Chapter 20: Witness Wickedness
***Author's Note***
Hello everyone, sorry for the delay! The school year just ended and as consequence I had to do quite a bit of end-of-year stuff for my students/school. I also just adopted a dog, a wonderful GSD mix named Russell, but I promise to try and be more regular now that I (ostensibly) have more time. Also, if you haven't done so, any reviews or comments would be appreciated. I don't want to beg for comments, but it does honestly motivate me to make writing a priority in my spare time. In any case, enough of the chit chat, onto the story!
***SPN-HP***
Will glanced at his Fitbit as he tried to stifle a yawn. Only another ten minutes… The 24 year old stretched as he tried to keep himself awake. Working nights at the ticket counter wasn't exactly an entertaining job, but it paid enough to help him eke out enough money to barely get through graduate school, so he wasn't going to complain too much. Though it always seems like all the freaks decide to get tickets when I'm on desk. He smirked slightly, thinking back to the ventriloquist convention attendees who had all lined up en mass the week prior, one of those weirdoes even bought a ticket for his dummy!
The ten minutes passed quickly enough and after he clocked out Will began his walk from the employee hallway out to the multi-level car park. As he opened the heavy steel door the lights flickered, then went out. Great. Will sighed as he pulled out his phone and slid up to toggle on the flashlight. "Now where the hell did I park?" He muttered as he started shuffling through the dank rows of cars. He paused at a sign on the wall, trying to remember what section he had parked in (the normal employee parking was currently out of service due to an issue with the water main that made them dig up the tarmac) when suddenly he heard a popping noise. He turned around, about to see what it was, when suddenly he realized he couldn't move. He tried to pry his lips apart, shift his weight, even move a muscle, but he was frozen. To his horror he heard footsteps behind him. He tried to scream, but all that happened was a damp and muffled wheeze, his body refusing to cooperate and produce any noise.
The steps stopped as a cloaked figure slowly came into view. The black robe masked the face, but the dry raspy noise coming from the garment's hood immediately made Will's hairs stand on end. "Are you William Thatcher?"
Will didn't know what to do, suddenly his muscles relaxed and he fell to the floor on his back, a sharp pain making his vision flash as he hit his head on the pavement. He tried to back away, only to bump into the legs of another figure dressed similarly to the first. He slowly tried to get away from that one, but soon there were over a dozen encircling him.
"Answer him, muggle!" One of the robed figures-this one a dark scarlet- demanded and kicked his head.
Will felt the pain radiate quickly, before he swallowed, bile and blood both trying to fight their way out. He nodded, "Y-y-yes."
There was silence a moment before one of the figures tossed a piece of paper at him. It was a photograph of a couple.
"Did you sell these people tickets?"
Will had no idea. "I d-d-d-don't kn-n-now."
"What do you mean you don't know?!" A green robed figure stepped on his hand, pinning it to the ground.
"I d-d-don't!" He stuttered. "I sell do-do-dozens of tic-k-k-ets every day! I d-d-don't remember all the people I sell to! I'm not the computer!"
There was more silence before one of the figures spoke something he didn't understand and flashed a wooden stick from its sleeve. To his horror he saw white mist starting to be pulled from his nose toward the stick. In a moment it was over.
"I have his memories from the past two weeks. We should be able to use the pensieve to determine where they went."
"Good. Dispose of the muggle, can't have any witnesses." The black robed figure waved his hand, and a moment later a green light flashed through the air.
***SPN-HP***
Although the average length of pregnancy is 40 weeks, it is not atypical for women to go into labor slightly before or after that time. Most women go into labor (and deliver) sometime between 38 and 42 weeks, with the majority of births taking place during the 40th week. Despite this, many babies have survived being born much earlier, with two holding the record at 21 weeks and 5 days. However, most doctors consider the age of viability to be 24 weeks.
As far as Ron and Hermione had considered, she still had nearly three months left in her pregnancy. The witch was in her 26th week as she waddled up the stairs from her and Ron's room toward the living room where the others were meeting to discuss some of the things they'd discovered as potential ways to deal with Voldemort (it had been determined early on that while conventional weaponry might work, it made sense to have something additional to dispatch the self-appointed "Dark Lord" and his minions). She huffed as she started up the last stairwell, more than slightly miffed that Ron had not returned to help her up-Even though I'm more than capable in most situations, it would be nice to get a hand with this… As she reached the top step she felt a sharp pain in her lower torso, Fuck! Another contraction…
Thankfully she'd seen a few muggle doctors back home in addition to the healers at St. Mungo's prior to her pregnancy announcement. One of the muggle doctors, a woman with a long name that was hyphenated that she'd forgotten, had told her about this-it was called Brackson Figg contractions-or something close to that-but in any case, it wasn't pleasant. Hopefully this will pass soon.
A few minutes later she was sitting on the couch beside Ron, all four of the men having notes on potential ideas on how to eliminate Voldemort without implicating the youngest Winchester. Ron was up first.
"Okay, forgive me if this doesn't make much sense, I don't really know a lot about this supernatural stuff the same way you guys do, but I hope I can explain it."
"Go ahead." Dean nodded. The elder Winchester had warmed considerably to the young man, though was still not openly welcoming to the guests, it was clear he didn't hate them any more.
Ron nodded in reply, "Um, well, from what I can tell Voldemort is essentially soulless, or at least mostly soulless, given that we already destroyed most of his horcruxes. That means that we can't use any conventional means of killing-he could essentially be resurrected with little problem, the same way he just was-so going in with firearms would be a temporary solution at best, even if it could eliminate the followers with him." He flipped to the next page in his notes, "But I did see something, apparently there are beasts called hellhounds that can kill and capture monsters, even those without souls can be totally destroyed by them." Ron looked up from his notes, "Do you have any idea how we might get some?"
Sam blanched while Dean tried to repress a look of pain, simply twitching slightly. Sam exhaled, "Ron, we're not going to do that."
Ron frowned, "Why not?"
Dean grimaced, "We don't exactly have a great track record with them, and as far as I know the only person who can control them is a prick demon named Crowley who's kinda an ally of ours, but who would never help us do it without some serious cost." Dean tried to keep the memory of being eviscerated from coming to the front of his mind, his lip twitching slightly as he exhaled slowly and internally counted to five. "Besides, he'd never willingly help us, given that Cas and I are together. He's the prince of hell for a reason."
"Fair enough." Ron replied.
"Wait, why don't we just have Cas axe the guy?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dean glanced at his son. "How so?"
"Well, Cas has an angel blade, that shit kills everything."
"Yes, but he also would be popping into a room full of magical creatures that can actually harm him. Magic's still potent against angels, and if enough of those goth-Gandalf wannabes decided to try and use the killing curse against him, it could still do serious damage." Dean responded.
"Could we borrow the angel blade?" Hermione asked, feeling another sharp pain.
All three Winchesters looked at each other knowingly, "No. Not after what happened a few years ago." Sam stated, "For your own good I won't elaborate much more than that, but no, angel blades are off the table."
As Sam was about to share his idea Hermione felt like someone had just put a vice around her stomach. The pressure immediately tensed all the muscles in her back and lower abdomen, causing her to squeeze onto the arm of the sofa. Her white-knuckle grip was nothing compared to the second stab of pain that caused her to let out a quick grunt.
"Hey, are you okay?" Ron asked, turning to her.
"I'm fine, just some-ah-contractions." She breathed out, "It's probably nothing, just Brackson Figg ones, not the real thing."
Dean immediately looked concerned, "Braxton Hicks contractions are possible when you're in the third trimester…" Hermione exhaled again, "But this seems like more than that."
"No, I'm fine, I still have three months left." Hermione replied, trying to shift her weight. A moment later she felt something shift, then a pop.
"Holy shit!" Harry took a step back, "Hermione! Your water just broke!" A damp spot had appeared on her pants as well as the sofa beneath her.
"No, it's too early. I can't be…"
Ron looked at the ruined sofa, before his eyes darted to the Winchesters. "I, we, she… Oh Merlin, it's actually happening!" He took a breath. "Where's the nearest wizarding hospital? We need her to see a healer to help deliver!"
"Wizarding hospital?" Harry asked, dumbfounded.
"Yes, a hospital for the magically inclined. She needs to see a healer trained in delivering." Ron replied, "There must be one around here, surely."
"If there is, we don't know about it." Sam replied.
Dean slung his backpack over his shoulder, "Nearest hospital is Warwick County General."
Ron glanced at Hermione, "Any hospital is fine." She replied, knowing that Ron had always been at least somewhat skeptical of modern muggle medicine. "I'm sure they're more than qualified."
"Well, they did manage to stitch my hand back together after I got stabbed by a pissed off shifter, so I trust them." Harry replied.
Ron looked at Hermione, who gave a look as if to say, Well we don't exactly have a ton of other options right now do we?!
"Okay. Let's go." Ron responded, helping Hermione to her feet."
"Okay, hold on tight." Sam grabbed the couple, while Dean and Harry apparated together.
The five appeared on the sidewalk outside the hospital. Hermione stumbled slightly, the labor process taking a bit out of her, even though she hadn't been the one to imitate the apparation. A moment later the group came through the main doors, the woman at the desk looking up at the group and immediately recognizing the signs of labor.
"Hello, I'm having someone come to get you a chair." She spoke to Hermione, "And which one of you is the father?"
"I am." Ron nervously raised his hand.
"Okay, well, you can go with her to the delivery room. The rest of you three will have to wait here." She smiled as a man arrived pushing an empty wheelchair. A moment later Hermione and Ron were leaving the lobby and heading toward a set of double doors leading to the rear of the hospital. "If you'd like to wait we have a room to the left, or we can take your phone numbers and contact you if there are any updates."
The three looked at each other. "We'll wait here." Dean replied.
She nodded. "First door to the left, restrooms are right behind it."
The Winchesters nodded and walked to the appointed waiting area. Inside was empty, of both people and decorations. Like most waiting rooms it was designed to have an appearance of warmth, but the overpoweringly clinical nature of that manufactured warmth overpowered the handful of landscape prints fastened to the walls. To its credit, the room was better than most waiting rooms that the brothers had been in throughout their lives, though given the frequency of life threatening injury while waiting, their judgment may have been slightly impaired. A few rows of reddish vinyl chairs with thin wooden arms filled most of the room, with an ancient television bolted to one wall on the corner and a few vending machines and a water fountain on the other wall. Aside from that, the room was empty aside from a paltry children's corner comprised of a few sun-bleached stuffed toys and a sliding bead game that looked older than Dean. The three decided to take up a few chairs in the middle of the room. Sam sat down and slumped so his back was actually still in the chair, his lanky legs spread across the aisle. Dean tried to recline on the chair, dissuaded by the hard wooden arms, eventually deciding to try and lean on his jacket to cushion the wooden frame. Harry decided to spread out and stuck his feet on the chair opposite, bridging the gap between the two.
"I hope they have good fake IDs." Dean remarked as he picked up a five year old Newsweek.
"They do." Sam replied. "I made some fake cards for them a week ago. Ron had wanted to get some alcohol to celebrate finally managing to shoot halfway decent, but couldn't because he didn't have a license. I just used one of our old ones and swapped the image. Did the same with one of the old insurance cards."
"Good, I thought I'd have to call Bobby and ask for a rush-job." Dean quipped.
Sam and Harry exchanged a quick glance. "You actually like them, don't you?" Harry asked.
"What? No." Dean denied, "You know how fucking expensive it is to give birth?" He waved his hand, "One more reason it rocks to be shagging a dude angel."
Sam put on bitchface number 3 again, "You only talk like that when you're denying something." Sam crossed his arms.
"Talk like what? This is how I always talk." Dean frowned.
"Like an even older fogey." Harry smirked.
"Watch it." Dean replied. "I can still kick ass."
"Never said you couldn't." Harry responded. "But you do like them. You wouldn't have asked about if they had insurance, or known about Braxton Hicks Contractions, or even suggested this hospital if you didn't."
Dean scowled, "Look, I've had more than enough sex to be worried about getting girls pregnant. That's the only reason for the contraction thing, and any of us could say this place. It's the one hospital in this part of the state."
"Now you're getting vulgar to try and get us to drop it." Sam replied, his bitchface shifting to number 8, out with it already.
"Fine. I guess I do kinda care if they don't bite it." Dean replied, "Even if they are mostly just limey weirdoes with piss-poor planning abilities."
"They might not be great at planning, but who knows, once we figure out how to help them take care of Voldemort, maybe they'll be useful allies." Sam replied. He paused, "Or maybe you can finally admit you don't hate them and make some new friends."
"Shut up. I have plenty of friends." Dean huffed.
"Your students don't count."