on her heel and puts the other plates down on the Winchester's table. "And here you go, boys," she says, her voice suddenly warm. "Anything else I can get for you?"

It takes Dean a beat to respond, and Jack winces.

"No ma'am," he says, finally. "No, ma'am, we're fine." The waitress nods, smiling at Sam, and turns to go.

The boys finish their meal in silence.

They pay their ticket and leave. Jack gives them five minutes, and then does the same.

He walks out into the muggy heat, and is making his way to his car when he hears a disappointingly familiar sound behind him.

He doesn't turn, but sighs and puts his hands where Dean Winchester can see them. "I'm not armed," he says quietly.

"I am," Dean hisses, pressing the barrel of his gun to the small of Jack's back. "Move."

Jack does as Dean says, and Dean walks him down into an alley. Dean forces him against the wall, and quickly pats him down. Finding no weapons, just as he said, the kid steps back and lets Jack turn to face him.

"What the hell do you want with me and my brother?" he demands, his hand alarmingly steady on the gun.

"I guess you wouldn't buy there's not many choices for breakfast in this town," Jack says lightly. Dean scowls at him.

"Don't play games with me," he warns. "I know how to use this."

"I have no doubt," Jack says.

The kid does know how to handle a weapon. But he's only been handling one for, tops, eleven years.

Jack's had ten times that in immortality alone to perfect his fighting, and so when ten seconds later Dean Winchester is disarmed, it's not a comment on the boy's skill.

Jack holds the gun up, holding his other hand out in a gesture of harmlessness. "Woah woah woah, kid, I don't want to hurt you," he says.

"Yeah?" Dean scoffs, but Jack sees the glimmer of terror in his eyes as his gaze flicks from Jack's face to the gun. Notices the quickening of the boy's breath, the way his hands clench and unclench. "Then why are you following us?"

"I'm trying to help you," Jack insists. "Believe me. I know you don't have a reason to, but if I was going to hurt you, wouldn't I have already tried?"

Dean doesn't look convinced in the slightest. "Give me my gun back," he demands.

Jack sighs, and brings the gun down, but jerks it away as Dean reaches for it. "Hang on, now," he says. "You don't have a reason to trust me, but I don't have a reason to trust you, either." He empties the gun of its bullets, sticks them in his pocket, and only then hands the weapon back to Dean. The kid looks infuriated, but takes the gun back, checking it as though Jack did something to it.

Then Dean looks up and meets Jack's eyes, and the fire in his expression takes the time traveler aback for a moment. He takes a step closer, doing his best to be intimidating despite his obvious fear, and says, "If you hurt my brother, if you put a damn hand on him, I will kill you slowly. That is a promise. And I live up to my promises."

Jack holds his gaze, nodding solemnly. "I know," he says. "I believe you. And I'm not here to hurt your brother, or you, or anyone. I wish I could explain things more clearly but I can't. We're stuck with each other."

"We're not stuck if I shoot you," Dean says.

"You can't shoot me without bullets," Jack counters.

"I know where you're staying," Dean shoots back.

Jack stifles a laugh. The kid has nothing if not guts. "I know where you're staying," he says, "and I'm the one with a grown-up credit card who can change motels if need be."

"There's only a handful in town," Dean says. "I could find you if you moved."

"You are something else," Jack says, a touch of admiration in his voice. He folds his arms and grins, but that grin fades as he notices that Dean isn't meeting his eyes anymore.

He's looking down at Jack's boots. Jack follows his eyeline, and sees the mud caked all over the soles, toes, and heels. Jack stifles a curse. Damn, but John raised his son to have a good eye.

"Out by Hanging Rocks?" Dean asks, his voice tightly controlled.

"I'm a hiker," Jack replies.

"Don't bullshit me," Dean snaps. "I want to know who you are and what you want with my family. And I want to know now."

Jack sighs, unfolding his arms and running his hands through his hair. "I can't tell you," he says. "I'm sorry, Dean, but I—"

"What?" Dean hisses, holding the gun for just a moment as though it were still loaded. Jack sucks in a regretful breath, but it's too late. "How the hell did you know my name?"

Jack puts his hands back out, trying to seem as innocuous as possible. "Look, kid—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dean says. "Stay away from me. Stay away from my dad. And you sure as hell stay away from my brother. I know your kind like kids, but I know how to kill you."

Jack blinks.

His mouth attempts a couple of words, but comes up blank, until he finally settles on, "Huh?"

"My dad didn't bring us all the way out here to hunt your nest without prepping us," Dean says, his voice full of angry pride.

It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for Dean to think he's a Black Annis. Not the best thing in the world, either, but not the worst. But Jack doesn't think of that as he says, "I'm not a Black Annis, Dean. No blue skin, no iron claws."

Dean stills, staring at him. His eyes narrow. "So you're not a Black Annis, but you know my name, and you know what my dad came out here to hunt," he says.

"Dean—"

As Jack takes a step towards him, Dean's arm comes around with the gun and clocks Jack square on his temple. He staggers a step back, reeling in pain, and can barely make it out as Dean takes off running.

The kid has a good arm.

The kid has sense.

The kid is going to get himself and his brother killed, so through the foggy haze of his throbbing head, Jack stumbles back to his car and takes off towards the motel.