AN: Happy Pakjesavond (December 5)! In our house, it's the day each person gets a chocolate letter of their first name. Why? I don't know, but it's something my grandparents did, so it must be a Dutch tradition.
I'm glad people have found this story despite some hiccoughs with the site/app. Check your settings to make sure notifications are turned on. Apparantly it's going to default to "off" every few months now. I know it's taking a while to get into the meat of the story, but as usual, I love the OCs who take on a life all their own, so we get more Foster.
It also makes me happy that so many of you also love the Baby ep.
Thanks to Janice, the ever fabulous beta who makes all of my stories so much better!
* * *
There is nothing insignificant in the world. It all depends on the point of view.
Long before he was interested in getting up, Dean was awoken by a confident knock on the door. Tired or not, he had his gun pulled before his eyes were completely open.
"Breakfast will be ready in Owen's house in an hour," called an unfamiliar woman's voice through the door in a no-nonsense tone. "Plenty for you if you want, but no leftovers if you're late."
"Thanks," called Sam from the other bed. He hadn't drawn his gun, but he had a hand on it. His hair was unusually calm for first thing in the morning, meaning he'd actually slept pretty well despite the foreign surroundings and the many pains he had to have.
When the woman didn't say anything else or make any further noise, Dean got up and peeked out the window, seeing the back of a short, dark-haired woman walking into the woods toward Foster's cabin. There were a pair of very large dogs walking with her.
"I assume 'Owen' is Foster," he said, walking back to his bed and setting the gun down. "Get movin'. I want breakfast." He was stiff and sore all over, but the sleep had definitely done him some good. He'd like a long soak in a hot tub and a massage from a beautiful woman, but having a decent bed to sleep in and the promise of a potentially home-cooked breakfast were reasonable substitutes.
They were easily showered and dressed and driving up to Foster's cabin before their time was up despite the fact that neither was moving with his normal ease. "I smell bacon. And sausage," Dean announced almost reverently as they got out of the car.
There were at least half a dozen wolfhounds eating from bowls not far from the cabin, but they didn't even look at Sam or Dean, much more interested in their breakfast. Dean wondered if they were lousy watchdogs or if the Winchesters had already been vetted to the canines.
Inside the house, Foster was seated at the little table and the woman, who was maybe ten years Dean's senior, was plating some steaming pancakes. The woman smiled at them, seemingly undaunted by their beat-up appearance or the fact that they each openly wore a gun.
"This is Marta, my daughter by marriage," Foster said gruffly without greeting them, but Dean noticed his face softened when he spoke her name. "She and her boys keep this place up so I can give soldiers like you two a place to crash when things are a little rough."
Dean nodded his understanding. Foster's words both explained why Marta wasn't fazed and warned that she wasn't aware of the supernatural. Hunters were often mistaken for war veterans and fit the role easily.
"It's much appreciated, ma'am." He said sincerely. "And breakfast smells wonderful." Sam echoed the sentiments.
Marta declined any help with the food, though she did sit and crowd in to eat with them, seeming at ease with two large, unshaven strangers. She didn't say much, but the pancakes were light and fluffy, the bacon was crisp, the sausage savory, and everything was plentiful. Sam and Dean both gushed over the food until Marta laughed and blushed and told them to be quiet and eat.
When she'd finished her own helping, Marta informed the three men that she couldn't come back until Saturday but had left a few meals in "Owen's" fridge for them. "If you bring your sheets and any other laundry you want me to do here Saturday, I'll bring it back on Sunday," she said to the brothers. She pooh-poohed their protests. "You're Owen's friends, and as far as I'm concerned, you're heroes. I don't mind helping out. I do not do dishes, however." She smiled again when she said the last, then excused herself.
"I don't ask her to come," grumbled Foster, a little defensively. "Woman just walks right in and gets to work even if I tell her that she does enough without looking after me." He seemed mildly embarrassed, like he should be able to do everything himself.
"Awesome," said Dean, licking syrup off his lips. "Since you got no choice, you might as well enjoy it!" He still felt sticky, so he wiped at his face with a napkin. "So, what do we owe you, how long can we stay, and where's the closest decent auto parts store?"
Foster studied them both for a moment. "Don't owe me nuthin'," he finally grunted. "I can't hunt, so this is what I do instead. I normally have guys do what they can to help – chop wood or grab supplies or whatever – but from what I understand, you boys've more than paid your dues."
Dean looked away and knew Sam was doing the same. They'd made so many mistakes that it was hard to accept thanks for the good they'd accomplished along the way.
"We –" Sam started, but Foster didn't let him continue.
"However, much as I'd like to give you two a chance to rest up, I think there's a hunt in Milton, a couple towns over." He was clearly reluctant to tell them about it. "I ain't got any Hunter contacts in this part of the world right now, not even close, and I wouldn't ask with you two so beat up, but...one o' Marta's boys has got some friends in the area. I don't want the kids gettin' hurt."
Dean made a scoffing noise and pushed his chair back enough that he could actually stretch out his legs. "Beat up? Nah, we're good." He thought about his poor car and hesitated even though the thought of another straight-up hunt without anything to do with the Darkness sounded great. "How far away?"
Foster smirked knowingly. "Forty miles or so. I got a car you can take, and you can order parts to be delivered here. There's an old barn you can park in, and I swear to you nobody will touch that car. I remember John bein' awful attached to it too."
"She isn't just any car," Dean protested, though he thought Foster had a good point. They could order the parts they needed then sit on their asses waiting until they came, or they could do something good in the meanwhile. And whether it was the full belly, the decent (if short) night's sleep, the familiarity, or something else, Dean was starting to trust the guy.
"What's the case?" asked Sam, correctly reading Dean's willingness to accept the job.
Foster looked at them for another moment as if gauging their readiness to take on the task. He waved his hand toward the curtained-off corner of the cabin. "Get the pile of papers off the nightstand and bring 'em over," he ordered. Sam obeyed and brought over the mishmash of newspaper clippings and hand-written notes he found.
"I just started lookin' into this," Foster said as Sam started skimming something on top of the pile and Dean picked up what looked like a photocopy of a police report. "It ain't so easy, since I gotta rely on people to bring me stuff, and I hate to say it, but I'm no Bobby Singer...or John Winchester...when it comes to the research side."
"I hear you," Dean said, frowning down at a picture of a mutilated animal carcass that looked to be a deer or elk. "That's more of the big geek's thing than mine. But you have a lot of info here. What's happening and what are you thinking?" Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's self-deprecation, but Dean simply ignored him.
"The more I looked, the more weird shit I found," Foster sighed. "Everything from all four tires exploding on a guy's car at the same time while he was driving down a normal road to a hundred squirrels dyin' for no reason to a sinkhole opening under one building, leaving the ones around it completely fine. And now people are dyin' and goin' missin'. Ghost? Curse? It feels too random for either one. I always did need to feel around to get a sense of things."
Sam just nodded absently, raptly and rapidly reading the information. "We've lost him," Dean told Foster. "He won't come up until he's read everything. But, yeah, we'll check it out."
Dean's instinct was to gather everything up, tuck Baby safely away, order her parts, and get on the road, but there was a certain wistfulness under Foster's crotchety words. (After years with Dad and Bobby, Dean had an honorary PhD in understanding the real meaning of Hunter speak.) So, since Sam was so immersed, he settled back and picked up the next piece of paper, engaging the other two in conversation about things he found periodically. It was easy and familiar, Foster fitting surprisingly easily into their dynamic.
Though the more he'd looked, the more odd things Foster found had been happening in the town of Milton. Of course, they might or might not be related to whatever was going on. Hearing the list, Dean agreed that Foster had the right of it – there was too much to be a series of coincidences.
Finally, Sam sat back and looked at the notes he'd been jotting, patting Goethe's head where it rested on his thigh. "So...it could be a mischief-making cryptid, like imps or brownies, or a haunting, maybe something that's pissed at being disturbed and taking it out on the whole town, or a cursed object." He frowned like he didn't want to continue. "Or a demon messing around."
Foster looked surprised. "Demon? I don't think they would bother with pranks and shit."
Dean remembered one of Crowley's lackeys making a bar patron's drink explode in his hand because they didn't like his shirt. "You'd be surprised," he said wryly.
"Guess I wouldn't know," Foster shrugged. "Hardly ever dealt with 'em. Point is there's no way to know without gettin' boots on the ground, right? Lemme show you the car then." He transferred himself to his wheelchair with admirable ease and rolled himself to the back door. There was a decently made boardwalk there made from all different colors and types of boards leading to a wooden outbuilding that looked like just another cabin except for the garage door. Dean admired the ingenuity of the set-up as Foster led the way down the path and into a side door of the garage with Goethe trotting along at his side. Various wolfhounds were lounging around outside, but they didn't do anything except watch the humans.
Once they'd gotten inside the spacious room, Foster nodded at a tarp-covered vehicle, so Sam and Dean moved together to uncover...a purple Mini Cooper. It was hard to see in the indirect light, but he was pretty sure that there were literal sparkles in the paint job. The rims were flecked to look like they were covered in sequins. It even had "eyelashes" painted above the headlights.
Dean's mouth dropped open in horror. He knew people in Milton were disappearing and dying, but he'd rather walk there than be seen in this monstrosity. He was pretty sure certain of his favorite body parts would shrink and die from the embarrassment of driving such a thing. He wasn't even sure Sam could fold his various body parts tightly enough to cram himself in there, much less get out again.
Foster roared with laughter. "You should...see your faces," he gasped out between peals of laughing. He went off into another round, wiping at his eyes. Dean would have sworn that even the dog looked amused. Finally, Foster caught his breath. "You can put the cover on again," he said, still chuckling. "My Betty said she wanted a car I'd never borrow, so I got her that as a joke. Joke was on me, though. She loved that stupid thing." He sobered, though a smile still lingered in his eyes. "You two can take my truck. Never got around to sellin' it, but I start it once a week or so."
The Winchesters re-covered the purple...thing, Dean making a point to keep from actually touching it lest it infect him somehow. The next vehicle, also covered, turned out to be a very reasonable, nicely masculine pickup truck. It was probably a dozen years old, but clearly in excellent shape.
"Thank the car gods," Dean sighed, making Foster laugh again. Sam joined in, so Dean levered a glare at the latter. "Shut it. I'd've had to get you in and out of that thing with a crowbar. It would be almost worth it just to see that." He wrinkled his nose. "No. Actually, no it wouldn't." He shook a finger at Foster. "You're a cruel man."
"Unclench, Winchester," Foster said easily with one final chuckle. "That's a good truck. Just be nice to her and she'll be nice back."
"What's back here?" asked Dean, seeing one more covered shape. He pretended not to see Sam's pointed look indicating he was being rude.
"Take a look," Foster encouraged. He looked satisfied when Dean whistled in appreciation at the sight of a half-rebuilt 1963 candy apple red Corvette. "I'm doing what I can, but I haven't figured out how to get underneath." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Maybe one of Marta's boys'll finish it some day."
"Eh. I bet you will," Dean said, giving it one more admiring look before dropping the corner of the cover. "Your parts guy good? Cuz maybe he could get us what we need faster than ordering from mine back in Kansas."
While the two car guys discussed the logistics of getting the Impala fixed up, made a list of what Dean needed to get Baby back to the bunker for some more TLC, and called car-guy Craig, Sam ferried what they needed from the cabin and the Impala's trunk to Foster's Silverado with Goethe trailing along, never more than one step behind him. Dean put Baby in the truck's parking spot and even covered her. "I'll be back soon," he promised with a pat to the hood. "Fix you up, then get you home and really take care of you right."
"Dean, stop saying goodbye to the car and get your ass out here!" Sam yelled from outside, followed by a bark of laughter from Foster. Dean stomped out as if he hadn't been doing exactly what Sam thought he was, punching Sam on the arm as he walked past him.
"Before you go," Foster started, frowning, "You need to take Goethe with you."
"What?" Sam asked, surprised, as if he hadn't just been petting the dog. Again.
"I think he'd be happier staying here," Dean offered, trying not to be impolitic. "Otherwise, he'll be stuck in a motel room all the time."
"No. Take him with you everywhere you can," Foster argued. He looked frustrated, like he knew it was a strange thing to ask, but still insistent.
Sam opened his mouth, undoubtedly to argue, then cocked his head in thought like he was part canine himself. "Why?"
Foster sighed. "It's gonna sound batshit crazy, but if you trust me about anything, trust me about this. That dog is special. He knows when he needs to go along, and he's always right. He was given to me as a gift by a rå when I cleansed an area of witch taint. That was forty-seven years ago, and he hasn't aged a day."
Dean looked at the dog with new eyes. "Whoa. He can't fly or talk or something, can he?"
Sam and Foster leveled matching "you're an idiot" looks at Dean.
"No, dumbass. But he can see stuff you can't, like poltergeists, and he senses danger or somethin'."
"If he comes with us, that leaves you without protection," Sam protested, which wasn't anywhere close to the objections Dean had.
In answer, Foster gave three short and one long whistles, then two long and one short. Two of the wolfhounds trotted over, one heavily pregnant. "I'll take Voltaire and Georgie inside. Georgie's gonna be whelping any day now anyway."
"Georgie?" Sam asked, accepting a collar and small bag from Foster, which was not what he should be doing at all.
"Hang on," Dean interjected but the other two ignored him.
"Short for George Eliot, since I originally thought she was a male," Foster told Sam with a grin giving Goethe what looked like a farewell pat. Sam laughed and opened the truck door for the border collie.
"Do you have to go potty?" Sam asked the dog like a moron. In answer, the pup jumped into the truck and took a spot in the middle.
"Wait a sec," Dean said again. "We can't –"
"We'll check in when we get a chance," Sam said to Foster and climbed in next to Goethe.
Dean opened his door and scowled at Sam and Goethe, neither of whom seemed to care. "Sam!"
Sam brazenly scratched the dog's ears. "Remember when I let you 'go undercover' at the strip club? You can pay me back by letting Goethe come," he said serenely.
Sam had, in fact, let Dean do such a thing even though they were pretty sure that the spirit they'd been tracking was elsewhere. In fact, Sam had figured out the case on his own while Dean was drinking and enjoying the sights that night, and he hadn't even complained about it much. Dean sighed loudly. He couldn't believe that he was about to take a flea-catcher along on a hunt. He just hoped Goethe wasn't prone to puking in vehicles like the Colonel had been back when Dean spoke animal.
"Fine," groused Dean. "You shed anyway, so it won't be much different." He climbed in and tried not to notice how happy Sam looked, or how cute the dog was. He pushed in Sam's least favorite cassette tape in petulant protest.
"Don't be morons and forget you're beat to hell," Foster called in lieu of a farewell. "Take care of my dog and don't scratch the truck!"
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
By the time Lemmy was singing about the hammer coming down on the final track of the tape, there were some signs of civilization along the lonesome 2-lane highway they were taking. Dean had enjoyed the ride. He wouldn't say it aloud, but it was sometimes fun to drive something different, especially something so perfectly tuned. The engine purred and the sound system was decent, too.
Sam spent most of the ride reviewing the documents Foster had amassed and looking up things on his phone, not even complaining about the music.
"Wanna drive past a construction site before finding a place to stay?" he asked as they passed their first 'Welcome to Milton' sign. "There's a whole new subdivision being built, and it sounds like they're carving right into an old-growth pine forest."
"Sure," Dean agreed after a moment. Sam had been shifting in his seat for the last ten minutes like his ribs were starting to ache, though he never dislodged the dog who was now lying halfway across his lap fast asleep. It would be good to stop and get out of the vehicle for a while. Maybe talk over a plan of attack and grab a nap before hitting a bar or two to find out what locals had to say about what was happening in their town, but this shouldn't take long, and Dean always liked scoping out a place a little before settling in. It was always good to know at least a couple ways out of town and the location of key things like hospital, cop shop, and liquor store.
Sam directed Dean to the location, which was northeast of the town proper. It gave them a nice tour through downtown on the way.
"There probably won't be much to see," Sam admitted. "But I just thought we could…" He trailed off and Goethe lifted his head to stare out of the windshield when Dean slowed the truck, then stopped completely.
The construction site was an absolute disaster. A long semi was jack-knifed across a makeshift parking area. One massive log was still half on the truck bed, but others had obviously rolled free. A pickup truck was half crushed under one log, another log had rolled into and smashed the bottom of a tall scaffolding, causing the rest of it to collapse, and still more logs had damaged a partially-built building and rolled into a large basement that was still being dug, tipping a small backhoe onto its side. It had all just happened too, since workers in hardhats were running around like someone had kicked their anthill (which, Dean supposed, had sort of happened) and there weren't any emergency vehicles there yet.
"We gotta help!" said Dean, shoving the truck into park. Sam was already on the phone with 911.
So much for starting nice and easy.
* * *
AN: The song referenced is Hammer, the final track on the "Ace of Spades" album released by Motörhead in 1980.
I didn't say it earlier, but Milton, Idaho doesn't actually exist.
A rå is a nature spirit from Scandinavian mythology that is attached to a specific piece of land.
George Eliot was the pen name for Enlightenment author Mary Ann Evans, who felt she wouldn't be respected as a writer if people knew she was a woman. Her book Middlemarch deals with the themes of determinism versus free will, as our favorite show often does.
Do I need to tell you who Voltaire was? Okay, he was one of the most famous writers and philosophers of the Enlightenment. His real name was François-Marie Arouet.
scootersmom: Thank you! I hope you didn't mind too much that it's another slower chapter. I just like Foster...and his dogs.
sylvia37: Things can't ever be exactly as they appear, right? So happy to have you reading.
Monanell: I make references like that because I am a super nerd! I almost named the pair of dogs in this chapter Percy and Mary Shelley, and of course the town is named for John Milton. I can't help myself! I love that ep so much, for all the reasons you mentioned. I've been meaning to write a story right after it for a while now.
muffinroo: You always make me laugh. Heaven forfend (as my grandma used to say) that you think like me! We'll just chalk it up to you thinking like a Winchester. LOL!
Colby's girl: There will be some hurt/comfort in the next chapter, I promise! It's fun hearing how many others love that ep too. Y'all have good taste!
Jenjoremy: What? You want h/c? I'm shocked. Or not. Yup, I think our boys are gonna have more pain before they truly get a chance to heal up. I kind of love Foster and have a hard time not just turning him into another Bobby.
Janice: Thank you for letting me know about the notification issues and how to fix them. You truly are a full-service beta!
Kathy: I love that you like all my extra info. In fact, when I'm deciding on notes for the end of a chapter, I usually think of you, trying to decide what you would like to read about! If you're thinking about Barb, she's my favorite OC ever.