Chapter Text
* * * * *Now * * * * *
The urge to floor the gas pedal was a constant struggle as Layla drove north, stopping only when her car demanded to be refueled. She couldn’t risk speeding too much. She had to stick to the main highways to make time and she couldn’t risk getting pulled over, let alone a pursuit of any kind. Every minute was vital now.
The sun rose in her passenger side window shortly after leaving Kinsey’s. She marked her progress by its journey across her windshield and it was just sinking towards the driver side when she turned away from it and onto the gravel road that led to Singer Auto Salvage Yard. She parked her black sedan outside the ramshackle chain-link fence, adorned with panels of aluminum siding and woven with scrawny cedar trees to effectively block the view from the road.
Probably better not to drive up to the door. For all she knew, the car would look empty and a creepy driverless car would just put Bobby on guard before she ever got near him. The last thing she needed was for him to barricade himself inside or start blasting away with rock-salt. She checked the clock in the dash then quickly retrieved her keys and climbed from the car.
So this is the infamous Singer residence…
Layla began to crunch her way up the gravel road in a brisk jog towards the entrance, eyeing the dilapidated letters welded to the metal arch over the driveway warily. She half-expected the next gust of wind to bring the swaying structure down on her head as she passed below. She stuck to the rutted, main path that led directly towards the large house nestled forlornly among the rusting skeletons of automobiles. There was no need to hide after all; her invisibility could easily make her hunter-bait but also kept her somewhat safe.
Please let Kinsey’s intel be good, she prayed as she climbed the stairs onto the porch, senses straining for some sign that the hunter was home.
Kinsey’s most recent information said Bobby had been tracking from home lately but that intel wasn’t first- or even second-hand, just a reported lack of activity attached to his name and a few hunters who said they’d called the house lately for aliases and information. But a lack of evidence of him on the road didn’t mean he was home and this entire trip had been a last ditch effort based on her pressing need to fight back and guided by a prayer to lost causes.
A thick pall of silence hung over the building and caused a nervous flutter in Layla’s stomach. The front door to the house was open, however, only the screen door blocking entry to the shady recesses of the building.
He has to be here somewhere, she reassured herself as she peered through a dusty window beside the door, or at least close by. He wouldn’t just leave the place open.
Layla and Kinsey had debated about calling Bobby directly but had decided it was too risky in the end. They had already hazarded alerting the Trickster by calling Sam. If that had gone unnoticed somehow, they decided not to repeat the risk. Besides, a phone call would have been too easy to fake; they probably would have just wasted time arguing with Bobby, who they knew to be a cautious hunter with no reason to trust the word of two women he’d never met.
The screen door creaked loudly as Layla pulled it open and made her way into the dark interior of the house. She made a quick sweep of the downstairs rooms and found them empty. Books lay open on nearly every available flat surface, as well as being stacked haphazardly on nearly every other. A few dirty dishes were in the sink but they obviously hadn’t been there long.
By the time she returned from a quick circuit of the upper rooms, Layla’s skin had begun to crawl. The upstairs had been like a museum, most of the rooms, but one in particular, seemed not to have been disturbed in years. It was like walking through a series of snapshots from a stranger’s life and she felt like an intruder. She wondered if the stalkery feeling would ever go away if she remained invisible…but then again, maybe that would be worse, thinking this voyeuristic worldview normal.
A half-full bottle of whiskey sat on the large desk that dominated the living room and Layla decided to indulge in a quick shot before conducting a search of the grounds and outbuildings. She needed something to dismiss the sinking feeling gathering in her stomach. She had only seen a portion of the salvage yard and a few of the buildings it contained when she was approaching the house but she already knew she didn’t have time to search them all.
She unscrewed the cap quickly and drank straight from the bottle, nerves unwinding slightly as the liquor’s warmth crawled into her belly. As she lowered the bottle from her lips, a brief flicker of motion reflected in the glass was all the warning she was provided.
Layla dropped the bottle and threw herself forward, flat across the top of the desk, just in time to avoid the iron fireplace poker that whistled through the space which her head had just occupied. Glass shattered as the bottle struck the floor and most of the books were knocked from the desk as Layla rolled herself across it and regained her feet.
Layla spun to face a stern, bearded face topped by a blue-and-white trucker’s hat; he glared in her general direction but was apparently unable to focus on her. She instantly recognized Bobby from the descriptions she’d heard. He was practically a walking caricature of himself in a sort of epically American way.
“Balls!” Bobby cursed and began to sidestep further into the room, glass crackling under his boots.
Layla’s heart began to settle from a terrified, startled sprint to a marathon pace of anxiety as the man circled towards the desk. It was almost more unsettling to see someone, who had noticed her somehow, try to see her and fail.
That thought was quickly pushed aside under the urgencies of the moment, specifically the nasty, hooked metal rod Bobby was brandishing like a baseball bat. She really didn’t want to meet the business end of that hunk of metal and he definitely looked edgy enough to take a swing if she grabbed hold of him. There wasn’t any way around it though and the clock was ticking; Sam was due to meet the Trickster any time now. Still, she had to feel somewhat vindicated by the realization that she had actual proof that Bobby was here and not in Broward County, Florida. Now she just had to make her proof believe her.
“I don’t know what the hell you are but I know you’re here,” Bobby said as his gaze swept again across the spot where Layla was standing. “This is your one and only chance to piss off. You’re only getting that ‘cause I missed the first time.”
Layla stepped carefully towards his right side. She wasn’t sure how Bobby had known she was there and she wasn’t sure that he couldn’t hear the crunch of broken glass beneath her boots now. A confused look crossed Bobby’s face as if his mind was struggling to reject what his senses were reporting. He gave the distinctive shake of his head a moment later and Layla seized that moment to close the remaining distance and latch onto his arm.
Bobby instinctively tried to jerk away from her grasp as a strange woman suddenly materialized before him.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he stumbled back, trying to twist his arm in her grasp and level a swing of the iron poker in her direction. Layla clung on for all she was worth, being dragged in a circle as she struggled to maintain her grip on his upper arm while avoiding the path of the fireplace poker.
“Bobby! I’m not a ghost!”
“I don’t care what you are! Get the hell off’a me!”
“I can’t! Bobby, I …”
Bobby spun with a wordless roar and ripped his arm from Layla’s grasp. He spun around with surprising agility and raised the poker; then he hesitated and the familiar expression of confusion began to seep across his features again.
Layla groaned in frustration.
Alright then. No time for pussyfooting around.
Layla hopped onto the sofa along the wall and used that as a stepping stone to leap onto the older hunter’s back. She wrapped her arms around his neck and preemptively locked her ankles around his waist, anticipating the startled spin before it began. She was careful to hold just tight enough not to be shaken off but loose and low enough around his neck not to choke the man.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Bobby! It’s Layla Parker! You gotta…”
Layla’s words were cut off sharply as Bobby threw himself backwards and let his weight fall on top of her. Luckily, the couch broke her fall and cushioned some of their landing.
“Fuck…” she groaned breathlessly as the air was knocked from her lungs. Layla barely managed to force the next words out as she gasped for air: “...the Trickster has Sam, Bobby. You gotta warn him.”
Bobby’s struggling ceased when Sam’s name left her mouth but he still gripped the iron bar tightly.
“Layla Parker? How do I know you’re you and not some puppet the Trickster sent?”
“For what? The world’s worst fucking piggyback ride?” Layla snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly trying to choke you here.” Layla kept her grip around the man’s neck for the moment nevertheless; she also maintained a wary eye on the fire poker with which Bobby could easily strike behind him or worse, skewer a limb, if he decided she was lying.
“Then why the hell did you jump on my back?”
“Because you can’t see me or hear me if I’m not touching you and I don’t have time for you to shake me off again.”
“What d’you mean again?”
“That’s what I mean, damn it! If I let go, you’ll forget me. The Trickster whammied me and now everyone just…forgets I exist unless I make ‘em.”
“…by grabbing them?”
“I guess it’s something your mind can’t ignore. Think about it Bobby…why were you standing in here with the fire poker in the first place? Why is there a broken bottle on the floor? Can’t remember, can you? You shook me off once already and you forgot. I couldn’t risk a second time.”
She could feel some of the tension go out of the other hunter’s frame and she loosened her grip a bit.
“Okay. You pass the splash and slash and I’ll listen to you but uh…as cozy as this is…” he trailed off uncomfortably as he indicated Layla’s legs still locked around his waist.
“If I grab your arm, you’re not gonna shake me off?”
“You can hold on to my arm all you want. If I think you’re lying about Sam, I’ll knock your fucking head off.”
Layla chuckled hoarsely as she untangled her limbs from around his torso and clamped her hand onto his right forearm, deciding to keep some control over his dominant hand in case he decided to try the head bashing after all. They both straightened awkwardly and cleared their throats. Bobby rose from the couch and led her over to the desk. He shifted the poker to his left hand and gestured it towards one of the drawers.
“Silver and holy water’s in there.”
“I probably shouldn’t point this out but that stuff’s not gonna prove I’m not one of the Trickster’s creations.”
“No but it’ll prove you’re not possessed or a shifter or a bunch of other nasty sons of bitches. I doubt you’re the Trickster himself, not his style. But if you’re one of his puppets, I know how to find out if he sent you: you’ll vanish if I kill you and that don’t take any special weapon. So I suggest you make sure I decide not to test that one.”
Layla grimaced and tried to hide the sidelong glance that she cast towards the iron poker he gripped in his left hand; something about the casual way he held it spoke volumes about his ambidexterity with weaponry. As she dug out the holy water and took a swig then drew another small line of blood on her arm with the silver knife, she pondered her situation.
Convincing Kinsey had been one thing; she knew Layla better than anyone and had no personal connection to the Trickster and thus no reason to suspect he had sent a doppel-Layla after her. Sam knew Layla well enough to recognize her even through relayed messages, mostly because of their pre-Trickster encounters, but Bobby…he’d never even met her before. She hadn’t even known for sure Bobby would be home. Hell, she hadn’t even been sure Bobby would know her name but she figured it was a fairly safe assumption between his extensive knowledge of hunting circles and his relationship with the Winchesters. Certainly one of them would have mentioned something before everyone’s lives had gone to shit….before Dean’s had ended.
That thought sent a twist of ice through her gut as it was followed immediately by the realization that bringing Dean back could all hinge on what she did now, on making Bobby believe her; and doing that before the Trickster pulled off whatever he was planning for Sam. She glanced at the clock on Bobby’s mantel. If that was right, they had less than five more minutes before Sam was going to go ahead with his plan. Who knew what the Trickster was planning for Sam if he went along with whatever fake-Bobby was proposing?
“We good?” she asked as she dropped the silver dagger back on the desk. “Cause time is ticking here.”
“Yeah. For now,” Bobby said as he sank into the swivel chair behind the desk, resting the fire poker across his knees. “So talk fast.”
“Super short version? Sam said that you called him, that you’re going to be meeting him in Broward County. Since you’re here, you’re obviously not there. Hence, Trickster; hence you picking up the phone and texting him to kill that son of a bitch.”
“You still haven’t told me why I should believe you.”
“What the hell would the Trickster possibly have to gain from this? You really think his master plan is a text message?”
“Dunno,” Bobby stated calmly. “Maybe his master plan is to make me give Sam the wrong information. Maybe Sam’s headed to meet Layla and the Trickster wants him to think she’s here. Maybe losing Dean wasn’t enough. Maybe he wants to make Sam lose a friend at his own hand because he thinks that’ll make him snap.”
Layla opened her mouth to protest before she realized that she didn’t have an argument for that. It was exactly the kind of sneaky, underhanded suspicious thing she would have thought of and she was slightly disappointed in herself that she hadn’t.
“That is…actually really smart,” she admitted.
She sank onto the edge of the desk and ran her free hand down her face in exasperation. She froze with her hand over her mouth as she realized what she had to do. There was only one way to prove this for sure, only one thing that would prove it beyond a doubt. Bobby had even said it. She dropped her hand and gestured to the desk.
“I assume you have a gun in one of those drawers?”
“Probably do,” Bobby replied cryptically. “Why?”
“I want you to get it out.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Layla picked up the silver knife from the desk top.
“Because it’ll be quicker than this knife.”
“Is that a threat?” Bobby growled. Almost before Layla could blink, the older hunter had released the fire poker and drew a single action Army Colt .45 from under the desk. He aimed the Peacemaker at Layla casually. “…’Cause it wasn’t in the drawer.”
“Not a threat,” Layla answered in a level voice, flinching only slightly as she set the knife back on the desk and stared down the revolver’s barrel. “More like asking for mercy.”
Bobby narrowed his eyes doubtfully, looking for some sign of deception.
Layla swallowed drily then continued in a firm tone: “You have to shoot me, Bobby. If that’s what it takes to end this argument now, to prove that the Trickster didn’t send me, then pull the fucking trigger but you type that text message first ‘cause you might only have a few seconds to send it before you forget…unless of course this mojo breaks when I die.”
The click of Bobby cocking the hammer back resounded through the room.
“You sure about that? You really willing to die to prove your point?”
Layla forced herself to stare past the barrel of the gun and meet Bobby’s eyes.
“I won’t have died if Sam makes the Trickster fix everything, neither will Dean. None of this will have happened. So if you’re asking: do I have faith in Sam Winchester? Then the answer is yes. And if you’re asking if I’d let you shoot me to bring Dean back, then the answer is also yes.”
Bobby held her gaze for a long moment then nodded and un-cocked the revolver, sliding it back into the holster he apparently had installed under his desk. Layla slumped slightly with relief. Even if she had been one hundred percent convinced everything would be undone, the idea of having her brains splattered across the room was not an enticing image.
“You should have just started with that speech,” Bobby said. “Hand me my phone. It’s on the floor there for some damn reason.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“Don’t worry about it. I know what to say. And afterwards, it will never have been said anyway, right?”
Layla shrugged, nodded and retrieved his phone for him. He was taking a whole lot from her on faith; it was only fair to repay him with a little trust.
“Right,” she agreed as she handed over the device and Bobby started typing hurriedly into the flip phone’s tiny keyboard.
* * * * *
“What are you talking about?” Sam’s gaze flicks to the knife which Bobby is proffering only momentarily.
“Better me than a civilian.” Bobby’s tone is resigned as he offers the blade to Sam on an outstretched palm.
Sam inhales slowly then locks his eyes with the older hunter. “You’re crazy, Bobby. I’m not killing you.”
“Oh. Now I’m the crazy one?” Bobby scoffs but Sam doesn’t seem to find any humor in the joke. “Look, Sam,” Bobby continues in a weary voice, “I’m old. I’m comin’ near the end of my trail but you can keep fighting, saving folks, but you need your brother…so let me give him back to ya.”
Sam may as well have turned to stone for all the emotion he allows himself to display but deep behind his eyes, he’s clearly processing the man’s offer. Sam shakes his head slightly, eyes suddenly tinged with sadness as he begins to speak:
“Bobby…”
“You and Dean,” Bobby interjects, “You boys are the closest things I have to family. I want to do this.”
Bobby offers the knife again and Sam accepts it with a sigh.
“Okay.”
“Good,” Bobby replies with a hint of approval. He nods slightly then takes a deep breath and turns his back to Sam, stepping into the circle and kneeling in front of the bowl.
“Just make it quick,” Bobby says, fixing his gaze into the distance.
Behind him, Sam reaches into his jacket…
* * * * * Now * * * * *
Sam kept the cell phone low near his hip as he quickly flipped it open and read the text that had just arrived from Bobby.
[1 New Msg: Layla’s here. Stared down another gun for u boys. So fix this. Idjit.]
When the nine hours had passed, Sam had given up hope for any kind of proof, though he didn’t know exactly what he’d been waiting for or why Kinsey had been so secretive about this supposed “sign.” Without it, however, Sam couldn’t have known for sure who or what he was meeting here…or if it really was Bobby. He knew without a doubt that Bobby would give his life to save Dean or himself but he wasn’t sure killing him was a recourse he was willing to take. Even with Layla missing and Dean gone these past six months, he still wasn’t sure he could have done it. All he’d had to go on was coincidence…but now he knew. He returned the phone to his pocket…
* * * * *
When Sam still hesitates to strike, Bobby urges quietly: “Just do it, son.”
“Yeah, okay, Bobby,” Sam says in a grim tone as he withdraws a large wooden stake from the recesses of his coat.
“But do you want to know why?” Sam asks as he drops to one knee behind the man, quickly snaking an arm around his throat and pressing the weapon against his back. “Because you’re not Bobby.”
With a grunt of effort he shoves the stake up under the ribs and into the man’s heart, blood pouring out and over his hand in a steady stream. With a groan, the older hunter collapses forward onto the ground.
Sam watches impatiently for the body to revert to the Trickster’s natural shape or disappear like his creations. When a long moment passes and the body hasn’t so much as wavered, a look of worry and doubt begins to crawl across Sam’s features.
“Bobby?” he asks uncertainly. “Bobby?!” Sam’s voice cracks as he calls out futilely a third time, “Bobby!”
As if in response, the body suddenly ripples as if underwater and then vanishes in a lingering shimmer of blue luminescence. The stake that had skewered the body clatters to the floor and Sam grits his teeth as understanding dawns. The stake flies from the floor of its own accord and over Sam’s shoulder. Sam turns to follow its path just in time to see the Trickster pluck the weapon from the air with a grin.
“You’re right. I was just screwing with ya.” The Trickster lowers the stake and points it at Sam absently. “Pretty good though, Sam. Smart.”
* * * * *
“So how the hell did you know I was here? No one else has been able to see or hear me.”
Bobby shrugged and adjusted his hat thoughtfully.
“Not really sure. Everything right before you grabbed me is pretty blurry. I was in the basement, going over some of the wards I got laid under this place and it was like…I just kept hearing something but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. You been doing this as long as I have, you listen to those little instincts.”
Layla nodded.
“Maybe it’s those wards you have. Maybe you’re just better at seeing through this kind of stuff. Either way, it’s a good thing you found me.”
“Guess I should say sorry for trying to knock your head off.”
“Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait and see if we cease to exist. I’d say that calls for getting determinedly drunk. So if you have another bottle around her somewhere, I’ll gladly accept a drink as an apology.”
Bobby chuckled and opened the bottom desk drawer with the hand not constrained by Layla’s grip on his arm. He pulled out another bottle of whiskey and a couple shot glasses, cracking the seal on the lid with his teeth before setting them out and starting to pour.
“So what you said…about saving Dean, you really mean that?” Bobby asked idly as he extended a shot glass, full to the brim.
Layla accepted the glass with grateful smile. She chewed her lower lip pensively for a moment then nodded.
Bobby’s brow rose in mild surprise. “Not saying that’s a bad thing…or a good thing necessarily, but why? You hardly knew him.”
“I could give you lots of reasons. Because he’s a good guy. Because I owe them both my life. Because what happened wasn’t right or fair and this isn’t how the world’s supposed to be...” she hesitated and raised the glass expectantly. When Bobby raised his, they took their shots in unison before Layla continued. “Mostly it’s because Sam needs him. If there’s anything this fresh hell of invisibility taught me, it’s that no one should be alone, not completely, and especially not doing this job. Too bad I won’t remember, I guess.”
Bobby frowned and extended the bottle to fill her glass again.
“That’s the best case scenario. Sam may just kill that bastard, leaving things as they are. What then?”
Layla shrugged and threw back the shot. “Worst case scenario, we got revenge and that tricky fucker won’t hurt anyone else. We can worry about how to fix me and bring Dean back after we know Sam’s okay.”
The older hunter nodded, took his shot and opened his mouth to respond but Layla never got to hear his reply. It was as if someone reached in her mind and shut down all her senses with the gentle flick of a switch.
* * * * *
Layla gasped and jerked upright. She looked around frantically, heart hammering against her ribcage like a frantic captured animal. She was in bed…in her motel room…in….her mind struggled to place the memory…in Flagstaff.
She raised a hand blearily to rub at her eyes and almost gave herself a concussion as the hard plaster of the cast on her arm collided with her forehead.
What the hell? She’d completely forgotten about her broken arm. She shook her head slowly, trying to piece together what had happened. This wasn’t where she’d expected to wake up for some reason. She winced and switched hands, rubbing the spot on her head gingerly as she peered at the bedside clock. 5:30 a.m. exactly.
She frowned as she tried to get her sleepy mind to focus on whatever thought was nagging at it. She closed her eyes and was instantly bombarded by images: wrestling and then drinking with Bobby, calling Sam from Kinsey’s, facing the Trickster…being completely forgotten. The scenes flashed by in a blur, like a dream that’s quickly losing its coherence but rather than continuing to crumble and fade, the images seemed to solidify the more she examined them; and the more she studied them, the more of them there seemed to be.
It began to dawn on Layla that she had six full months of memories since she’d last fallen asleep in this bed. It wasn’t like a dream where time had passed unnoticed, she remembered the minutes dragging by, the interminable search for a real lead, the dozens of towns and libraries and interviews, even the bad dinners and gross motel showers. It was all there. And then she remembered the gut-wrenching pain of the phone-call from Sam and her brow knotted in confusion. She glanced at the clock again then grabbed her cell phone and checked the date.
It was Wednesday. Sam hadn’t called her until Thursday…which meant they’d gone all the way back. Her heart started to pound again but it was in elation now as she realized that going back to Wednesday morning meant that everything had worked. It hadn’t been a dream. Dean had died but now he hadn’t; he was alive and Sam wasn’t alone.
Layla smiled and let herself fall back on the pillows in relief. She took a deep breath as she replayed the events again. It had all happened…and now it hadn’t. So why did she still remember?
* * * * *
The sky was clearing in Broward County; the last of the storm clouds which had been hovering over the area, trapped in their course by Sam’s eternal Tuesday, were fleeing north. The Impala chased their shadows up the highway, her occupants riding in silence. Dean would occasionally cast a curious, worried glance at this brother from the corner of his eye but Sam stared mutely out the passenger window, jaw set in a thoughtful sullen frown.
Sam watched the scenery gliding by, replaying the events of the last 48 hours….although 24 of those hours hadn’t happened now, or six months, depending on how you looked at it. He didn’t know what to tell his brother. How do you explain something like that? How do you convey six months of searching and hunting, trying to act broken but not break, until blind hope and stubbornness are the only things that pry you out of bed in the morning?
And then there was Layla. Should he even tell Dean what she had done for him? Sam wasn’t even completely sure what she had done at the end. He knew she’d devoted six diligent months to helping his search but for some reason, when he tried to think about her at the end of that span, everything got hazy. All Sam really remembered was waiting for a signal from her and then receiving that cryptic but telling message from Bobby. He did remember the message. What had Bobby meant about staring down another gun for them? Unfortunately, he couldn’t ask Bobby now.
He picked at those memories for a while longer and found the piece that was bothering him: he had been waiting for a sign because Kinsey had told him it was coming; Sheriff Theresa McKinsey, Layla’s bolt-hole and partner-in-crime, whose name he’d never heard before but somehow knew now. He couldn’t even remember the first time they’d spoken but he realized he could remember bits and pieces of other conversations. Somehow, he had whole swaths of information about the woman, including how to get in touch with her. He filed that away as definitely useful but possibly troublesome if Layla found out he knew without providing the information herself.
And what about Layla? Did she even remember what had happened or had she, like Dean, defaulted to the memories of that original Tuesday, waking up this morning none the wiser? If she didn’t remember, maybe it was better to leave her out of the story. He could only imagine how strange it would be hearing someone tell a story about six months of your life that you hadn’t lived.
He realized he’d sighed audibly when his brother’s voice dragged him from his thoughts.
“What’s up, Sam? You’ve been wearing your mopey face all morning. It’s like a clown kicked your puppy or something.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered; and he didn’t, at least, not until he’d had more time to think everything over, especially what the Trickster had said at the end.
“C’mon,” Dean dragged the syllables out goadingly, trying to distract his brother and ease some of the tension that seemed to be rolling off of him in waves. “Cheer up, Sam. It’s Wednesday. There’s no sign of another Tuesday for almost a week. We’re headed out of Bro. Co. and I’m alive. It’s a good day so why the bitchface?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam repeated sharply.
“Alright, Princess. You don’t gotta be so damn sensitive,” Dean grumbled.
“Fine, Dean. You want to talk? Let’s talk,” Sam snapped and swiveled on the bench seat to face his brother. “Why don’t you tell me what’s up with you?”
Dean frowned at his brother suspiciously, flicking his eyes between the road and Sam.
“What are you talking about? I’m not the one being all pouty. I don’t look like I spent all morning sucking on a lemon.”
“Dean, I have literally had almost a year’s worth of Tuesdays to watch you. I’ve seen you react to every possible situation so trust me when I say I noticed some things, like when the hell did you start rocking out to Asia?”
Dean laughed and shrugged dismissively. “It’s a good song. I stand by that.”
Sam stared dubiously at his brother for a long moment but allowed “Heat of the Moment” to slide as he moved on to the next point. “Ok. Then for hundreds of Tuesdays, you walk down the same street, bump into the same cute girl and only one time, when all the clues just happened to align, did you actually go back and talk to her? And then all you did was take a flyer? We’re talking about you, Dean…” Sam caught his brother’s eye meaningfully as he repeated himself in a doubtful tone, “…you.”
“Sam, I have literally no idea what you’re talking about…”
“Maybe not literally but you know what I’m saying. That’s not like you. You weren’t…or haven’t been yourself for weeks before we came here. You haven’t been since…”
“Sam…” Dean interjected warningly.
“No. Fuck that. You’ve been different since we left Ohio, since Layla.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Sam.”
“Oh. So suddenly those words mean something?”
Dean glared at his brother. “It’s none of your business, Sam, and it’s got nothing to do with this.”
“It’s got everything to do with this, Dean,” Sam snapped. “She saved you!”
Dean looked over at his brother in guarded surprise, eyebrows raised questioningly; Sam continued in a frustrated tone, gesturing uncertainly as the words tumbled out.
“…or she helped me save you …I don’t know. It’s all kind of…blurry.”
Dean scowled again but he cast the expression on the road ahead rather than his brother. His voice when he spoke a few moments later was carefully measured.
“What are you talking about, Sam? You caught the Trickster on Tuesday. He said “Let it be Wednesday” and it was…I never died and we hauled ass out of town. You practically held my hand all the way to the car.”
“No…well, yes…but not really,” Sam said with another heavy sigh. “Look. The Trickster made it Wednesday but then he killed you anyway, to prove his point about it being inevitable, I guess.”
“Um…Sam. I’m not dead. Never have been…well, okay, except for that time I pretty much was but that….”
“It hasn’t happened now,” Sam interrupted impatiently. “I mean it did but the Trickster undid it.”
“Ok. Then so what? The result’s the same: I’m alive. What’s that have to do with Layla?” Dean asked in annoyance.
“Six months, Dean.”
“What?”
“That’s how long you were dead.”
The purr of the engine and the droning buzz of the Impala’s tires on the tarmac rolled in to fill the void of sound that Sam’s words summoned like a spell. When Dean didn’t respond after a long moment, Sam continued quietly:
“And that whole time, Layla tracked him too. She never stopped or gave up and in the end, she got me a message that told me what I was really up against…‘cause the Trickster was using Bobby’s face.”
Dean still didn’t look at Sam; he propped his elbow on the window and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How the hell were you supposed to take that kind of information? To him, it was just another day. There had been a Tuesday, now there was Wednesday. Sure, Tuesday had been a little short but that was far from the strangest thing that had happened to him. Hell, liquor had the same effect occasionally. Now this. It was almost too big to wrap his head around.
She’d really spent six months trying to…what? Get revenge …or bring him back? Dean’s stomach twisted at the last thought.
“So how’d all that happen, Sam?” Dean asked accusingly. “How do you know what she was doing?”
“Because I asked for her help,” Sam winced slightly as he spoke the admission, anticipating an outburst from his brother. The muscles in Dean’s jaw worked silently but for the moment he refrained from reacting beyond tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
“I had to, Dean,” Sam continued. I couldn’t use anyone the Trickster might know about. No one really knew that we know her and she lays low for a living…and it worked.”
Dean shook his head, a stern expression settling on his face.
“And this is exactly why we’re not bringing her in on the Colt,” he said, anticipating the direction his brother was going to steer the conversation.
“What? Why?”
“Because she’ll get sucked in. She’ll try to fix it….and that’s only gonna end bad for her.”
“Dean, she hid from the Trickster for six months.”
“No, Sam. Better that I just drive off into the sunset,” Dean said humorlessly.
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re not the Lone Ranger, Dean.”
A small smile curled the corner of Dean’s mouth though his eyes were touched with melancholy as he muttered, “There’s worse things to be, I guess.”
As soon as Sam opened his mouth to speak, the mechanical sound of his phone ringing cut off his reply. Sam fished the device from his pocket and swallowed nervously when he saw the number. He looked apprehensively at his brother.
“What?” Dean asked, seeing Sam’s expression, though he was afraid he already knew.
“It’s Layla.”
“So help me, Sam, not one fucking word.”
“If she’s calling now, chances are she remembers something. I owe it to her to let her know what happened. We both do.”
“Fine but nothing about Bela or the Colt or my deal or you can walk to the next job.”
Sam frowned but nodded grudgingly as he flipped open the phone and lifted it to his ear.
“Hey…Sam?” Layla’s hurried words leapt across the line before Sam had a chance to speak.
“Hey, Layla.” Sam replied in a light but guarded tone, touched with a hint of confusion. Both the brothers could hear her sigh loudly in relief. Dean rolled his neck and fixed his stare back on the road ahead, jaw set stubbornly as if trying to block out the conversation.
“Sam, you have no idea how good it is to talk to you,”
The younger Winchester laughed, watching Dean’s reaction cautiously from the corner of his eye. “I know what you mean.”
“No offense but you really, really don’t.”
Sam’s brow furrowed and he began to ask what she meant but Layla cut him off in a rush.
“Is your brother…?” she trailed off apprehensively.
“Yeah,” Sam said reassuringly. “Yeah. Dean’s right here.” Sam glanced over at Dean again to see his brother watching him surreptitiously. He shot his brother a questioning look and gestured to the phone. Dean only shook his head and resumed glaring at the horizon.
“Good…good,” Layla said. “What about you, Sam? You alright?”
“Yeah. I’m okay, just a little…confused. I got Bobby’s message but he really didn’t say what happened. What did happen?”
“It’s a long story, Sam, but I ran into the Trickster before he came for you. He hit me with some hoodoo so I couldn’t get ahold of you directly,” Layla supplied guardedly.
“Like what? Did he curse your cell phone?” Sam asked teasingly, trying to lower her guard and draw out more information.
“Uh…yeah, something like that. Like I said, it’s a long story. I’ll give you the full rundown next time I see you guys.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
“Sam…” Dean growled warningly under his breath but Sam ignored him.
“Not sure,” Layla said. “I got some things to wrap up here in Flagstaff then on to the next job, I guess. Maybe it’ll bring me to your neck of the woods.”
“Yeah. Sounds good,” Sam replied with a thoughtful frown. There was no point in pressing the issue, especially with his brother listening. Given Dean’s current mood, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if the older Winchester tried to throw the phone out the window if something was said that he didn’t want shared. “You just gotta tell me one thing: how’d you convince Bobby you were really you?”
Layla paused before answering elusively: “C’mon, Sam. A girl’s gotta have some secrets.”
“Fine. I get it. It’s a long story,” Sam repeated with overdramatic acquiescence, biting down on his frustrated curiosity.
“Bingo.”
“Well, when you tell Kinsey the story, tell her I said thanks,” Sam said with a smirk, enjoying both the confused look that Dean shot his direction and the shocked silence that echoed over the phone line. A burst of laughter flooded through a moment later.
“Yeah, well, tell Bobby I said thanks for not shooting me,” Layla responded in a “two-can-play-at-that-game” tone of voice.
“I will but that might be a little confusing if I can’t explain it,” Sam chuckled when he saw Dean’s perplexed frown deepen into a curious, annoyed scowl.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re a smart guy,” Layla said, playfully sidestepping the unspoken question. “Anyway, you guys take care of yourselves. My head can’t take any more time loops and tricksters so tell your brother to not get himself killed again for a while, ok? Same goes for you.”
Sam grimaced at Layla’s choice of words and looked over at Dean. Dean’s face slid into an expressionless mask but Sam could hear the leather of the Impala’s steering wheel creak under his white-knuckled grip.
“Yeah…yeah, me neither. I’ll let him know.” Sam said, trying to keep his voice light. “Keep in touch, Layla.”
“I will, Sam. Count on it.”
Sam was mildly surprised by the conviction in Layla’s voice as the line clicked off on the tail of her words. Sam glanced at his brother but Dean avoided any attempt at conversation by reaching over and flicking on the radio pointedly.
A shiver coursed down Sam’s spine as Metallica’s familiar orchestration of sharp chords and crunchy reverb billowed out of the Impala’s speakers. He tried to dismiss the sinking suspicion that the Trickster was getting one last word in as the radio cut in directly at the chorus, letting the sinister words echo through the Impala:
“…For whom the bell tolls…time marches on…”
* * * * * * * * * *
[Want more? The first installment of the sequel, Lonely Hearts Club, is available now! Check it out!]
