The world fell on a Wednesday.
Sam and Chris just rolled into a small Cape Cod town to work a potential poltergeist case.
Dawn was about to break over the Atlantic Ocean, but they were lucky the old motel they pulled into had available rooms. The cranky desk clerk was able to provide keys, but they had to pay for the night before.
"I guarantee you he's pocketing that money for himself," Sam grumbled as he worked the lock to get in, hitching his gym bag up on his shoulder as it threatened to fall.
Chris yawned in response.
At least Chris was able to sleep on the way. Sam pulled an all-night drive to get to Massachusetts and he looked a little worn for the effort.
Finally, the key caught on the lock tumblers and the door popped open to their dreary home for the next week.
Sam tossed him the car keys. "Alright, you get everything set up and I'm going to take a shower. We'll hit the ground running on this case once I feel a bit more lucid."
Chris placed the laptop case on the small table tucked in the corner of the room and got into the familiar task of opening it up and booting it up.
As he waited for the computer, he took all the books he figured were best references for poltergeists and ghosts out of his duffle bag and stacked them in a precarious pile on the small table.
The sudden need to yawn brought his hand up to cover his mouth, causing the top few books from the table to fall onto the floor. One of the books was Sam's leather-bound journal, the one passed down from Sam's dad and the one both Sam and Chris used constantly as a reference.
Generations of hunting information in one weighted text.
Chris picked up the journal and pulled at the corner of a paper stuck in the between the thick cover. In the hours Chris spent pouring over the journal, he never noticed the secret cache Sam presumably hid from prying eyes.
It was a picture. Staring back at him was Sam; a younger Sam but Sam none the less.
Which meant the guy standing next to him, not looking at the camera but at this younger version of his mentor was-
-Dean.
Despite Dean coming up so many times in conversions (rants regarding brothers pulling pranks or like a whispered prayer spoken in dark, quiet corners), this was the first time Chris saw what he looked like. Sam never showed him photos and Chris never asked.
The Dean he imagined wasn't even close to the image looking back at him. He expected light hair, taller than the already-towering Sam, and a devilish glower. In the photo, the hair was darker, the stature shorter, and he shared a bright joy on his face as he looked at young Sam.
Chris briefly wondered if Wyatt ever looked at his little brother like that.
Probably not.
Chris carefully slid the photo back into its hiding spot and sat the book down to resume setting up when he felt a wave hit him from behind. He stumbled against the bed and looked around the room for any attack.
There was nothing. No ghostly figure, no cold spot.
"Saaam!?"
Sam ripped open the bathroom door. He was dressed, hair damp and had a brush in his hand. "What's up?" On further inspection of Chris, he added, "What's wrong?"
"You didn't feel that?"
Sam shook his head. "Feel what?"
"I don't know… like something just pushed me and ran away."
Concerned, Sam looked around the room for any threat. "That's weird. We haven't even started the case yet and there's already something hinky? Do you think it's something ma-"
Hinky became cataclysmic.
Every alarm in the room set off simultaneously: the fire alarm, the clock alarm, the tv and laptop screeched in protest. They emitted a high-pitched sound that got higher and higher in pitch until it nearly deafened the two hunters in the room. Chris and Sam covered their ears to protect their eardrums.
Until the sound stopped.
"Hello boys."
"Rowena?"
Her image appeared on the decade old television screen. The background had the signs of a fake backdrop of a typical office.
"You'ra probably wondering why I'm contactin' you in this way. This-"
She paused.
Sam told him once Rowena was the oldest type of bookworm and, therefore, she was the type of witch who lived for a good story. This was truly evident with this manufactured tension.
"-This spell I am usin' is a powerful spell. When cast, it will project a recording of my choosing on the nearest screen. I call it 'Nota Mortum'. I remembered you were quite distraught the last time I died. I wanted to do it properly this time."
Sam instantly grabbed his phone and dialed.
"Now, Samuel," Rowena continued without losing a beat. "I know you'ra trying to get a hold of me. This spell will be untraceable to anyone lookin' for you. A pesky cellphone, however, is not. I will not answer you."
Sam didn't listen. He hung up and redialed.
"Samuel."
"Damn it," Sam muttered. He hung up and tried again.
"Sam, what's going on?" Chris asked. He leaned on the table; his hands clutched the journal that rested there.
Another hang-up and redial.
"Samuel… Sam."
Sam stopped. He took a deep breath and sat down on the chair, touching the phone to his forehead. It looked like Sam was praying to the phone to answer.
Maybe he was praying.
The phone remained silent.
"I never got the chance to 'thank you'," said the Rowena on the screen. "Then again, there was an icicle's chance in hell I would ever say that to you in person…But you knew. You were the first person ever who saw me as I truly was: a strong, capable-"
"- dangerous," Sam added to the commentary.
"- stunning witch. And you and your brother…"
Chris could swear his caught a glint in her eye.
"You taught me more about family…and love…than I learned in the centuries I have been alive. There are many regrets I have… with Fergus, but knowin' you is not one."
"Rowena…" Sam started. Then he realized the conversation was one sided and stopped.
"Christopher."
Rowena looked at Chris as if she could predict where exactly he would stand. He almost wanted to check for cameras in the ancient television with how intense her gaze was on him.
"I believe in you. Let us see what you are capable of," she said before finishing with, "Goodbye boys."
The recording ended, but the television remained on. The channel showed a news report of buildings on fire and people running to cover. The headline on the bottom had the text: 'Battle in San Francisco. Is Magic Real?'
Chris turned to Sam to confirm what his eyes was seeing on the screen. The chair was empty, and the motel door latched closed in response to Sam's abrupt departure.
He sagged down in the empty chair with the feeling of the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Chris tracked him down using the GPS on his phone to a private beach. He was slow to approach Sam at first.
Sam just stood there, his head tilted up and his eyes closed. To the ignorant and less-informed, Sam looked like a man enjoying the day, soaking up the rays of the rising sun.
To the less informed, they wouldn't be able to see that the world was ending.
Chris watched the waves crashing against the sand.
Sam sighed and, without moving, spoke to Chris. "Poughkeepsie. Remember 'Poughkeepsie'."
"New York? What about it?"
"It's a codeword Dean and I had," Sam clarified, looking at Chris. "We had a jinn case there that messed both our heads. After that: 'Poughkeepsie'. It was our way of saying, 'Drop what you're doing and run because, hell no, you're not okay.' Dean's words."
"Why are you telling me this?" Chris asked.
But Sam's eyes averted again and shook his head as if trying to shake off a heavy load. "The world knows about us now. Hunters, witches, magic, things that go 'bump' in the night. Life is about to get a lot darker. I need to know you're okay. If you're in trouble, say 'Poughkeepsie'. It doesn't matter if I don't recognize you or believe whatever you're saying. You say that word and I will believe you no matter what. We drop everything and we run. I promise."