A/N: Yay! Chapter three, three days early! Go RAVENSGAME!
Okay. So, moving a little slow here but I'm still laying some ground work. What I love about this story the most is that I am finally writing a story where John Winchester isn't going to be a total ass hat. I don't try to write those kind of stories, they just seem to go that way. But I already know for a fact, that despite how distant he seems at first, he's going to be awesome. Super super fun.
So... Prisoner of War updated this afternoon, and All The Pretty Monsters updated a few hours later, so lots and lots for everyone to read and enjoy. Reviews are love, as I am still fleshing out these characters, so please just hit that little button and leave your thoughts. New stories are kinda ambiguous at first, and I want everyone to have fun with this one. Getting Dean and Sam established, then I can work in Anna, Jo, and of course, our favorite arch angel.
REVIEWS ARE LOVE!
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Tuesday's Child – Chapter Three
"The Things We Lost In The Fire"
John felt like he was going insane.
Sammy was gone. Not just vanished, not just taken.
Gone.
Gone, as if he had never been there in the first place, had never existed, never been born.
John could still remember with stomach wrenching fear and pain the way the firefighters had looked at him after they had put out the fire in the house.
He had been shell shocked, mind reeling, full of thoughts of Mary-Sammy-Mary-Sammy and for some reason, the part of his brain in charge of walking and talking speaking to other adults as if he had a clue as to what was going on had said, out of the blue "What shape is the nursery in?"
The two fire fighters had glanced at each other worriedly, before one of them kindly said, "Sir, I know this much have been a great shock. We found your wife's body in the study."
In disbelief, John had run up the stairs, not even heeding the shouted warnings from the fire fighters.
Sam's nursery, with it's white curtains and Noah's ark pictures were gone, as were his clothes, and his crib. His stuffed animals were gone, and so was the play pen from the living room.
Instead, the room which only hours ago had been his youngest son's bedroom was a study, just as the fire fighters had said, with a standard oak desk, and a handful of bookshelves. A framed family portrait hung on the wall by the door, miraculously having survived the flames, and John's legs had actually started to give out on him when he recognized it.
Mary had hung it up only two days ago. The picture had been taken at the local pumpkin patch, and John could still remember posing for it, as he had held up a laughing Dean, triumphant with his miniature pumpkin, and Mary had smiled as she shaded Sammy's eyes from the bright sunlight.
But in this picture, John and Mary were standing, both leaning in towards a grinning Dean.
Sammy was no where to be seen.
It was as if Sammy had never even lived their at all.
That was really the first glimpse John had of just how drastically his life had changed in those few moments, as his wife burned along with his house, and someone, or something had stolen his child. He had looked, bewildered, at the two soot stained men, clutching Dean in one arm, and the soot stained blue blanket in the other.
And Sammy was just...gone.
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Sam got off the bus at the Lily Dale terminal, hitching his pack up higher on his shoulders. He could have driven, he supposed, he certainly knew how to steal a car.
Or he could have hustled some cash through means of his own. Anna probably had money on her too, Gabe always kept her well supplied and she wouldn't hesitate to wire it to him.
But Sam had taken up wandering a few years back, and found it suited him, drifting from place to place, or library to library as Anna would say.
Gabe had made sure that Sam was a savvy traveler, and Sam had been all over the world. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps the constant running and moving had instilled a restless wander lust in Sam that made it hard to keep still, even when Gabe deemed it safe to stay for a while.
Or perhaps it was Sam's memories of the other time line, his other life with Dean and John that drove him forward, much the way they had lived out of the Impala that Sam had stared at for a long moment in the Roadhouse parking lot a few nights back.
Sam's memories of that other life were incomplete, fragmented and a little disjointed, distant in a way, as if they belonged to someone else, which Gabe said was for the best.
Even Gabe, with all the powers inherent in an arch angel, had limited ability to remember the other time line. Gabe explained that it was a protective measure, designed to protect Sam's mind against the damage having lived two entirely separate lives could inflict on a human brain, even one as extraordinary as Sam's.
What Sam mostly remembered were people, Dean and John and Bobby and a few others. He'd remembered the green of Dean's eyes, and the way he smelled of gun powder and leather. And he'd remembered John's voice, the deep, authoritative timber that had somehow always equated safety in other Sam's mind.
He remembered events too, good and bad, though some times he was hard pressed to tell the order the other events had happened in. Going to school, which he'd certainly never done in this life time, and hunting, of course. Stanford, bright and dim and fractured, interspersed with memories of a laughing blonde girl that his memory called 'Jess.'
And sometimes, he remembered stupid little things, like the scent of the Impala's leather interior, the sound of her engine as they drove late at night, or the way Dean's amulet had shone in the sunlight against the black t-shirts Dean had always favored.
Combined with Sam's well honed psychic ability, and Sam was easily playing the game five or six moves ahead of just about everyone on the board, which was exactly what Gabe had always intended.
Until Gabe decided he cared more about Sam than stopping Lucifer.
A part of Sam had agreed with Gabe. The wanderlust was already instilled in him deeply, and most days nothing made him happier than wandering town to town, reading good books and meeting interesting people. He hunted, on occasion, when he saw the need, but until now he'd always been careful to avoid other hunters.
Then, several months back, Sam had had a powerful vision, of Dean being killed by a demon. The vision had returned, over and over until Sam practically saw it every time he closed his eyes.
He knew he had to stop it.
A part of him, the part that had started remembering Dean years ago, when he was too young to realize that not every child had two lives and imaginary playmates made real by a magical guardian, had always wanted to seek Dean out, to see him, here him talk, see if Dean recognized him.
Another part of Sam had held back however, afraid Dean wouldn't recognize him, wouldn't care about him. He knew Gabe had made Dean forget for his own good, and from he remembered from his other life, that might have been the best thing for Dean, since Sam was pretty sure that his other self had pretty much ruined other Dean's life.
Becuase, unfortunately, Sam remembered as much of the dark things as he did the good. He knew he had been an addict, and a piss poor hunter. He knew he had allowed Dean to go to hell for him, and that he had unintentionally let Lucifer out of the cage.
Other Sam hadn't just been selfish and foolish, he'd been dangerous, so dangerous that Gabe had been forced to undo an entire time line to prevent Sam from destroying the world.
Gabe had never said this to Sam in so many words, on the contrary, he was always adamant that Sam had been well intentioned, simply used and misled, but Sam remembered the truth.
Sam had broken the world.
So he had locked away the urge to seek Dean out, choosing to believe Gabe when Gabe said that this was the only way to protect Dean from the angels and the demons. Sam was the master key to the whole plan, and Dean was useless to them without him. Keeping hidden had kept Dean safe.
Until now.
However well he had hid it, Sam had been a wreck when he entered the Roadhouse. Dean had been there, playing pool, and the sight of him had brought forth a flood of memories from a life that had now never happened. A part of Sam had been desperate to go over and hug Dean, to hear his voice and find out once and for all if he really smelled like Sam remembered in his dreams. He had been wanting to do that very thing for twenty two years, but he had known he couldn't.
He had come to save his brother's life, and then get the hell out of it, before he ruined it all over again.
He stepped into the cafe on the pretty main street of Lily Dale, reaching out psychically, curious to see how many others in the famed town of psychics were shooting with loaded guns, so to speak.
Quite a few had a low buzz of power to them, but honestly, Sam could have said the same about the Roadhouse, as hunters often developed keen instincts nearly as good as psychic ability.
Well, at least no one here was a danger to him. He read a few interesting articles about some deaths here, and he knew that hunters usually avoided the town like the plague.
This should be a good way to take his mind off the brother who wasn't his brother anymore.
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"And he said his name was what?" Bobby asked doubtfully as he watched Dean work through the stretches the physical therapist had assigned him upon release from the hospital yesterday morning.
Dean was almost back to one hundred percent, not counting his knee, and had refused to remain at the hospital any longer.
"Book." Dean said, looking up from the floor, where he was stretching out his good leg.
The Doctor had said it was important to make sure his other leg didn't get overtaxed while it was compensating for the injured one, and the last thing Dean needed was two bum legs.
"Book. What the hell kinda name is that?" Bobby asked incredulously.
Dean shrugged. "He said it was a long story."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "He said it was a...and was this before or after he took on the crazy, demon possessed trucker?"
"Definitely after." Dean asserted, heaving himself up.
"And then he just...gave you that shiny new party favor, a knife that just happens to scare off demons?" Bobby shook his head. "Sounds crazy to me, boy."
"Dingo ate my baby crazy." Dean agreed, drawing the blade from the small of his back, where he'd adjusted his holster to hold it also.
"But I didn't exactly imagine this, did I?" He said, giving it over to Bobby to examine.
Bobby turned the dagger over in his hands, looking at it appraisingly.
It was surprisingly light, made entirely out of a solid, bright silver metal that as far as Dean could tell, looked an awful lot like platinum. It bore no markings, and was keenly sharp. When it lay against his back in his holster, it seemed to warm to the temperature of his skin, and he tended to forget about it unless he wanted it for some purpose, like now.
"Could be a trick of some sort, a trap maybe." Bobby offered.
"No. No way." Dean said firmly, no realizing how definite his voice had gotten until Bobby had glanced up at him with narrowed eyes and a questioning brow.
Dean squirmed, unsure of how to frame his thoughts into words without sounding insane to the older hunter.
"The kid seemed genuine, that's all. He's obviously a hunter, that's why he was at the Roadhouse." Dean finally offered lamely.
"And why was he at the site of your attack?" Bobby asked pointedly.
"The demon was tracking me, that's what it said, anyway. Maybe the kid was tracking it. Maybe his family specializes in demons, maybe they make those knives themselves." Dean added defensively, unsure of why he was so protective of Book and his motivations. He'd never met the kid before, after all.
He was almost a hundred percent sure.
Almost.
He had just genuinely seemed like...he had cared that Dean was okay.
And three days later, Dean still hadn't shaken that nagging sense of familiarity he'd had whenever he'd looked at the kid.
Weird as it was, Dean was just sure the kid was...good.
And wasn't that about as Hallmark as an anniversary card?
Bobby snorted. "And maybe I'm Mother Teresa. Think what you want, Dean, but it's shady as hell, and Ellen or your Daddy would tell you the same thing."
"Yeah, well, Dad can say whatever the hell he wants when he starts bothering to answer the phone." Dean snapped, then closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a calming breath.
"Sorry Bobby." He said wryly.
Bobby just shook his head. "Idjit. You got enough on your plate with your Daddy and the demon fan club you've suddenly acquired. I wouldn't worry about this 'Book' character. If your lucky, you'll never see him again."
Dean frowned at the surprising sense of loss he felt at Bobby's words. "Yeah. Probably. So, you think it's useless to head up to St. Paul?"
Bobby nodded. "Caleb and Pastor Jim already checked it out. Your daddy's room was cleaned out, he was long gone. But..." Bobby walked over to his desk and rummaged through it until he pulled out a clipped news article. "I hear Florida is nice this time of year."
Dean took the article, skimming through it quickly, frowning when he realized what town it mentioned.
"Oh come on, Bobby, Lily Dale? That town has more fruit loops than the cereal aisle at the grocery store. None of those psychics are real!"
"You don't gotta tell me, boy. But so far, what they do have is two very real bodies, and some very freaked out witnesses that saw some strange things." Bobby said with a frown.
"I still got work to do on the Impala." Dean pointed out hopefully, but Bobby just raised an unamused brow.
"Boy, the frame on that old girl is twisted like a pretzel. I know your devoted, and I promised to help, but you can't even start on the body work until I get the frame straightened out, and the new parts come in. Here." Bobby tossed Dean a set of keys, that Dean caught easily.
"Take my other pick up. She ain't as pretty as your ride, but she's solid." Bobby said with laughing eyes as Dean grimaced.
"Leave that knife here, and I'll hit the books, see if I can find any info on a demon killing blade." Bobby offered.
Dean hesitated, surprisingly unwilling to part with the blade Bobby was holding.
"Uh, if it's all the same, Bobby, I think I'll take it. Say what you want about the kid, but he knew what he was doing, and nothing I have works on demons." He said, reaching out for the knife, grasping it quickly and tucking it back into it's holster.
Almost immediately, he began to feel a little better.
"Suit yourself, Dean. Go get your stuff then. Dead fake psychics are just as much a problem as dead real ones." Bobby replied, watching Dean with concerned eyes.
"This blows." Dean muttered as headed to his room for his duffel.
Freaking Lily Dale, of all places. If there was one real psychic in that whole damn town, Dean would give up pie for a freaking month.