Here we are with a new story! This one is the promised sequel to Bringer of Terror, meaning reading that one first would certainly help. It's also a crossover with The Sentinel. Now, due to the timeline I've set up in Bringer of Terror, it takes place three years after the events in the TV series The Sentinel (and right after 6x12 for the Supernatural). Meaning it's three years after Blair's Sentinel dissertation was leaked and he denounced himself as a fraud to protect Jim.
Now, I don't usually mess with cannon, but since this is technically post-cannon for the Sentinel and since the ending of the show could have gone either way, I've put my little interpretation on things. Meaning that Blair and Jim are still working together, but Blair does not become a detective himself. Nothing against this, I just think his strengths are better if he continues to think outside the box instead of having to follow certain rules. Besides, that would mean he doesn't have to cut his hair, and you're gonna have to pry Blair's long curls out of my cold dead hands (…ok, that didn't sound so good :))) )
As for Supernatural, I haven't changed much, just added my own interpretation on certain things. I like playing with recently re-souled Sam. It offers up quite a lot of possibilities. Now onwards to the story, and sorry for the extra long author's note.
Chapter 1
David woke up with the alarm blaring in his ears. He cursed it, slamming his fist in its general direction. Last night had been just as bad as the other nights. Nightmares and noises and no kind of restful sleep at all. If this kept up, he was going to lose his mind completely. It wasn't as if he wasn't already on the way.
He got up slowly and got dressed, skipping breakfast once again, since he was already late for work. Hopefully, his boss would not be in that morning. His colleagues were getting antsy, though. Only yesterday the reception girl warned him she would not cover for him all the time. David could not blame her. She probably suspected he was doing drugs or something of the kind. And, if he were to tell anyone what was actually happening – well, who would believe him?
In the hallway, David met his next door neighbor getting back from her night shift still in her nurse's scrubs. She tried to avoid eye contact, but David placed himself in front of her.
"Your dog was barking again last night."
The neighbor glared at him.
"My dog was at my sister's last night. Because apparently the recording of him not barking was not enough to convince your lordship that whatever you're hearing, it's not my dog."
David froze. He had been so sure the dog he had heard barking last night – and all the other nights for about two weeks – was the neighbor's new rescue greyhound.
"Are you lying to me?"
The neighbor shook her head, already at her door.
"If this is a way to get me to invite you inside so you can see for yourself I haven't got my dog with me forget it. I ain't falling for that. And you harass me one more time and I'm going to the cops."
She slammed the door in his face.
"Cops won't do anything, you know," he felt the need to point out. "I haven't done anything to you."
The neighbor opened the door enough to get her head out.
"Keep on standing in front of my apartment like that and we'll see."
She slammed the door again.
David staggered out the building, almost forgetting he was running late. He was at the car when he heard something in the bushes. He turned around and gasped.
"Oh my God!"
He started running, not looking back. He ran down the back alleys, still empty at that time of day. All the while, he could hear his pursuer behind him and feel the hot breath at his back.
xxXXXxxx
Blair Sandburg sighed wearily, pulling a strand of hair from his face distractedly. The table was covered with open folders and crime scene photos. His notes occupied half the couch. Still, something was missing.
He heard footsteps down the stairs and raised his head. The corners of his mouth tilted upwards at the sight of James Ellison in his best suit.
"Nice," he commented. "Looking pretty dapper, man."
Jim scowled.
"Look, Sandburg, I can cancel…"
Blair shook his head quickly.
"Why would you do that? You're off duty right now, aren't you? I mean, you're finally taking my advice and actually leaving work at work instead of bringing it home with you. Go on to your date. Don't come back till the morning."
He did not have to look up to know Jim was rolling his eyes.
"So, how come you're not taking that advice, Chief?" Jim wanted to know. "How come you're sitting here with the case files, making a mess of my living room?"
"Because I have an obsessive personality," Blair quipped. "Besides, it's my living room, too."
He heard Jim walk to him and sit on the couch, after moving some papers to the table.
"Sandburg," he began, "I'm worried."
Blair took off his glasses and turned to face Jim.
"All right – what exactly has you worried?"
Jim looked pointedly at him.
"You. It's like you're back to your grad student stage. For four weeks you've been studying every detail about this case at all hours. I'm sure you know everything by heart."
Blair rubbed at his face tiredly.
"It's just bugging me, Jim. This case, something doesn't fit. Now look at today's victim. David Carstairs. He was an office clerk so that's a new one. What happened to him, though, matches what happened to the other three victims down to the last detail. I mean, you have the changes of behavior, the complaints that they could hear a dog barking…And the way he died – he must have been chased for a long while before he was attacked."
Jim nodded quickly.
"I know all that, Sandburg. I was at the crime scene too, remember?"
"Yeah, but that's extremely unusual, don't you get it?" Blair argued. "From the first victim four weeks ago to now, it's like the killer is doing everything over and over again without variation."
Jim nodded thoughtfully.
"Yeah, I admit it is unusual. Whoever this is, they're frighteningly methodical."
Blair snorted.
"He's impossibly methodical man. I mean, I've been trying to build a working profile for two weeks and it still doesn't fit. I'm telling you, Jim, we might be in over our heads." He paused and licked his lips, then ploughed on: "In fact, I think we might need help on this one."
Jim turned sharp eyes on him.
"You want to hand this over to the Feds, Sandburg?" he bit out.
But Blair shook his head.
"I don't think this is a problem for the Feds. But it might be a problem for someone else. Remember the Winchester brothers?"
Jim snorted in disbelief.
"So you don't want to hand this over to the Feds, only to the guys who are wanted by the Feds about three times over."
"C'mon, Jim," Blair argued. "You yourself agree the only reason the Feds are after the Winchesters is because they have no clue what they actually do. Isn't that why you told everybody at work you're sure the Winchesters are actually working undercover and those warrants on them must be part of the scheme?"
Jim got up, heading for the door.
"Actually, I said that because I didn't want anyone prying into why we were associated with known felons," he admitted.
He took his jacket from the coat hanger, but did not put it on yet, turning to look at Blair instead.
"Look, Sandburg," he said, "I have no idea what happened back then. Maybe something did. Maybe nothing. Maybe the Winchesters were just stringing us along."
Blair took a deep breath. It was time he made a confession of his own.
"You know there was that moment when Aguilar drugged Sam," he said hesitantly. "And apparently showed him the future – how people in his life were going to die. Well, Sam told me something afterwards. I didn't say anything at the time, because I didn't know myself what to make of it and I was sure you'd dismiss it, as for after it happened, well, neither of us wanted to talk about it, we still don't and…"
The words died on his lips when he spotted the impatience on Jim's face.
"Chief, anytime you want to get to the point, I'm listening."
"He told me to stay away from the fountain, man."
As soon as Blair finished he realized it had been the wrong thing to say. He saw Jim's shoulders stiffen, although his face remained calm.
"Well, if he had been a little less cryptic and a lot more specific, it would have saved us both of us a lot of grief, don't you think?" Ellison said, finally putting on his coat. "I do not think there's any reason for you to get the Winchesters involved, Sandburg," he added as a parting shot.
Blair listened to Jim's footsteps in the hallway.
"So noted," he said.
He was already reaching for the phone.
xxxXXXxxx
Dean was sitting at Bobby's table, a bottle of beer in front of him. His attention was on Sam, fast asleep on the couch. Sam had been sleeping a lot since his re-souling. After their return from the dragon hunt the previous day and their talk with Bobby, Sam had gone to bed and had woken up late. He had been awake for two hours, working on some translation and trying to keep out of Bobby's way. He had eaten lunch at Dean's request (read: order), then had gone to the couch and had not moved in three hours.
At least his sleep was peaceful, though Dean doubted that would last. Sam's newly-installed wall against his memories would probably start bothering him, or his conscience would keep him up at night troubling him about all the nasty things he had done without a soul and trying to find ways to make up for them.
Dean sighed heavily. Castiel was avoiding him that day. He probably knew Dean was pissed at him for giving Sam every sordid detail about his time spent without a soul.
His phone rang and Dean answered it quickly before it could make too much noise.
"Hello?" he asked quietly.
The voice at the other end was vaguely familiar, but Dean had trouble placing a name to it:
"Oh hi. This is Dean Winchester, right? It's Blair Sandburg, I don't know if you remember me…"
Dean frowned.
"Who?"
He glanced at Sam, who stirred slightly, but did not wake up.
"Uhh…Blair Sandburg," the caller repeated, his uncertainty growing as if he was wondering if calling Dean had not been a bad idea. "We met a few years ago in Cascade. You helped me and my partner with a problem."
Finally Dean remembered. It had been so long ago – lifetimes ago both for him and Sam. They might as well have been different people.
"Hold on a second," he told Sandburg, getting up and moving to the porch. "Yeah, Sandburg, I remember now. The Chilean evil wizard and his demon pet, right?"
"That's right," Sandburg answered sounding relieved. "Listen, I don't know if you're still in the business but…I might have something for you here. A series of deaths – they're a bit weird…I don't know if you're anywhere near Cascade…"
"We can get there," Dean said quickly.
A Hunt would keep Sam's mind off the Wall and his soulless exploits and it would help the two of them reconnect – and it would get them out of Bobby's hair. Bobby had not said anything, but there was a distinct tension between him and Sam. Dean figured Bobby would get over himself a lot faster if he did not have to trip over Sam every time he moved around the house.
"Hey listen," he told Sandburg, "I'll give you Sam's email and you forward any details you have to him so we can look over them before we get there. We're in South Dakota now, so…"
"Got it," Sandburg said. "When you get her,e swing by the loft. We'll be waiting for you."
Dean switched off his phone and headed back inside. Sam was sitting up, looking confused and only half-awake.
"Dean," he said. "You weren't here."
Dean raised his eyebrows but chose not to comment.
"How do you feel about a trip to Washington?"
"Why?" Sam asked. "What's in Washington?"
"In Cascade, to be exact," Dean said. "I just got a call. You remember Sandburg?"
Sam rubbed at his face tiredly.
"Blair Sandburg, you mean? The anthropologist who was following that cop with the wacky senses?"
Dean nodded.
"One and only. Apparently, he has a case for us. He'll send you the details and we can discuss it en route. What do you say, Sammy? Just an old-fashioned simple hunt unrelated to Purgatory or Angels or Crowley. Could be what the doctor ordered for you."
Sam shrugged.
"I suppose it won't hurt."
Dean grinned.
"That's my boy. I'm sure Bobby will be glad. He'll be able to catch up with his favorite soap opera now that we won't be taking over his living room."
"I don't need a soap opera," Bobby grumbled entering the room. "I've got you idjits for that."
"Well, then we'd best not rob you of your daily entertainment for too long," Dean quipped.
Sam cleared his throat and got up.
"I'll go put our stuff in the car," he mumbled and left the room.
Bobby did not watch him go. Dean shook his head.
"How long's this gonna take?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" Bobby challenged.
"You know damn well what, Bobby," Dean said. "This little hissy fit you have whenever Sam's in the room."
Bobby shook his head.
"Can you blame me?"
"Yes," Dean stated bluntly, to Bobby's obvious surprise. "I can blame you, and I can blame Cas and whoever else pokes holes in Sam's Wall. Think about it, Bobby. You're blaming Sam for something he was not there for. His soul was in Hell, getting tortured at the time. Maybe remember that."
He made to leave then stopped in the middle of the room.
"Look, I get it," he said tiredly. "But my priority is Sam right now. So I'm getting him out of here. We're going to Cascade and we're doing this Hunt and I hope it'll be simple and straightforward enough so we can both walk out of it unscathed. As for you – when we're done, let me know if you've gotten over yourself. If not just find us another Hunt – away from here."
He left the room ignoring Bobby's stunned gaze. He hated doing this to Bobby and understood him more than he wanted to admit – but Sam really was his first priority and Sam needed to be away from all the guilt. Dean just hope their time in Cascade would do them all some good.
xxXXXXxxxx
Dean drove while Sam was concentrating on his laptop. The two had not spoken much since leaving Bobby's, when Sam had firmly told Dean that he did not need him to fight his battles and that Bobby had every right to be angry. Dean had responded with his usual I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about face, which had angered Sam even more. The atmosphere in the car had been tense for a while. Then, after one brief stop and two cups of strong black coffee, the two decided to unbend a little.
"So," Dean said pointing to the laptop. "What have you got?"
"Well, Sandburg gave me a very comprehensive report of the killings. Every detail you'd see in the police report, it's all here. And I agree. Something's hinky."
"How?"
"First death was four weeks ago," Sam answered scrolling on his laptop. "That was Latisha McNeil, she was twenty, African American, phys Ed student at Rainier. She lived on campus but was found on the edge of Cascade one evening after she had been unaccounted for since early morning. There were indications that she had been chased. She died of blood loss from multiple injuries which were initially classified as animal attacks."
"What made them change their minds?" Dean asked.
"A week later, they found the body of Ms. Svetlana Petrenko who worked as a…uhhh…as an escort in Little Moscow, she was 30. Same cause of death, same bite marks, she'd been missing since early morning and was found on the opposite side of where she usually hung out. Then another week goes by and Li Chen, restaurant owner, 65 goes missing in the morning and is killed in the same fashion. Now this week, we've got David Carstairs, office worker, 40 and Caucasian. You notice anything, Dean?"
"Victims are all over the place," Dean answered. "But they're all killed in the same manner. Chased and then bitten."
Sam nodded.
"People close to the victims all reported that in the days before they died they were all acting erratic – panicked and nervous. And they all claimed to hear dogs barking even though there were no dogs around."
Dean glanced sharply at Sam.
"Hellhounds?" he asked. "You think this is a crossroads deal epidemic, like we've encountered all those years ago?"
Sam's mouth was set as if he was trying not to remember something unpleasant.
"Yeah, I thought so too at first," he said heavily. "But there's one detail I haven't mentioned. All victims were found with small coins placed on their eyes."
Dean frowned.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Some cultures place coins with their dead so they can have something with them in the afterlife. Greeks believed they needed to pay the guy who was supposed to ferry them across a river over to the land of the dead."
Dean snorted.
"You scare people, you know that?" he commented. "You know these weird facts that make everyone wonder whether you're not a serial killer."
"Gee, I wonder how I got my knowledge of various death rituals," Sam quipped. "Can't be because I was digging up corpses since the age of eleven."
"Twelve," Dean corrected. "You were twelve when you had your first salt and burn. Dad wanted it to be earlier, but I fought him tooth and nail on that."
He sensed Sam's wide eyes aimed at him but did not turn to look.
"I didn't know that," Sam said quietly.
Dean shrugged.
"Yeah, well…" he cleared his throat, then changed the subject. "So…what do you think is going on in Cascade? I mean, the murders, the dog only the victim can hear, that says supernatural. But the coin thingy, that screams freaky serial killer trying to enact some twisted ritual."
"Sandburg thinks it's both," Sam answered. "Just like last time. A run of the mill guy with a supernatural monster on a leash."
Dean rolled his eyes. That was the last thing they needed.
"I can't understand people. You know what's out there, and this is what you do with it?"
Sam shrugged powering off his laptop.
"It takes all sorts, I suppose."
He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. Dean cast him a measuring look.
"You going to sleep now?" he asked cautiously.
Sam didn't bother opening his eyes.
"I'm beat, man. Why? You want me to drive?"
"Oh I'm definitely going to let you drive my car when you're half-asleep," Dean quipped. "What's the worst that could happen? You crash her, car gets ruined, I tear you limb from limb."
Sam huffed.
"Sure you will, Dean."
Sam knew him too well, Dean thought, slightly irritated. At the same time, he seemed to have trouble deciphering this new Sam.
"It's just, you've been sleeping a lot lately."
"Sorry," Sam mumbled. "I didn't sleep much before, did I?...I mean…soulless me, didn't."
"He didn't sleep at all, actually. Unless you count…well, with other people."
Dean regretted saying that. Sam looked mortified.
"Well, whatever he did…I did, it tired the hell out of me now that I do have a soul."
"So that's why you're acting like you were bitten by a Tsetse fly."
Sam closed his eyes again. He was smiling slightly.
"Thanks for worrying, Dean," he mumbled, already half asleep.
Dean rolled his eyes.
"Shut up and go to sleep. You get girly when you're tired."
Since Sam was already dead to the world and there was no one else there to see him, Dean did not bother hiding his grin. He switched the music off and drove the rest of the way in silence, Sam sleeping by his side. Sometimes, he thought, that was as close to perfection as a Winchester could get.
As usual, first chapter is just to set the scene. I'm planning about 10 chapters but, you never know, there might be more.
Some notes:
-In Bringer of Terror, I had Sam given something that would trigger him to have visions of how people would die. He told Blair to stay away from the fountain at his university. This is a reference to a Sentinel episode in which the baddy drowns Blair in a fountain sorta killing him (temporarily, but that's a long story and I'll touch more on that later, just as I'll touch on how Blair and Jim got over the conundrums left undealt with after the show finale).
-I really understood Bobby's reluctance to be around Sam after Sam was re-souled and I think Dean kinda understood too, but I'm sure Sam would have been his first priority, so he'd probably want to keep Sam busy and away from Bobby while Bobby's processing everything. This tracks with the beginning of Unforgiven, since at end of the previous episode they're at Bobby's, but at the start of Unforgiven they're in some motel room. So this is me filling the gaps in between.
