Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1
A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, it's really appreciated. I hope y'all enjoy the story.
Bad Seed
Swing the noose again
Pierce the apple skin
You bit more than you need
Now you're choking
On a bad seed
A small groan rolled past Sam's lips as he leaned back against the Impala, his hand pressed against his stomach. His lunch, wrapped securely in grease, oil, and some other substance Sam couldn't quite identify but was positive wasn't safe for human consumption, didn't seem to be agreeing with him. It had sounded good in theory, healthy even . . . reality, however, provided a poor substitute for what he'd pictured. Sam wrinkled his nose at the memory of the thing that tried to pass itself off as a sandwich as his stomach gave another displeased rumble.
Dean's food, a double bacon cheeseburger and fries, had looked as good as it had sounded and had the audacity to smell even better. Dean had taken his time eating slowly and enjoying his meal; Sam was convinced he did it just to irritate him, which he succeeded in doing.
Sam's frown tightened as his stomach flip-flopped. Thankfully they were only a few hours out from Bobby's house. Sam had been in favor of just driving through, head straight there for obvious reasons. Dean, however, insisted on stopping, specifically at this diner. He'd mumbled something about pickle chips and death Sam didn't quite catch. Since Dean had been driving, there really wasn't much of a choice on whether they stopped or not, and it was such a normal "Dean" thing to do that Sam wouldn't have stopped him even if he could.
Dean was inside paying for the meal while he inquired about his pickle chips that hadn't been on the menu. Sam had opted to wait outside, hoping the cool air would settle his stomach and maybe his thoughts, thoughts that kept running in circles, chasing each other with maybe's, what if's, and how's, all with Dean sitting at the center. Sam just had to get him to Bobby's house. Bobby would know what to do—he always did.
Sam cast another glance back toward the diner, so completely lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the five-foot-something blonde chick slide up next to him.
Sam jerked his head back, giving the woman a once-over as she took a fry out of a takeout box and stuffed it into her mouth, pausing to giving the food an appraising look. "Mmm. These are amazing. It's like deep-fried crack. Try some." She offered the box up toward him.
"Can I . . . help you with something?" Sam's eyes bounced down to the container then back up again; he was pretty sure the she was either lost or confused or crazy, possibly all three.
"Nope." She devoured another fry as quickly as the first, pausing only a moment to throw a glance up at him. "You know, you are a very hard man to find, Sam Winchester."
Sam shook his head. "I'm easy when I need to be."
She paused mid-chew and turned toward Sam, a suggestive smirk stretching across her face.
Sam's eyes widened as he stood upright, patting the air between them with his fingers. "That's not . . . I mean, I'm easy when I want people." He raised his hands, still patting the air as he continued to backpedal. "To find me . . ." A flush crept across his ears; he pressed his lips tightly into a thin line, wishing not for the first time that he had his brother's ability to always know just what to say. Sam cleared his throat. "Why were you looking for me?"
"Because I'm interested in you."
Sam shifted his weight impatiently. "Why?" he asked more forcefully.
"Because you're tall." She paused a fry-consumption to let a slow smirk spread across her face. "I love a tall man." She returned her attention back to her fries with a nonchalant shrug. "And then there's the whole Antichrist thing."
"Excuse me?"
"You know." She waved a fry in the air. "Generation of psychic kids, Yellowed-Eyed Demon rounds you up, celebrity death match ensues. Only two make it out alive." Her voice raised at the end, clearly impressed with the fact that Sam was still breathing.
"Two?" Sam's eyebrows shot upwards. As far as he was aware, no one else had made it out alive but him. Sam cast his gaze around the parking lot then lowered his voice. "Who else made it out? And how do you even know about any of that?"
The woman shrugged. "I'm a good hunter," she said, brushing off his first question. She peeked in the now empty container of fries, looking mildly disappointed, then shrugged and tossed the garbage onto the ground. "So . . ." She turned, propping an elbow on the Impala and leaning against it. "Yellow Eyes had some pretty big plans for you, Sam."
"Had being the keyword."
"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah." She waved her hand in the air. "That's right, ding-dong, the demon's dead. Good job with that. It doesn't change the fact that you're special . . . in that Anthony Michael Hall E.S.P. visions kind of way."
"No." Sam shook his head. "No, that stuff's not happening anymore. Not since Yellow-Eyes died."
She snorted. "Well, I'm thinking you're still a pretty big deal. I mean, with everything that's going on with your brother."
Sam narrowed his eyes, taking a step closer. "What are you talking about?" He squashed down the urge to look back at the diner. He knew something was wrong with Dean, but the thought that some unknown hunter not only knew as well but might know more filled Sam's stomach with a cold iciness. It meant he wasn't imagining things, that this, whatever this was, was real and big enough for others to know about, which was a whole other problem in and of itself. Sam knew how hunters reacted when they thought something was . . . unnatural. He still hadn't forgotten Gordon's attempts.
A slow smile drew across the woman's face. "You . . . don't know—"
"I know plenty," Sam cut her off. "I want to know what you think you know."
Her smile widened. "All right, no need to get snappy." She shot a look toward the diner.
Sam shifted, sliding in between the hunter and the diner his brother was currently occupying, feeling the irresistible urge to protect his brother, regardless of what might be going on, from this woman.
The hunter smiled at him, appearing more amused by his actions rather than annoyed. "Why don't we . . . go somewhere private to talk? Wouldn't want the wrong person to overhear."
"You want me to go somewhere with you? Alone?" Sam shook his head. "You think I'm stupid?"
The women merely smiled. "I think you want some answers."
"Here's fine." Sam's eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms over his chest.
The woman studied him for a long moment, her face showing the slightest hint of conflict before it smoothed out into the cocky smile she had worn before. "All right," she started slowly. "Here it is, then."
A disappointed frown pulled at Dean's lips. He supposed in the grand scheme of things it wasn't really important, but he'd been looking forward to the deep-fried pickle chips they served here. It felt like forever since the last time he had some, but when he talked to the manager after paying for their meal, the only thing he got was a confused but curious look.
"Deep-fried pickle chips, you say? No, we don't serve anything like that here, but . . ." The man scratched his thick chin. "That's not a bad idea." He then turned, yelling to some guy named Frank in an excited manner, leaving Dean standing at the counter, forgotten and pickle chip-less.
Dean heaved a sigh, choosing that moment to make his exit, deciding that it would be best not to think about the implications of what just happened. Time travel made his head hurt and wasn't worth the trouble on the best of days.
The little bell above the diner door gave a small ring as he shoved it open and stepped out into the cool, crisp air. He paused at the door, taking a moment to enjoy the warm rays of sunlight that splashed across his face. It was the little things that he'd missed back in his time, and even though he'd been back here for a handful of months now, there were just some things he could no longer take for granted, and a warm sun on a brisk autumn afternoon was one of them.
Dean took in another slow breath then let his eyes wander across the parking lot to the car and his brother. His brows drew together for a moment as he realized Sam was talking to someone rather animatedly. He couldn't see the person very well due to his sasquatchian sized brother blocking his view, but from what he could see, he could tell it was a girl. A smile spilled across his lips and lit up his eyes. "That's my boy."
His brother could use a bit unwinding. Though . . . Dean's face scrunched slightly. He really hoped they didn't unwind in his car. He shook his head vigorously—now there was an image he could do without.
Dean was considering going back inside, maybe helping himself to a piece of pie to both replace the image he didn't want in his head and to give his brother some alone time, when Sam shifted a step to his right and Dean got a good look at the woman he was talking to.
His stomach rolled and his heart slammed against his chest. Thoughts, feelings, and memories long buried by time came bursting forward, flooding his entire being. The anger, the rage, the resentment that he had felt all those years ago tangled with the fear and the helplessness he felt as he watched what his brother became, all of it coiled and twisted around one single name: Ruby.
Not bothering to wait for his brain to give the command, Dean's feet drove him forward across the parking lot, his vision narrowing down to one single figure. He knew he didn't have the Colt with him, but he wasn't going let something as simple as being unarmed stop him from killing the demon whore. He knew she would have the demon-killing knife on her; he just had to coax it away from her. Preferably with a brick to her face.
He saw Ruby's eyes glide over Sam's shoulder, saw the smirk she'd been wearing melt off her face and her whole body stiffen; he could see her flight-or-fight response kick in. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that something was off about Ruby's reaction to seeing him. Ruby—this Ruby—shouldn't have any reason to feel threatened by him. But the thought was quickly drowned out as he closed in on them.
Dean didn't waste any time with words or threats: he met her head-on with a crack of bone against flesh. Shocked yells and pained grunts followed as he slammed her back against the Impala, his Impala, the Impala she had been carelessly leaning against just moments ago. The very thought of her defiling his car with her filth while poisoning his brother's thoughts ignited a fire under his skin that itched with an explosive cry for release. It was a release he was more than happy to grant.
They clashed together in a tangle of limbs. Punches, kicks, and blocks exchanged, blood spilt and splattered in the span of a few breaths. He felt someone's hands on his arms, felt them attempt to pull him away, felt his elbow swing backwards and flesh give way as it connected.
He knew, as a demon, Ruby was physically stronger than him and capable of tossing him around. He also knew that she wouldn't be able to show off that supernatural strength unless she wanted to out herself as a demon, and without Dean's soul deal to hang over Sam's head, Ruby had nothing she could use to sink her claws into. This time around he was determined not to give her the chance.
She slammed her palm into his chest, causing Dean to stumble a step back. He felt hands on his arms again, a body against his back, but he shrugged the hands off and used the body to forcefully shove off of, slamming Ruby once more into the Impala and pinning her against its metal frame. His hand moved across her belt, his fingers wrapping around the smooth handle of Ruby's knife and ripping it from its sheath.
As he spun the blade in his hand, a flash of light tripped across his vision, causing him to falter. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the movement only seemed to make matters worse as voices and memories slammed into him with the force of a speeding truck, stealing his breath and causing him to stumble.
No, no, no, not now. Dean cursed under his breath; he gripped the knife tighter, trying to plant himself in the here and now, refusing to get sucked into the inevitable flashback.
"She's poison, Sam."
His brother wouldn't listen to him—he was in too deep. Like an addict trying to give reason for one more hit.
"I'm being practical here, Dean! I'm doing what needs to be done."
The muscles along his jawline jumped and rippled as he tried to push the memory away, return to the fight and what needed to be done. What he needed to do to protect his brother, but the memory refused to release him from its grasp. Voices and images pressed against his skull and chest until he felt like he was going to crack in half.
"Look what she did to you."
"She was looking for Lilith."
"That is French for manipulating your ass ten ways to Sunday."
"You're wrong, Dean."
He felt something slam into the back of his head, tasted dirt and gravel in his mouth. There was more yelling, more voices then there had been previously, but they too were swept beneath the tide ripping through his mind.
"You're lying to yourself. I just want you to be okay."
A familiar pair of hands gripped him once more, lifting him up. He felt an arm across his chest as something hard and cool pressed against his back. He heard the creak of the Impala's door before he was shoved unceremoniously inside. As the door shut closed, Dean let himself list to the side, his forehead pressing against the cold glass of the window in an effort to cool the fire thrumming through his skull. Voices swam unsteadily through the air, muffled through the closed window of his car, intermingling with the voices from the past.
". . . should . . . police . . . attacking . . . innocent girl."
"You don't know what you're doing, Sam"
"Yes, I do."
Dean wasn't sure what they were talking about. He wasn't even sure who they were. Everything kept fading in and out, jumping between the now and then.
"Then that's worse!"
"Why?"
"Because it's not something that you're doing—it's what you are! It means—"
". . . wrong with . . . he's . . . dangerous."
"What? No. Say it."
". . . leaving, I swear . . . don't . . . again."
There were a few moments of blessed silence before the Impala's door's creaked open once more, this time on the opposite side of the car. He heard the key slide into the ignition and the car start before he felt a sudden jerk as the car peeled out from where it sat and hit the road.
The comforting rumble wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Dean sank down into its warm embrace, letting the world around him fade.
"It means you're a monster."
He eyed the large oak door in front of him and tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket. To be honest, he wasn't even sure why he was here. This was his superior's superior, and none of this was in his area of expertise—they had others to do this type of work. Not that it took a genius to do a little investigating, but his time would be better spent elsewhere.
He pulled his shoulders back, pushed the door open, and walked inside. The area looked much like a normal executive office complete with large bookcases and a large bay window just behind a cherry oak desk. Sitting at the desk was an older man looking to be somewhere around his mid-fifties: whitish grey hair circled around his head, leaving the top smooth and bare.
The older man looked up, his eyebrows jumping up to where his hairline once was. "Well?" Patience wasn't really the man's forte.
He cleared his throat, tugged once more on the bottom of his suit jacket, and stepped up toward the desk. "I did some digging around. The disturbance down in Florida a few months ago was temporal in nature."
The older man rolled his eyes. "You spent a few months investigating and that's all you came up with? I already knew that—even the ghouls know that. Tell me something I don't know."
"We were able to confirm that both Winchester brothers were present during the event, but we aren't sure if it was drawn to them or if they drew it to them."
The older man leaned forward, a sharp edge of impatience coloring his tone. "Have you tried asking them?"
He fidgeted. This was the part he wasn't particularly keen on telling his boss' boss. He had hoped to make it through this meeting without the subject coming up, but it would seem luck wasn't on his side. It wasn't that he was nervous, more that he was aware that the being before him did not take bad news well. He tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket. "We . . . we, uh, we can't find them."
"Excuse me?"
"I said we can't—"
"I heard what you said." The older man dragged a hand down his face then gestured widely with it. "Everything you have at your disposal, and you can't find two measly humans?"
He cleared his throat. "They, uh, appear to be hidden from us somehow."
"Really? You think so?" His expression pinched tightly "How? When did they fall off the grid?" He tapped the side of his hand against the desk, punctuating each word.
"We don't know. Just that . . . they did."
"Is there anything you do know?" His voice was strained pinched with barely suppressed agitation.
He nodded his head, relieved that he did in fact have what could be slightly good news. "There's a Witch Doctor somewhere near Osyka, Mississippi. He treated one or both of the brothers immediately after the event in Florida."
"You think this Witch Doctor may know something?"
He nodded. "It's possible. He was with them less than twenty-four hours after the event."
The older man leaned back in his seat, his finger trailing across his chin, then glanced up, gesturing toward the door. "Why are you still here?"
