AN: updates as always will come on tumblr first at jhoomwrites (i've noticed some formatting issues with my uploads here... those don't occur in tumblr)
i think i said three parts and then four... i'm just gonna go ahead and say i have no idea how long this will be. cas just isn't cooperating the way i thought he would ;)
Apparently the only thing no one seems to know is where they are. There are sightings of them, and half a dozen hunters may or may not know how to contact them. As to where they actually might live, absolutely nothing.
It occurs to Thomas that they don't want to be found.
He also doesn't care.
It's like gravity has shifted. He has fallen into the Winchesters' orbit and he's powerless to pull himself away.
Honestly, he's not sure if he wants to.
So he gives up hunting monsters and starts hunting the Winchesters instead.
The only thing he can think to do is go on the most dangerous cases he can find. That seems to be the only common thread between all the stories he's heard about them. Impossibly dangerous? The Winchesters show up, take care of it, then disappear again.
It's no wonder they've become legends.
He's always a few steps behind them, a few days or at best a few hours too late. When he looks for them at the motels - and it's odd he knows so well the type of motel they would choose to stay at - it's hard to find out anything.
He's never even seen the men in person, knows them only from second hand descriptions. Though he almost feels he could describe them in great detail. The words are always on the tip of his tongue, words going beyond their physical characteristics, perhaps even beyond their personalities. He almost feels like he could describe their souls if given the chance.
Thomas considers summoning a demon, but a crossroads deal is out of the question and he's worried he wouldn't be able to handle anything else.
When his parents asks him about how his classes are going, he's non-commital. He makes decent grades, but they would expect more from him. More than a slapped together schedule that barely fits the graduation requirements for his program.
When they ask him about his friends in school, he exaggerates. While he has some aquaintances from classes and the dorms, they're not exactly what he would call "friends." And the hunters he works with - even if he's worked with them more than once and keeps in touch with them - they're almost more like business associates. Anyone who meets the criteria for "friend" has alluded him since he graduated high school.
When they ask him about his plans for the future, he outright lies. He hints that he wants to travel, to find himself before committing to a job. It doesn't sound like a lie, possibly because he does want to travel. He does want to find himself. But finding himself is tied in with finding the Winchesters, finding out what they mean to him and why. So yes, he sees it as a lie. His future isn't so much about himself as they are about them.
It's hard enough just to look for someone, but when you're trying to leave no trace it's even harder. Out of professional courtesy, he tries to be descreet. If they're as dangerous and well known as he's starting to suspect, there are much worse things than him who might try to find them.
And part of him is worried that he might be found instead.
It keeps him up some nights, wondering what type of creature would want him. And what they'd do to him if they ever found him.
He graduates from college without the accolades his family had come to expect from him. They're polite enough not to bring it up and all happily attend his graduation. His aunts and uncles are all full of advice for the future. Job interviews and the like. He smiles politely and tries to hide his disinterest, deflecting their questions as best he can.
It takes him over a year to get anything substantial.
Once again he was too late to actually work the case - the strange string of deaths abruptly stopped the day before he arrived in town - but he worked the police and locals just in case. For once it pays off.
Apparently one of the Winchesters was here, based on the description the cops give. They have a fake name, obviously, and no clue where he's headed next. But what one of the detectives does have is his first actual lead. It's simply a business card, the card of the supposed boss of the supposed investigator who had just left town.
As someone who makes fakes for a living, he can spot one pretty easily himself.
He chews his lip, spinning the card around in his hands. It takes him a good day to work up the courage to call.
It rings five times, maybe six. Enough that he's starting to wonder if this is another dead end. But just before he hangs up the line connects.
"Department of Agriculture, Regional Director Buchanan speaking."
There's something about the voice that he can't quite place. So like everything else, he doesn't try to anymore, but instead just files it away. "I'm looking for the Winchesters." He leaves it at that.
The silence on the other end of the phone is answer enough. It's a loaded silence, one full of hesitation, if he's not mistaken. Finally, there's a small, "Who is this?" It's not an angry sound, but genuinely curious.
Thomas doesn't know why, but there are so many adjectives he can now use to describe this voice and the man behind it. A picture is forming in his mind, one familiar and from dreams only half remembered. He shakes his head slightly, snapping himself back to the moment. This conversation is important.
Now it's his turn to hesitate. But if he wants to build any type of trust, he can't lie. "Thomas. My name's Thomas. I'm a hunter from outside-"
"What do you need, Thomas?" There's an edge of disappointment, but it's covered by patience.
What does he need? To find the Winchesters, but he suspects that answer isn't going to help him. Why does he need to find them? That's... complicated. How can he explain the pull he feels? A pull that he's always felt, drawing him in a direction he couldn't name until a few years ago. Still can't quite name or describe.
His inner turmoil is interrupted by the voice on the other end. "Do you need help with a hunt?"
"Yes." It's only a half truth. Which is better than no truth, he supposes.
There must be something about the earnestness in his voice, though, because the man on the other end sighs deeply. "Alright. Tell me about it."
Luckily he always has a list of possible cases - the really dangerous ones he thinks will attract the Winchesters - organized by location. He picks one of the closer ones that he's pegged as a group of rugarus. They agree to meet the following night at a motel on the edge of town.
The air is thick with humidity from a storm earlier that day. He has his hands buried deep in his pockets. Not to keep them warm but to stop any nervous fidgeting. He tries to stand stoically under a street light in the back of the motel parking lot.
When a car pulls up nearby, he ignores it. It's not the car he's expecting - though what car he is expecting, he couldnt' begin to say. But then a man gets out of the car and starts heading toward him. As he gets closer, Thomas simultaneously feels elation and disappointment. Yes, this is a Winchester. No, this is the wrong one.
"You Thomas?" he asks as he steps into the light, hand extended.
"Yes." As he shakes the man's hand, hoping he adequately hides his disappointment, he gets a good look at this Winchester. The height, the hair, the eyes (he's sure his sister would refer to them as "puppy dog eyes") all correspond with what he had heard. But the warmth in his gaze and the firm but not suffocating handshake seem to pull at some distant memory.
"Sam," he offers with a slight smile. There is finally a name to him, then. Thomas isn't surprised by how well it fits. Of course his name is Sam. It's almost like he already knew that. But then the man frowns, looking down as he now gets a good look at him. "How old are you?"
Thomas bristles slightly at the question. And at his own annoyance that, despite his quite substantial height, this man has several inches on him. "Old enough." He may have asked for help on this hunt, but he doesn't want to be treated like a child.
The frown shifts into exasperation. "Dude, c'mon. How old are you?"
Thomas has never been good at lying about his age. "Twenty two," he mumbles, as if making the answer harder to hear will actually make him older.
A strange look passes through Sam's eyes before it disappears. He gives him another once over, this time with a little bit more care behind it. "Twenty two years," he repeats to himself. "Where'd you say you were from again?"
Annoyed at the sudden interest, he simply huffs out, "I don't see how that's relevant. I thought you were here to help me with a hunt, not hear my life story."
Sam raises his eyebrow, suggesting for a moment that he did in fact come for the latter reason. "Alright," he says carefully. "Where do we start?"