A/N-shout out to Soulless for the first review. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too. Sorry for all of the exposition stuff though. I promise the dialogue and crap will get less explanatory as the story progresses. I just have to find ways to explain things since there's such a huge time gap, and it seemed like the most straightforward way. Please leave suggestions or criticisms or any happy little messages in the reviews~ I love to hear what you think! Happy reading~ -Katt
CHAPTER ONE
DEAN WINCHESTER
TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER
He spent his spare time cleaning his two-person motorbike. Every piston, fuel-injector, tire spoke, wheel indent, and imperfection. All of it was deconstructed, wiped down with a hand towel coated judiciously in alcohol, and then put back together again, exactly the same way it had been before. If there was a dent or a scratch he could fix, he kept it. Unless it was new. Only the old ones meant anything to him.
A patch sewn hastily on the right breast of his brown leather jacket read: Protectorate Class Citizen. And, below that, following the lower half of the circle, a number in frayed golden thread. 25. He had been a hunter in the Protectorate class for exactly 25 years, as of yesterday evening.
The sun shined scathingly down on his hunched-over back as he sprawled in the dry-bones dirt and polished the rims of his bike with a clean rag. His distorted reflection gleamed back at him; a weather-beaten, angular, green-eyed beam of a man. All too happy to do nothing at all.
"Dean!" A pleasant, boyish voice echoed through the metal scrapyard, until its owner finally rounded a tower of melted, vogue-art-looking pile of something that had once been something, and came into view. He was a tall, lanky, mop-haired fellow, holding his hand over his subjectively colored eyes to block out the burning sun. Dean looked up from his polishing and waved the rag at his younger brother congenially. The two stood to face each other and Dean punched his taller sibling on the shoulder lightly.
"Hey, Dean," Sam greeted in a rush, "Just got back from town. I think I've got us a job. The locals caught wind of a traveling gang of morphs right outside Carbondale's gates. You up for it?"
Dean threw a cursory glance back at his bike and shrugged in indifference. "Yeah," He agreed, "Just let me finish up first, 'kay, Sammy?" Dean clapped a hand across Sam's shoulder again, already walking back to complete his routine. "Why don't you prepare the bags, then we can head out."
Sam smiled uncomfortably. "I told you not to call me Sammy. It's Sam."
"I know that," Dean shot back jokingly, "I was there when dad and mom named you."
"So, why do you keep calling me that?"
Dean grinned back at his brother, "Because I'm the older the brother and I can do what I want."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"Hey, no complaining!" Dean mocked. The two boys parted without another word. Sam disappeared within the gaping door of a small, thrown-together junk-pile of a shack and reappeared a moment later hauling two canvas duffle bags, which he threw into the dust beside his older brother and began to rummage through and organize deftly. Dean threw his brother a glance every now and then, just to make sure the right guns were going into the right bag, but other than that the two were in their own worlds.
Dean Winchester lost himself in the sun-bleached gleam of his motorbike.
…
The engine roared as Dean blazed a trail through the grasslands, the short, stocky clumps of noxiously green vegetation whipping every-which-way as the bike parted their ranks at 50-miles-per-hour. Sam perched on the higher-up coach seat sideways, gripping the back of his seat with one hand and a revolver with the other. The moon carved oblique shapes into the landscape in pale, lightening colors. The land was utterly silent, apart from the noise the boys made. Everyone slept at night. But they were too far from civilization at this point for the kinder existence of the people. Rather, they were traveling across the barren, bomb-pocked terrain of No-Man's Land in search of the not-people. Because everything did not sleep at night, and it made better hunting by moonlight.
"How much farther?" Dean yelled over the gassy growl of the engine. Sam's gaze swept across their seemingly monotonous environment with care.
He responded plainly, "They were last seen by the Crystal Pools, five miles north of here. About five minutes."
"Which way's north?"
"That way's north!" Sam spat, "Dean, you know your directions!"
"I know," Dean chuckled to himself, inaudible above the roar, "I'm just messin' with ya."
They made the rest of their journey into the wild, untested zones of humanity in a humble silence. Occasionally, Dean would risk lifting his eyes from the dangerous unmarked land in front of his tires and to the stars, which shone brightly in the absence of light pollution. Of course, Dean had never been in an age where this wasn't the case, so this wasn't what he was noticing in their numbers.
Had they dwindled? The stars looked fewer.
Finally, the Crystal Pools loomed into sight and Dean loosed his grip on the clutch, slowing the bike to a jumpy stop. Sam catapulted himself from the back seat before the bike halted completely, rolling on his awkwardly tall legs and onto the ground. Dean laughed and propped the bike up on its stand before joining his younger brother in the grass, crouching beside the nearest pool in mild, open humor.
"Still getting the hang of puberty, I see," He joked.
Sam glowered. "Shut up, Dean."
A full moon beamed from the bottom of the pool in perfect and resolute suspension. The pools were the aged pockets of bombshells, full of rainwater so clear that one might perceive their own future in its depths. Tiny, mysterious fish and pollywogs, the beginning of new generations, fluttered about near the bottom fringes. In the moonlight, the rocky floor of the largest pool was stained a steely grey in hue, varying the deeper the eyes wandered. Dean could see his shadow wavering against the rock. The tiny creatures of the pool cowered in fear at his darkness.
But, other than the lapping of the aquatic life and the two boys and their motorbike, there was nothing else present. The pools were serenely tranquil, and no bounty was in sight. Dean groaned and stood up, stretching his limbs until the bones snapped in satisfaction.
"There's nothin' here, Sammy," He plainly pointed out, "I think this job was a bust."
"Sh," Sam warned. For a moment, Dean remained quiet, listening in on the chorus of nature with a trained ear. When he heard nothing, he started up again, rambling.
"Like I said, let's just—"
"—Shh!" Sam harshly repeated, "Listen."
They both listened. A faint, wild wind blew through the sparse grasses and the scant, dry soil. The overwhelming scent of ozone and nighttime perforated the air, an after-effect of too much radiation in the atmosphere. The squeaking sounds of scurrying creatures, appearing for the darkest hours only to forage for their next meal. Quiet, very quiet, muffled by fabric and distance, came the soft pattering of feet. Aware feet. Careful feet. With something that minded where it placed those feet controlling them.
Dean exchanged a knowing glance with his brother, slowly reaching for the sawed-off shotgun he kept slung over his shoulder. He raised the weapon to the firing position and crouched low in the grass alongside the Crystal Pool.
A call.
"I can smell you there, human!" A nasally, female voice crooned, "Whatcha up to over there with your wee little friend? Lookin' for a pot of gold? Sorry, old yeller, but we already dug it all up."
Dean threw Sam a bewildered look. Morphs, as someone had decided long ago to name the countless radioactive deformities that wandered the No-Man's-Land, usually uttered nothing but unintelligible moans. Sam shrugged, equally confused.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" The woman cooed, "Seriously, boys, I know you're there and hiding will get you nowhere. Let's settle this like adults, okay?"
Sam pushed up to his feet first, followed with a little hesitation by his slightly shorter brother. The voice belonged to a squat young lady, her face rounded and childish, her eyes dark and condescending. Ringlets of brown spun from the top of her head and down to her low shoulders. They shifted nearly imperceptibly with the wind. The jeans she wore were tight-fitting and ripped at the knees and lower thighs from wear and travel. She jammed her hands casually in her pockets, as if approaching a business partner instead of two brothers who sought to kill her. Behind her, a small gaggle of obedient-looking men and women stood in stiff formation.
She turned her head to the side in sarcastic amusement. "Someone told you this job would be easy, huh?" She pouted, "You were expecting to be home before dinner. How cute."
"What are you?" Dean demanded, thinking aloud, "Not a morph."
"Hell no," She spat, "The name's Meg Masters. Professional demon. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting on this fine, lovely night?"
"Demon?" Sam repeated, mouth agape, just for clarification. Dean was doubly surprised—he hadn't heard of the demon class since…well, since ever. Demons, vicious roaming spirits welded to the bodies of long-dead humans, were rumored with good establishment to have all been wiped out. The bombs about thirty years back took most of them. Then the protectorate kicked in—kick-started by a mysterious group of men known only as 'The Founders'—and took out the rest because they had been labeled as a threat to society. Yet, here were many. Standing before Dean Winchester in tight formation, apparently led by this fleshy young lady by the name of Meg Masters. He frowned.
"You heard me the first time, tall drink of water," Meg shot back, unimpressed, "Now, your names. Don't be shy—it makes me frisky."
"Well," Dean pulled a forced smile, "In that case—"
"—Dean," Sam interjected, "This is my brother Dean, and my name is Sam."
Dean hissed in angered disappointment, "Sammy! You don't give your name to a monster! You stab 'em in the face!"
Sam widened his eyes and threw up his hands. "Well, we weren't getting anywhere with that."
"He's right," Meg interrupted impatiently, "You aren't." She smiled unexpectedly, a peal of dark laughter bursting from her parted lips. "Ah, Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. I've heard a lot about you two in the past few weeks. Yes, I have." She sighed longingly, "Some people really want you dead. Others really just want you."
"Why do people want us?" Dean questioned skeptically. Meg gave him a knowing look and smiled toothily.
"Deanie-Weanie," She replied suavely with another question, "What's that around your neck?"
Dean glanced down, freeing up one of his hands and letting it naturally find its way around the length of thin leather that hung two charms at his collarbone. A necklace; it had been given to him by his mother, though he couldn't remember that much. He only remembered his father's insistence not to lose either pendant. One was heavy and made of rusted metal. It resembled some sort of tribal face mask. The other was light as air, burned hotter than the hottest day on the plains, and shorted out fuses—what few fuses there were, anyway, most civilians had resorted to lamplight at this point—when he touched the bottom of the vial to them. It was an oblong glass tube, tethered to the leather by a screw jammed into the sealing cork. Filled with silken grains of grey sand that turned red in the sunlight, the second charm was a mystery. Dean didn't know how it worked, but he never cared to know either. He turned his gaze back up and Meg nodded at him curtly. A silent salute.
"That still doesn't answer our question," Sam changed the subject, "Why do you want us?"
"Not the both of you," Meg corrected herself, "Just your brother, Deanie, there. You, they're fine with killing."
"They?"
Meg smiled wider. "Us," She responded slyly, "The demons. It's why we're here again after so long, don't you know. And the cute little boys in white that think they run the joint," Meg paused to roll her eyes contemptuously, "Angels. Or, whatever you may have them."
"Angels?" Dean immediately became interested. Angels. The angels his father had been hunting for twenty-some years. The angels that murdered thousands in the early days of post-war. The same angels that, his dad was convinced, killed his mother.
Angels. A gaggle of different supernatural creatures that, in the aftermath of the bombing, had been super-charged with radioactive energy.
"Dean," Sam muttered, "She's lying. There are no demons or angels. There are fox-hybrids, and bird-hybrids, and…and…morphs and werewolves. There are no such thing as demons and angels."
Meg gestured to herself, insulted.
"Doesn't matter," Dean insisted gravely, "Sammy, I got to find them."
"We kill her first." Sam darkly shot back, "Then you can start looking for men with wings on your own. I'm not doing this again, Dean. Last time, we lost Jess."
"I know, Sammy, and I said I was sorry."
"She was my bond, Dean."
"I know. I'll go alone," Dean sighed, "But I have to do this. If there's even a chance…it's what dad would want."
At the mention of dad, Sam shook his head and scowled. The two had never been on good terms, Dean reflected. Even after their father disappeared after a tussle with a group of unidentified beasts somewhere north of Founder's City, Sam had seemed nothing but relieved.
"Uh, hello?" Meg interceded once more, getting more and more impatient by the minute, "Demon speaking here. Guys, this whole emotional thing is really touching me in all the wrong places, but I'd really like to skip to the part where I kill you, take the necklace, and walk away. So…"
Dean and Sam lifted their guns again, getting the message loud and clear. These beasts were going down without a fight. Cocking the barrel of his shotgun, Dean raised it level with Meg's' chest. She suppressed an easy, crooked smile.
He had expected more of a fight.
Sam pulled the trigger first, downing two taller men in the back ranks with quick shots to the head. But, they were up again in an instant. Dean let a buck shot fly from his shortened shotgun, but Meg acted as if she couldn't even feel the metal spheres piercing her chest. She ran at Dean, and the two combatants tumbled back into the grass before Sam knocked her off with blow to the back of the head. Then Meg turned on Sam, and the whole thing started over again with him. Dean was about to take her out, only to think twice and decide otherwise. It would only go in circles, that path of action, and Sam was handling himself well.
Instead, Dean turned to a different set of eyes, about his height, and unloaded the shotgun into the man's stomach. He crumpled to the ground and crawled away.
"It's a shame," Dean commented lightly, catching his breath, "You weren't bad looking."
Though the demons couldn't die, Dean found out very quickly that any injuries they sustained still hurt them. They slunk away faster than he could count them off on his fingers, riddled with holes and bleeding from parts that probably shouldn't have bled. Meg, obviously a tad stronger than the rest, was the only one with a strange resistance to injury. She and Sam still rolled in the grasses near the largest Crystal Pool, shrieking at each other through gritted teeth and kicking like warring cats. Dean, taking a good few steps back, sprinted over and kicked Meg from the top of the pileup. Startled, she hurtled into the crystal water, sending up a monsoon of alarmingly clear liquid and tiny creatures, and slowly sank to the bottom. Sam stumbled to find a secure footing, and the two brothers peered uncertainly into the rippling water of the Crystal Pools.
"Well," Dean stated, "I guess we know now that demons can't swim."
"But, she'll get out eventually," Sam added, rushed, reloading his revolver with fresh bullets from a pocket on his jacket and starting back toward their motorbike, "Come on, Dean. We have to go. We're probably gonna have to leave town, too. Find someplace we haven't been in a while. Lay low."
Dean narrowed his eyes speculatively at the limp body at the bottom of the water before shaking his head and swinging his shotgun over his right shoulder. He followed Sam, slowly, to the motorbike and, before anyone or any demon could return to investigate, Sam and Dean were gone.
The only things that remained of them in the natural serenity of the Crystal Pools were their discarded bullet casings, small spots of blood, and a long, reeling scar cut into the thick green grass that smelled of rubber and reeked of the Winchesters.