A/N: Holy cow, guys, this is the first real chapter of Tuesday's Child. So, lets see, lots of notes. First of all, as far as formatting goes, if any of you follow my other two AU's, you'll notice I am using a similar story structure in regards to the prologue, but it's worked fairly well in ATPM, so why knock a good thing? So the italic portion of the earliest chapters will all be prologue, just FYI. Now, my Mom is still in ICU, which is messing up my updating schedule some, but the game plan for this story is for it to update every other Tuesday until Prisoner of War wraps up, then Tuesday's child will move into it's spot in the update schedule.
In this story, my inner Whovian will come out on occasion, especially in reference to the changed time lines. As I consider Doctor Who canon for anything time-travel related, I just thought you should know. The Doctor obviously doesn't make an appearance, but if you watch the show (and you totally should) you'll recognize some of the science and theory I am using.
Last but not least.
Yes, Sam has a nick name for a while in this story. In my experience, readers tend to dislike when characters don't use their own names, and I promise, about one third of the way through, Sam will be using his own name, but it really only made sense that Gabriel would not have hidden Sam and then used his real name most of the time. No matter which way I worked it, I just couldn't imagine him using it when both heaven and hell were searching for them. So please, bear with me.
Reviews are love, and feedback would be really helpful, as I am still fleshing this story out.
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. Mine is shaped like a turtle.
Tuesday's Child – Chapter Two
"Familiar Stranger"
Gabriel studied the tiny child in front of him and sighed. When he'd come up with his plan originally, he'd had some very definite ideas as for the raising of Sam Winchester. Gabe would make sure Sam received an adequate education, so that Sam's natural intelligence would be fostered. He'd see that he received the best training possible (for a human) in regards to self defense, strategy, and hand to hand combat. He'd learn the old stories ( and not from some King's version of the so-called Bible).
He'd used his powers (And his little brother's idea from the alternate time line) to mark the infants ribcage with both anti-possession wards and angel wards. The child was effectively invisible.
And when the time came, Sam Winchester would be ready to stop the apocalypse.
Of course, of Gabriel's plans for Sam Winchester had started (in Gabe's head, anyway) when the child was old enough to be properly trained.
The youngest years had always been a vague outline in Gabe's mind. He knew humans took several years to get on their feet, so to speak.
He was also aware that human infants were much more high maintenance than their animal counterparts. However, Gabe had observed (both in real life and on TV) enough children and their caregivers to feel confident that he could use his powers to recreate an adequate approximation to care for the child until he was old enough to be interesting.
He looked down again at the insistent tugging on his pant's leg.
"Book." The boy's wide eyes looked up at Gabe pleadingly, tears already starting to tumble from long, dark lashes. The child had only been with Gabe for a few months, and already he was forcing Gabe to re-evaluate his plans.
What he hadn't counted was that Sam Winchester was no ordinary child.
The product of two rather incredible bloodlines (for humans, anyway), Sam Winchester had been brilliant even before Azazel's interference. Add in a healthy dose of demon blood, and the fact that Sam had become what amounted to the fixed starting point in a whole new reality/time line, and Gabe could no longer be sure what aspect's of Sam's unusual personality were natural or simply the natural evolution of the child who would either save the world-or break it.
At nine months, Sam could already say more than a dozen words. While he wasn't walking yet, Gabe was certain it would happen at any time. He seemed more aware than any infant had a right to be.
And he saw right through Gabe's creations.
Most of the time, the fairly content child would allow Gabe's facsimiles to care for him, feed him and bath him and such the like.
But when he was hurt or sick or tired or bored, he would have nothing to do with them.
Instead, the stubborn little duck had latched onto him, imprinting on Gabe with a ferocious tenacity.
"BOOK!" The child insisted again,and Gabe sighed, scooping him up in his arms.
"Okay. One more time, kid." Gabe settled into a chair that materialized almost as soon as he thought of it.
"Book." The child sighed happily.
"Perhaps that's what I should call you." He said musingly, brushing the child's dark hair out of his eyes. He couldn't really go around calling him Sam. While a common enough name, Witpro worked because you didn't take stupid chances.
"Book." The child repeated, shoving the board book up into Gabe's face.
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"Book." The childhood nickname fell easily from the her lips as Anna sighed heavily into the other end of the phone line. "Are you sure you really want to do this? After everything Gabe did...I mean, once you set this in motion, you can't undo it.
"I have to, Anna. If I don't, he'll die." The tall young man replied from where he stood in the parking lot outside the rough-looking bar.
"You know I have your back, Book. Hell or high water. I'll keep my ears open, I'm betting the chatter get's hella loud after this." She sighed again, chewing her bottom lip. "Does Gabe know?"
"Yeah, Anna. That's what we fought over a few weeks back. He wants me to keep hiding, but the demons have upped their game. Innocent people are going to start dying because of me."
"Look, just be careful. I'll be around, and, you know, he'd come if you just call." Anna said resignedly.
"I'll be careful, Anna. I mean, as careful as we know how to be." The young man said wryly
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The blonde stood, wiping down the counter as she studied the hunter from across the bar.
The man looked up, across the pool table, calculating green eyes locked on his opponent as he grinned a devil-may-care grin.
For all his good looks and talents, for all his charm and abilities, something about Dean Winchester was just...off.
It wasn't the first time she'd pondered the problem. They'd practically grown up in each others pockets after a demon had killed his mother and a black dog had killed her father. Their surviving parents had never gotten over the loss of their spouses, but neither had they been able to pull away from the hunter lifestyle.
Dean and Jo had been thrown together for several months out of every year as his father, John had alternated between using her mother's bar, the Roadhouse, as a home base of sorts, along with Singer Salvage, a salvage yard run by a hunter named Bobby Singer up in South Dakota. Bobby's place was a known safe house for hunters, and Dean had spent his childhood mainly at one place or the other.
So she'd literally known Dean since she'd been in diapers, could tell you what drink he'd order, call the shot's at the pool table before he'd even lined them up. She knew what kind of grades he got in school (when he bothered to go), where most of the scars on his body came from, even what kind of food he preferred.
But for all that, she often felt like he was nothing more than familiar stranger.
There was a distance in his eyes, a coolness, like he was looking at you and finding you lacking. He had a way of looking at your with his sarcastic charm smile, and you felt like he was seeing through you, like you were lacking, somehow.
He went through things quickly, hunts, booze, women. He was like a shark, always moving forward, always looking for whoever or whatever came next.
He wasn't a bad person, far from it, though he could be a first class asshole. He'd help anyone, had saved numerous lives in his career as a hunter. But sometimes she wondered if he even understood why he was doing it, like he was reading a script and acting a part.
It was as if, for all his bravado and loud personality, somewhere inside, Dean Winchester was...empty.
Like he was searching for something, like maybe he had been searching for something his entire life.
She glanced up as a customer she'd never seen before came in.
He was tall, she'd give him that. Young, too, though she'd seen younger. He had a boyish face, but they way he moved, like he was comfortable in his own skin, convinced her that he knew exactly what he was doing.
He sat down by himself at a table, slouching a little and pulling a worn paperback out of his back pocket.
She saw some of the older men eying him and hoped the other hunters wouldn't give him trouble. Sometimes the more seasoned hunters liked to heckle the younger ones, but she had a feeling this one wouldn't play ball. Something about him gave the impression that he was the mountain that ignored the monsoon, to quote her mother.
She walked over with her order pad, tugging a piece of blonde hair behind her ear as she walked.
"What can I getcha?" She asked, taking the opportunity to study the guy a little closer. She guessed he was just a few years older than her, with shaggy brown hair and eyes that were truly hazel, blue and brown and green and gray all at once. Unless she missed her guess, he was also packing a least three blades, but she couldn't discern where he was carrying his gun.
Weird, for a hunter.
He looked up and smiled, and Jo had a sudden flashback to the time she'd found a puppy in the ditch outside the bar as a child. She felt the need to run and ask Ellen if she could please keep him.
"Whiskey, neat. And a glass of water, please." The boy said politely.
"Sure. Anything to eat?" She said.
"No, thank you." The boy answered again with a politeness that should have made him seem younger, but somehow managed not to diminish hes presence at all.
"You got it." She said, snapping her order pad shut as the boy resumed reading. She was turning to walk back to the bar for his drink when she saw Harold, one of the older (and not very good, in her opinion) hunters approach.
"Jo, baby doll" Harold sniggered and she gritted her teeth. "You better card the kid before you serve him. Hate to see him spill good whiskey on his bedtime story."
"Take the drama back to your table, Harold." She said curtly.
The young man had chosen to studiously ignore Harold, not the tense, 'I'm ignoring you' kind of ignoring, more like 'I genuinely aren't even paying enough attention to you to realize I should bother to ignore you,' ignoring, and while it was impressive, Jo could tell it irritated Harold, and she sighed.
She was going to end up shooting his ass full of buckshot tonight, she just knew it.
"Hey!" Harold had come to stand in front of the young man, who had continued to read his book. "I'm talking to you!"
The young man sighed, folding down a corner to mark his page.
Closing his book, he looked up patiently. "No, you were talking about me, which actually didn't require my input at all. Now, you are talking to me, so I am replying. How may I assist you, sir?" He said the 'sir' in a way that had Jo biting her lip to keep from grinning even as she started backing nearer to the rack where they kept the shotgun.
"You can't talk to me like that!" Harold pulled himself up to his full height ( which wasn't all that impressive, but again, just Jo's personal opinion).
The young man sighed again. "Well, everyone is entitled to their own opinion." He offered diplomatically.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Harold slammed his beer on the table, and the young man pulled back to avoid the back splash.
He stood, and Jo watched as Harold pulled back upon realizing just how tall the kid was.
"Ma'am, I think I'll take my drink at the bar." He said, looking at Jo.
"Don't walk away from me." Harold blustered, hand reaching an arm out for the young man, and Jo braced herself, because no hunter, no matter how young or how laid back, would allow another man to man handle him in a bar and something told her that this kid was no exception.
Harold's hand never made it, however, as another hand intercepted.
"Problem here, Jo?" Dean said easily, eyes flicking back in forth from the tall kid to Harold and back to the tall kid. From the way he was looking at the kid, Jo wondered if maybe he'd met him before.
The kid was staring back with equal intensity, and perhaps that was why he didn't notice Harold swing for him with the arm Dean hadn't caught.
Dean did, though, and Jo was reminded once again of just how fast his reflexes were. Within seconds, he hand Harold on his knees, arm wrenched behind his back.
"Back. Down." Dean said the words slowly, enunciating carefully.
The young man watched everything with eagle sharp-eyes. Pulling a twenty out of his wallet, he handed it to Jo.
"I think I'll just move along." He said with a quiet smile, and was out the door before Dean had even finished immobilizing Harold.
Dean looked up then, directly at Jo.
"Where'd the kid go?" He asked, and she pulled back, startled a little by the intensity of Dean's question.
She waved the twenty at him. "Out the door. Guess he didn't feel like drinking amongst assholes."
Dean scowled, wrenching Harold's arm up once more for good measure as the man howled.
"Stop causing shit on Jo's shifts." He muttered in the man's ear while Harold's cronies watched from their table, leery enough of Dean's temper to stay out the way.
With a muttered curse, Dean let go of Harold's arm, stalking out the front doors. Curious, Jo followed him outside.
The parking lot was already empty, and Dean turned to look at her.
"What was he driving?" He asked, looking around again.
She shrugged. "How would I know? Why do you even care?" She said, confused. It wasn't like Dean to get involved, and even though he had warned Harold about causing her problems, they both knew she could more than handle herself.
He shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Asshole shouldn't have been giving him shit. He wasn't hurting anyone." He mumbled, and she shot him a measuring look.
Interesting.
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Dean Winchester didn't do a lot of things.
He didn't do commitments. He didn't do roots. He didn't do long term relationships, or relationships of any sort other then the strictly carnal, strictly one-night sort.
He didn't particularly do friends. There was Bobby and Ellen, but they were more like an Uncle and an Aunt. And there was Jo, but she was more like a cousin. He cared about them, quite a bit in fact, but they weren't his friends.
Dean Winchester didn't have friends. In his line of work, he ended up lying to practically every person that he met, and the ones he told the truth to wished he hadn't.
Cassie had proven that.
No, Dean Winchester didn't do friends or relationships or holidays or home cooked meals. He didn't need it, either. He always had at least one foot out the door, and he liked it that way.
When he needed to ground himself, he'd head over to the Roadhouse. If Ellen couldn't kick his ass into shape, no one could. If he needed a respite, he'd head up to Singer Salvage. If he needed help on a hunt, he had dozens of hunters he could call on, just like they'd call him, the Winchesters had a reputation, after all.
Sometimes he even had a father, though John was distant even on his good days. Dean was used to John being gone for weeks, sometimes months. It wasn't that John didn't care, it was that John had that same driving need that Dean had to keep going, keep moving, keep hunting, only times about a thousand.
So Dean didn't sweat it.
Much.
But this time, John had gone dark over two months ago, with no calls to check in, and that was pushing it even for him. Dean had been down in New Orleans on his last hunt, and he'd decided to swing up through the Roadhouse, to check on Jo and Ellen and see if they'd heard from John either.
They hadn't, and though Dean was reluctant to admit it, he was starting to get worried.
Bobby and Pastor Jim hadn't heard from him either, though Bobby had said that the last he'd heard, John was in St. Paul, so Dean was toying with the idea of driving up that way to check on him as he lined up his next pool shot.
The Hunter he was playing was a fool if he thought Dean was drunk enough to lose this game, but a fool's money was as good as the next. At least at the Roadhouse, he didn't have to worry about getting jumped over a well played hustle, no one at the Roadhouse would hassle him, unlike the kid who'd come in a few minutes earlier and who was now making a valiant effort to ignore that idiot, Harold.
Personally, Dean would like nothing more than to see the moron Harold get eaten by a werewolf, but he didn't normally get involved in other hunters business. Anyone in the Roadhouse was likely to be a hunter, and anyone in the hunting business better be able to hold their own.
But something about this kid tugged at Dean's attention, though he wasn't sure why. The kid was tall, that was for sure. At six foot one, Dean could hardly be considered tiny, but this kid had an easy three inches one him. He was lanky, too, but Dean could tell he was in shape nonetheless.
He looked young, almost too young for the Roadhouse, but Dean knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be, besides, he'd met twelve year olds who could put a bullet in a werewolf's heart.
Hell, he'd been one.
Still.
Something about this kid. He had an open face and closed eyes, and Dean watched as Jo practically melted when he smiled at her awkwardly. He'd bet that smile got the kid laid more than any lines he could throw at a girl. Still, he didn't appear to be making a move on her, which was unusual in itself, as Jo was gorgeous.
Dean knew she had a crush on him, but he also knew better than to rock that boat.
He watched as the kid placed his order, and instinctively, his mind started cataloging the kid's features, trying to place his face, because Christ, the kid looked familiar and Dean couldn't figure out why for the life of him.
Dean shook his head again as his concentration faltered and he nearly missed his shot. When he looked up again, he could tell from the look on Jo's face that she was considering shooting someone, and his guess was Harold. The man was obviously drunk, nearly swaying as he did his best to antagonize the kid.
The kid remained unruffled, though Dean watched as he adjusted his stance minutely, and Dean's eyes narrowed as he realized that not only did this kid know how to fight, he was probably pretty damn good at it, too.
Jo was looking uncomfortable too, which meant she was feeling off her game, as she could usually handle a herd of wild buffalo.
Dean didn't even realize he'd walked over until he'd spoken out loud to Jo.
He tried to keep eyes on everyone, but again and again his eyes were drawn to the tall kid.
Dean had never seen eyes like that, every color and none, but his mind continued to insist that he did, indeed recognize the kid.
Maybe he was another hunter's son? Had he passed through the Roadhouse or Singer Salvage when he was younger, and that was why Dean though he remembered him? Children were unusual in the hunting community, but not unheard of, Dean and Jo were proof of that.
The kid watched Dean back just as intently, and Dean could've sworn that he was trying to place Dean's face also, the way he was studying him, feature by feature. Dean felt naked, like the kid had stripped away all the bullshit Dean wrapped himself up in and simply looked at him.
Dean hated it, and yet he couldn't look away from the kid either.
Dean's reaction was instinctive when Harold moved to jump the kid. Harold only even tried it because Ellen was out for the night, and not everyone there respected Jo the way they should.
By the time he had Harold on the floor crying for his mom, the kid was gone, as if he'd never been there at all. His feet moved out the door as Dean's eyes searched the lot. He looked over to Jo, but she was no help either, and Dean felt a curious sense of...something.
Disappointment, maybe? Unease, certainly, though he didn't know why. Try as he might, he couldn't place the kid, and neither could Jo, which was a good indicator that he didn't know him.
Reluctantly, he went back inside, but he couldn't settle back in. He couldn't keep his mind on his pool game, and in his opinion, there was no reason to play if you were going to play badly.
He considered hitting one of the bars closer to town and seeing if he could find some company for the night, but he felt to restless, like a caged wolf. Finally, as the last of the customer's trickled out, he called out to Jo.
"Jo, I'm heading out."
She stuck her head out the swing doors, frowning. "Thought you were staying the night, You find a hunt?"
He shook his head, frowning. "Nah. I think I'm gonna head north."
"St. Paul?" She guessed knowingly, and he shrugged.
If it turned out to be nothing, John would be furious, but Dean's gut told him to move, that he needed to be out, be gone, to drive...somewhere.
Anywhere.
It was time to move, and St. Paul was as good as anywhere else. John was probably fine, but Dean could think of no other reason why he felt so anxious unless it was worry for John, so he might as well bite the bullet and check on him.
He called out farewell's to Ash and shot Ellen a text that he was heading out. No one was particularly surprised, Dean never lingered long anyway.
Dean climbed into his baby, the gleaming black Impala shining in the light of the full moon. Dean usually tried to time the full moon with a werewolf hunt, since that was the only time he could catch one, but this month, no one had word on any, so he had headed to the Roadhouse.
Now, as he headed out onto the highway, he waited for his muscles to start relaxing, for the magic of the road to work it's way into the knots in his shoulders and stomach, the ones that grew over time, like clockwork, any time he stayed in one place for too long.
Tonight, though, even the road held no magic for him. Instead of relaxing, he became more and more tense with every mile. The kid from earlier kept flashing through his mind, his eyes and the way he'd looked the one time he'd smiled at Jo, and Dean wished like hell he knew why he felt like he should remember him.
Dean never even saw the eighteen wheeler, lights off as it seemingly drove out of no where, sending the Impala flying forward.
Dean had only a moment to be glad he'd worn his seat belt for once, before his head smacked into the driver's side window. The glass held up, but the impact sent pain slamming down Dean's head and neck.
The truck and the Impala came to a slow, screeching halt, and Dean blinked, trying to clear the blood out of his eyes.
He had a vague sense that this was bad, the truck hadn't just seemed to come out of nowhere, it really had, intersecting the road where Dean's car was to from the shoulder of the road, meaning it must have been driving off-road at the time.
That meant it was intentional, but his brain was foggy, his limbs heavy and leaden. His fingers worked clumsily at his belt, and he managed to open it after only a few tries. The door was next, and that was harder, but the driver of the truck was getting out now, and every one of Dean's hunter instincts was screaming at him to fight of flee.
The door opened suddenly, and he tumbled out, barely catching himself to ease his fall. His leg was throbbing, but he reached for his piece and gripped it nonetheless.
The older man walked towards Dean with a completely blank expression, and the hairs on Dean's arms stood at attention, because Dean knew a possession when he saw one.
Dean hadn't worked a demon case in months, though, so the attack made little sense.
It also meant he was royally screwed, because he knee was wrenched badly, and he was fairly certain he had a concussion.
And Demons were mean ass motherfuckers on a good day.
"Been looking for you for a while, Winchester." The man said matter-of-factly.
"Good to see you to." Dean muttered, trying to push himself up against the car and failing as his knee screamed in pain again.
"Hey!" The voice came from behind the trucker, and both his and Dean's eyes flew over to where it had come from.
It was the kid from earlier.
He stood on the hill, the moonlight behind him casting his face in shadow, but Dean recognized him anyway. He held a sliver blade in each hand, and Dean was now certain his earlier guess was right.
This kid knew his way around a weapon.
"Why don't you give me a try?" He asked, strolling forward, lightly, walking on the balls of his feet, an impressive feet for a person of his size.
"Stay out of this, trickster." The demon snarled, and Dean blinked in confusion.
Trickster?
"Where's the fun in that?" The boy asked, and then he sprang, silver blades glinting in the moonlight.
Dean struggled against unconsciousness as his vision faded, black stars dancing across his vision, growing larger and larger as he slid further down. He didn't realize he was losing time until suddenly the kid was kneeling in front of him.
"You okay?" The kid asked as he started a cursory field examination of Dean's injuries, his hands moving knowledgeably along Dean's limbs, checking for breaks and wounds.
"Guess you won." Dean mumbled.
The kid grinned a one-sided smile. "I'd say it was a draw. When he realized I wasn't such an easy target, he smoked out of there pretty quick.
"Owe you, one." Dean mumbled, eyes falling closed again.
"Think of it as a thank you for earlier." The kid said gently. Remotely, from what felt like a million miles away, Dean felt his fingers being closed over something smooth.
"What's that?" He said, blinking.
"I'm gonna loan this to you." The kid said again, and Dean raised his hand to stare at the shiny silver blade he now held.
"What is it?" He asked, looking back at the kid.
The kid half-smiled again. "Let's just say Demons aren't such a big fan of knives like this. Keep a good eye on it, they're hard to replace. The ambulance is on it's way. I gotta go, you'll be okay."
"Wait, what's your name?" Dean asked, tired of simply calling him 'the kid."
The kid looked at him. "My sister calls me Book." He offered finally.
Dean frowned. "What kind of crappy name is that?" He asked blearily.
Book shrugged. "It's kinda a long story."
Dean's eyes fell closed again, for only a moment, but when he opened them again, Book was gone.
"It's a stupid name." He muttered into the night, shoving the knife under the seat of his car as the wail of the ambulance's sirens grew closer.