November 29th, 2042
Despite a generous application of aloe vera as aftercare, the freshly-inked skin of DJ's forearm still felt vaguely raw and tingly, as though he'd forgotten to apply sunscreen on a cloudy day.
"Your dad is gonna be pissed that you got it on your arm, dude," Cass commented.
"Why would he be mad?" DJ asked, picking anxiously at the edges of the Saniderm; it was a genuine struggle not to touch.
"Because, man," Cass replied, raising one eyebrow. "Anyone could see it there."
"Easily identifiable," Sam contributed, nodding sagely.
"Whatever," DJ snorted, tipping his chin at Cass' tattoo. "At least I'm not a goddamn fanboy."
The twins had gotten their tattoos on their chests, just over their hearts, nearly identical to the placement of those infamously worn by the Winchester brothers. Theirs were already healed up, the lucky lycan bastards, and they were both still parading around dad's house with their shirts off, admiring them in every reflective surface.
"And another thing," Cass continued, ignoring the jab. "What if some demon cuts off your arm? Then you could be possessed!"
"Oh my god, Cass," DJ groaned, shaking his head to clear it of that disturbing mental image. "Shut up."
"What the fuck, man?" Sam demanded, making a face at his brother.
"What? It could happen!" Cass defended, hands on his hips.
"I fucking hope not," DJ grumbled, unrolling his shirtsleeve in order to cover the protective sigil.
He hadn't thought about it, really, when they'd stumbled into the little tattoo parlor in Salina as soon as it opened. They were all running on fumes, having pulled an all-nighter at the bunker to do research and wait for daylight; the armband had been tied there, so it seemed as good a place as any to have the artist apply the stencil. He'd clutched the little silver charm in his fist through the entire session, leaving an imprint in his palm that had long since faded.
"I'm hungry," Cass announced, changing the subject. "Does your dad have anything to eat besides rabbit food?"
DJ sighed, getting up out of his seat to head down to the kitchen.
"Put some clothes on," he instructed. "Aunt Jody sent us home with a bunch of leftovers."
He had to clear space on the uncharacteristically cluttered countertops—rosary beads steeping in mason jars full of water, bowls of herbs and little bones of which DJ really did not want to know the origin, scraps of notepaper covered in neat block lettering—before he could crack open Jody's take-away containers and portion out their contents onto plates.
"Man, your dad is freaked out," Sam observed, picking up one of the notes and turning it over to read the back.
"About that," Cass said, tearing longing eyes away from the meat and potatoes lazily rotating in the microwave. "I thought demons were, like, scared of Big Sam."
"I don't think these daeva are like regular demons, dude," DJ responded. "Based on what we read last night, they're pretty bad news."
"Still," Sam said, carefully repositioning a jar of holy water so that he could prop his elbows up on the table. "Don't you think this is a bit much?"
DJ looked around at the disarrayed kitchen and frowned, noticing the empty beer and liquor bottles for the first time.
"Maybe," he allowed. "I don't know."
The microwave dinged and Cass pounced; DJ forced a set of silverware into his hands before he could totally embarrass himself. As he started warming up the second plate, Sam snarled suddenly. DJ rolled his eyes, intending to tell him to knock it off and wait his turn; he nearly jumped out of his skin when Cass dropped his fork and let out a long, rippling growl.
"What the hell—" he started, following two sets of golden eyes in the direction of the hallway.
There was a man in a suit—who hadn't been there a moment ago—leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets like he owned the place.
"You smell that?" Sam hissed through his fangs as he rose to his feet.
"Yep," Cass rumbled shortly, flanking him.
"How the fuck did you get in here?" DJ demanded, unable to help himself.
The stranger slipped one hand out of his pocket, telegraphing the movement for the bristling werewolves, and held it up to snap his fingers.
"Just so," he replied smoothly, his accent distinctly British.
"Are you a witch, then?" DJ asked, fumbling under the table for the revolver holstered there.
"God, no," the other scoffed, disgusted. "Don't insult me."
The man smirked, then gave a slow blink. All the breath left DJ's lungs in a rush as blood red eyes gave the kitchen a dispassionate once over.
"Cozy," he remarked wryly.
"You… you're… you're a demon," DJ sputtered.
Cass shot him a look that told him exactly how stupid he sounded; DJ's skin crawled as the damned thing's eyes slid over him next. It blinked again and flaming red was replaced with benign brown.
"Yes," it agreed, longsuffering. "And you're the spitting image of John Winchester. Whose loins did you spring from, then?"
"What!?" DJ choked out helplessly.
"Not terribly bright, are we? Not Moose, then," the interloper said thoughtfully. "I do suppose the elder brother was always a tad more licentious."
Sam's clawed hand closed around a jar of holy water; DJ clocked the movement and was suddenly jolted out of his petrified state, able to remember something useful.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii—" his recitation trailed off as the thing started to fucking laugh.
"That tickles," it taunted. "But your Latin is lovely."
Sam chucked the jar of holy water, which the demon seemed to have been anticipating. It ducked to one side, and the jar shattered on impact against the far wall. Down the hall, the library door banged open.
"Dean!?" Dad shouted, thundering towards the kitchen.
The demon made an exasperated sound and pivoted on its heel, making a one hundred and eighty degree turn to face dad as he came skidding to a stop just outside the doorway to the kitchen, armed with a little of everything. DJ wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't for his dad's jaw to drop and all color to drain from his face when he set eyes on the intruder.
"Crowley!?" His voice cracked on the second syllable. "But… how… how are you here?"
"You know this thing!?" Cass barked; he was ignored.
"Moose!" the demon greeted cheerily. "I see the years have not been kind."
"You can't be here; you're dead," Dad said flatly, pressing his thumb into the palm of his left hand.
"Am I?" the demon queried. "Interesting. Anyway; to answer your question, I had a bit of help."
Sam let out a decidedly un-intimidating yelp and staggered backward as a second suited stranger manifested in the middle of the kitchen with a sound like rushing wind. This one was wearing a trenchcoat. He looked vaguely familiar; DJ couldn't quite place him, but he knew he'd seen that face before. Somewhere.
"Hello Sam," he said, voice like gravel; he spoke with an odd cadence.
Dad went impossibly paler, and seemed to forget all about the demon, who had to stutter-step out of the way as the taller man lurched past him into the kitchen, wide eyes fixed on the new arrival.
"Cass?" he breathed, incredulous.
"Huh?" Cass grunted, questioning.
The stranger spared a curious glance at Cass before turning back to dad, who looked like… well, he looked like a civilian who had seen a ghost.
"How?" Dad repeated, softer this time.
"Time travel," came the immediate response.
"Oh," Dad said quietly, as though that answer made any goddamn sense. "Why? From when?"
"It is not of import," the stranger grumbled, tugging at his tie. "Where is your brother?"
Dad choked on nothing; now he looked like he was in pain.
"Cass…" he forced out, barely a whisper.
"What!?" Cass demanded, annoyed now.
The newcomer looked at him again, tilting his head sharply and narrowing his eyes.
"Sam, why does this werewolf have my name?"
"That…" Dad floundered. "That's a long story, Cass."
"What the fuck?" Cass mouthed, catching DJ's eye.
"Twenty-Thirteen, if you must know," the demon chimed in, sounding bored. "I'm doing a favor for an old friend; a bit of quid pro quo, as it were. Castiel here is just Driving Miss Daisy. Now, are you going to let me out any time soon?"
DJ blinked; he'd forgotten all about the devil's traps they'd found his dad painting all over the house when they got back from town. Sure enough, there was one daubed across the threshold in clear, bright white. His dad's brows knit together in furious concentration.
"No," he said after a long moment, giving the demon a measured look. "We weren't exactly on good terms back then, Crowley."
"You wound me," the demon—Crowley—drawled sardonically, placing one hand over his pocket square.
"Wait; Cass—Castiel," Dad said, turning back to the other with a concerned look on his face. "Are you okay? The last time you zapped us sometime, you were down for the count. How are you still standing?"
"I'm fine," Castiel said, rubbing one eye. "Maybe a little tired. Where is Dean? We need your help."
The pained look was back; DJ could only watch as his dad swallowed heavily and seemed to brace for impact.
"Dean died," he said quietly, clearing his throat. "It was a long time ago."
Castiel's countenance darkened like a thundercloud.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said roughly; he put a hand on dad's shoulder, and dad reached up and covered it with his own.
"That whore!" Crowley swore loudly, interrupting the tender moment. "She lied to me; she said we'd have the Winchesters' unequivocal cooperation. She didn't say anything about needing to raise one of them from the dead first!"
"I tried to tell you," Castiel retorted testily. "Time travel to the future is incredibly volatile; there are too many variables. She may not have even known."
"We're not raising anybody from the dead!" Dad said sharply. "It's not possible anymore, and even if it was… I wouldn't."
Castiel gave dad a long, inscrutable look. Crowley simply scoffed, apparently disbelieving.
"Have it your way, then," the demon said, shrugging nonchalantly. "We only came to prevent the rise of the antichrist, after all. Not much time for side quests."
"Antichrist?" A surprised laugh tore its way out of dad's throat. "Uh, guys, I hate to say it, but I think you might have made a long trip for nothing. Lucifer's dead; Michael too. All the archangels, actually. Sorry, Cass," he offered the condolences like an afterthought. "There are no more princes or knights of Hell, and we've beaten both the Darkness and the Light. Crisis averted," he finished, eyes a little shiny.
"Oh, really?" Crowley snarked, surveying the disaster area the apothecary had become. "So you haven't noticed anything unusual lately? No uptick in demonic activity? No omens?"
A chill ran down DJ's spine as his dad's face lost all expression.
"What the fuck is happening!?" Cass burst out, unable to contain himself any longer.
He was ignored, again. Dad crossed the room in long strides, throwing open a seldom-used cabinet to pull out a bronze brazier and several pillar candles.
"Dad?" DJ questioned, keeping one eye on the demon leering in the doorway.
"In a minute," Dad muttered, kneeling on the floor to start chalking a sigil. "I have to make a call."
Whoa, we're halfway there
Whoa, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand, we'll make it I swear
Whoa, livin' on a prayer
"Livin' On A Prayer," by Bon Jovi, 1986.
Bon Jovi rocks… on occasion. That said, I've yet to finish anything longer than a oneshot, so I am excited to have reached the halfway point in this fic!