Warnings: None that I can think of

1949

JP Richardson drove his father's brand new Chevy truck down the dusty roads outside of Sabine Pass. It was pitch black outside and he had not passed anyone in miles. It had been two years since he had graduated high school, and all the glitz and glamour that he thought was coming his way hadn't even shown up. He was working part time at the radio station, but there was no sign that he was going any farther than that. Nothing was turning out the way he wanted it.

He had heard from a friend, who had heard from a friend, about Robert Johnson. While he didn't believe that he could actually sell his soul for talent, part of him had been itching to try it since his friend put the idea in his head. He had found a dirty old book when him and his friend had broken into the "witches land" once. It talked about selling your soul and the ingredients you needed. While he had some of them, the other he didn't know where to find.

"I know this isn't real." JP said to himself as he parked the truck on the side of the road at the crossroads. "This isn't real. Nothing is going to happen." But he still got out of the truck with his coffee can containing the items he needed.. He buried it right in the middle of the crossroads and waiting, but nothing happened. "Knew it." He turned to leave, but almost ran into a man.

"Hello JP." The man said. JP stood there, confused.

"Who are you?" He asked. "How do you know me?"

"I know a lot about you." He laughed. "As for who I am? My name is Crowley."

"Uh huh." JP said, staring at him. "What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Well, you tell me. You called me." He smiled, his eyes glowing red. JP gasped and stepped back. "Now, now, now. Don't tell me you're upset I'm not some pretty woman in a tight dress. I mean, I could put on a dress. It just won't be as flattering."

"I should go." JP said, turning to leave. Crowley spoke up then.

"I can get you the head position at the radio station." Crowley said. JP froze and turned to look at him. "I can make you rich. Talented. Anything you want."

"Just like Robert Johnson?" JP asked. Crowley laughed some.

"He wasn't one of my projects, but yes." He said. "All you have to do is agree."

"And what do you get from it?" JP asked.

"Sometime in the future, I will come for what I want. For now, I just want to sit back and watch you reap your rewards. That is all." Crowley said innocently. "Come on JP. It could be all that you ever wanted."

"Okay." JP said after a couple moments. "What's the worse that can happen?"

"That's the spirit." Crowley took a step towards him.

"So, how do we do this? Do I need to sign something? Shake hands?" JP asked. Crowley smirked.

"Not quite. I seal my deals in a different way." Crowley got closer to JP.

"Oh. Oh!" JP closed his eyes and pretended he was kissing Betty Hart from his math class. As soon as it was over, Crowley was gone, leaving JP standing in the middle of the crossroads. Only the crickets and the stars knew what he had done.

But the next morning, he was offered a full time position at KTRM.

Present

"There's no way." Dean said. "The only celebrity ghosts we ever fight are serial killers. There's no way that this is really Ritchie Valens." The ghost in front of him flickered, like it was mad at the words Dean had just uttered.

"I think you're pissing him off." Sam warned. Dean looked at the ghost.

"Can you understand me?" Dean asked.

"Of course I can." The ghost said. "Now, the question is, can you understand me." Dean turned back to look at Sam before looking at the ghost. "And yes, I am Ritchie Valens."

"Were you the one who killed those people?" Sam asked. Ritchie turned away from the Winchester's then, closing his eyes. "Why?"

"I didn't mean to." He said.

"Yeah, they all say that. But you still killed three people." Dean pointed out. Which didn't help the situation much, because Ritchie threw a whole stack of pamphlets across the room.

"It was an accident!" Ritchie yelled. "I just want someone to help me!"

"Help? Help with what?" Sam asked.

"I've never been able to leave Clear Lake." Ritchie explained. "I know I'm dead. I know what happened to me and the other two. And I've been wanting to move on. I just want to see Donna again."

"Why can't you?" Dean asked.

"I don't know!" Ritchie was upset and the temperature had dropped in the museum. "I just want to go home!"

"Just relax." Sam said, trying to calm the upset musician. "You said you needed help."

"I tried to communicate to people. To talk to them. But it's like I'm speaking Spanish to them. Or I am talking but they can't hear what I'm saying. And I just get so angry! I never meant to hurt anyone!"

"We're going to try to help you, okay?" Dean said. He looked at Sam. "Is there anything that could be tying him here?"

"He died here, Dean." Sam said. "And you call yourself a music buff."

"Well, I am so sorry." Dean rolled his eyes. Dean looked back at Ritchie. "We're going to figure this out."

Ritchie tried to respond, but, no sound came out. Then he disappeared in a flash. Sam and Dean looked at each other. "Must have drained his batteries or something."

"Let's look around here. See if anything of his could be tying him down." Sam said. The boys split up, walking around the museum. They let their flashlights slice through the dark. Nothing seemed to jump out at them.

"Dean." Sam said a little bit later. Dean made his way over to Sam, where he had his flashlight pointed at a glass case. Dean turned to look, seeing a guitar behind the glass. "Think this could be it."

"Yeah, should be." Dean reached into the bag he had and grabbed a crowbar. He slammed into into the glass case. Sam reached in to get the guitar. Ritchie appeared then, his eyes wide. He was waving frantically, making Dean look at him. "Relax. We got this. You'll be with Donna soon." But Ritchie was still obviously upset. And that's when a crash behind Dean turned his attention back to Sam, who wasn't there.

"Sammy?" Dean asked. He saw the guitar laying on the ground, crushed to pieces from the impact with the concrete floor. Dean turned around in a circle. "Sam!"

"He got him." Ritchie finally said. "He was right here. He got him."

"Who? Who got him?" Dean asked. Ritchie flickered, obviously distraught. "Ritchie!"

"The demon who killed me." Ritchie explained. "He killed Buddy and he killed JP and me." Dean just stared at the ghost. And then he disappeared, leaving Dean with no answers.

And no brother.

Sam laid on the cold ground, groaning in pain as he came to. His head was pounding. He opened his eyes, blinking. He had expected to see Dean towering over him, worry on his face. But he didn't see his brother anywhere. In fact, there wasn't even a ceiling over him. Sam pushed himself to his feet and looked around. This sure didn't look like Iowa, or at least the part he had been in.

"What the hell?" Sam asked himself, looking around. He spied a building in the distance. There were a couple old cars sitting out in front of it, shining brightly in the sun. He could see some kids running around while their parents watched. He thought it was a car show, but why were the women that were there wearing dresses that looked like they had came straight out of Grease?

He made his way towards the building, his head spinning a little. A couple of the women that were sitting on benches watching their kids stopped their chatting when they saw him. He was a sight to be seen. Long, shaggy hair. Dusty clothes. He looked like he had just gotten off his motorcycle or something. He made his way to the building, surprised to see it was a visitors center. A water fountain was the first thing he went to, gulping down mouthfuls of water.

Once his mouth didn't feel like it had a mound of dirt in it, Sam made his way over to the visitors center. There were plenty of brochures on things to do…in Lubbock, Texas?

"What the hell?" Sam mumbled again, grabbing one of the brochures and reading it. The font and everything screamed 1950's. "Oh god, I time travelled, didn't I?" He groaned and rubbed his head. That's when the sound of a short burst from a police siren reached his ears and Sam knew he had even more trouble.

"Do you realize that this is a public park?" The cop asked, walking up to Sam. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Uh, no?" Sam asked. The cop squinted at him.

"Son, just how drunk are you?" He asked. Sam was about to argue, saying he wasn't drunk, when another man came up and place a hand on his arm.

"Thank you officer. This is my cousin and he gets confused sometimes." The man said. The cop rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, sure. Just keep a better eye on him Jennings. I would hate to put him in the drunk tank." With that, the cop turned and left. He really didn't feel like doing his job today. He just wanted to relax.

"Thank god. That man is an asshole." The other man laughed.

"Thank you?" Sam said, a little unsure.

"Don't mention it. I know how it feels to drink so much that you don't know where you are." He laughed. "I'm Waylon by the way. Waylon Jennings." He offered his hand for Sam to shake it. Sam stared for a second before shaking his hand.

"Sam Winchester." Sam said. He knew that this wasn't his time. Just that feeling in his gut. So he didn't feel as worried about using his real name. Plus, it's a little hard to think of something when the man you just used for a fake ID was standing right in front of you.

"Where are you from Sam?" Waylon asked. "Judging by the hair and clothes, I would say it's not Texas." He scanned him up and down. "You're one of them beachheads from California, aren't you?"

"Guilty." Sam said. Waylon laughed.

"What brings you to Texas?" He asked. They started walking, heading towards where Waylon's car was parked. Sam didn't know why he was going with him. Every hunter instinct was telling him to hide in the shadows. But this was Waylon Jennings. He had grown up to his music playing on a radio in Bobby's kitchen while he helped him make chili.

"I'm really not sure." Sam said. "Guess I'll just be passing through." Waylon looked Sam up and down.

"You look like a drifter that has watched one too many John Wayne movies." Waylon said with a laugh. He opened up his car door and took out a flask. He took a quick swig of it. "Want some of this? Might help if you got a hangover. My brothers always said a little hair of the dog never hurt anyone." Sam took it and sipped. It tasted a little watered down. Waylon seemed satisfied though when Sam handed him the flask back. "You hold your liquor well."

"Thanks?" Sam asked. Waylon motioned to his car.

"Need a ride somewhere? I can take you into town and you can see about getting yourself something to eat."

"I…" Sam paused when he glanced in the car. Carved into a piece of the wood grain inside the car was something that Sam recognized after a second. One of the sigils of Solomon. Sam turned to look at Waylon, his eyes wide. "That flask was silver wasn't it."

"Yeah. So?" He asked.

"And there was holy water in the whiskey." Sam added. Waylon stayed silent this time. "Oh my god, you're a hunter, aren't you?"

"I mean I-I hunt deer and stuff occasionally." Waylon said. Sam shook his head.

"You know what I'm talking about." Sam told him. Waylon sighed.

"Well, I know you're not a monster." Waylon said. "So you're a hunter Sam?"

"And a member of the Men of Letters." Sam added. Waylon rolled his eyes.

"Stuck up bunch if you ask me." He said. "I met this one few years ago named Henry or something. He was down here on some sort of mission. He needed help pulling that stick out of his ass."

"Henry Winchester?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, sounds about right." Waylon motioned for Sam to get in the car.

"That's my grandfather." Sam said without thinking. Waylon froze.

"He's only in his thirties." He said. Sam was mentally kicking himself. Waylon stared at him. "Where did you say you were from again?"

"Uh…" Sam couldn't remember. Whatever had happened to him back at the museum had taken away from of his short term memory. Everything felt fuzzy. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a concussion. Sam's phone fell from his pocket then. Waylon picked it up.

"What the hell is this?" Waylon asked, flipping the device in his hand. "Is it like a CB or something?" Sam reached out to grab it, but Waylon hit the home button, lighting up the screen. "No service found...well, I'll be damned."

"What?" Sam asked.

"I've read about this. I just didn't know it was actually able to happen."

"What?" Sam asked again, more than a little confused.

"Time travel." He said. "I've read hunting journals. They talk about people ripped from their timelines, misplaced into others with no way of returning home. I just didn't know it was real until I met you." Sam was surprised that he was taking this all so well. Maybe it was just because he was off his game, or maybe he had been knocked out by whatever that was that attacked him when he grabbed Ritchie's guitar. "You're going to have to blend in while you stay here, ya know?"

"Um, yeah I kind of figured. But I doubt I'll be here for long." Sam said. "By the way, where is here?"

"Welcome to Lubbock, Texas. 1958."

"1958?" Sam asked. Waylon nodded. "God, Dean is going to love this when I get back."

"Remember what I said Sam? I've never read of anyone returning home. As far as I know, there's no way to." Sam stayed silent. "But don't you worry. I have the perfect person for you to meet. Him and his wife will help you blend in. Promise."