Chapter Text
Things happened too quickly for Sam to keep track of it all, but he could say with confidence that none of it was good.
When the dust settled, he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. Dean was hunched over on his knees, cradling his right hand to his chest. Sam could see blood seeping through his fingers. The pistol had backfired, and Dean’s hand was a mess of blood and burns.
The Doctor, still near the doorway, was sprawled out on the ground. Dean’s pistol had backfired, but not before it fired right, and he had gotten a clean shot in clear through the Doctor’s right shoulder. Sam sucked in a breath, watching the creature’s form carefully.
Dean’s quiet cursing was the only thing that broke the silence for a long moment. Sam took a cautious step towards the Doctor.
The bullet wound was an ugly injury, Sam could tell when he got a little closer. So he was extremely surprised when the Doctor bolted upright.
Sam stumbled backwards, alarmed, and the Doctor unbuttoned his jacket and undershirt, pulling the shirt away from his shoulder. He touched the wound with delicate fingers and hissed. “Ah, that’s a bad one,” he said, sounding mostly disappointed. He looked behind himself and saw the gory bullet, and made a face. “Least it went straight through.” He rotated his shoulder a few times, grimacing as he did so, and then looked at Dean and grimaced harder. He stood, fishing something out of his pocket and approaching Dean. “Sorry about that,” he said, sounding sincere. “Guns make me nervous.”
“Get the hell away from me,” Dean said, his voice rough, trying to scramble back against the cabinets. It only bought him a few feet, and since the Doctor was standing it was fruitless. The Doctor crouched down in front of him, opening the small container he’d retrieved from his pocket. He grabbed Dean’s wrist above the injury, released it and shoved his glasses up his nose then took Dean’s hand again. He resisted Dean’s attempts to pull away—stronger than he looks, Sam thought unhappily—and spread whatever ointment the container held along the wounds.
“Oi,” the Doctor scolded, giving Dean an irritable look over the glasses, “if you stop struggling it would hurt less. It’s medicated gel. This particular type doesn’t become available to humans for another, ah, couple of centuries, but I happened to have some in my pocket so lucky you, eh?”
“Yeah, lucky me,” Dean said, still struggling. Finally the Doctor released his hand, and Dean drew it back to his chest, holding it with his good hand like he was afraid the Doctor was going to try to take it back again. He glared up at the creature distrustfully. The Doctor rolled his eyes.
“You’re welcome,” the Doctor said with extravagant sarcasm. He stood up straight, dusting the knees off of his suit pants. He surveyed the room.
Sam stood by the wall, closer to the corner, in what he realized had been an unconscious attempt to hide himself. It didn’t work. The Doctor met his eyes and studied him for a moment, dipping his fingers into the gel and dabbing it onto the wound on his shoulder. He winced slightly, but didn’t take his eyes off of Sam.
“Now, you,” he said, stepping forward toward him. Sam took a step back, but the Doctor didn’t stop. He backed Sam into the counters, his eyes sharp and calculating. Sam pressed the small of his back against the countertops, trying to maximize the distance between them. “Brilliant thing, you are. That was some trick out there, earlier. You weren’t projecting yourself from back here. How long ago was it, for you?”
Sam swallowed hard, and, not sure why he was answering, said, “Early this morning. About six hours ago.”
“You don’t have to tell this thing anything , Sammy,” Dean shouted from his place on the floor, gritting his teeth against the pain in his hand. He levered himself standing and Sam stole a look at the injury. He felt the familiar cold settle into his stomach as he realized it was healing. Already healing.
The Doctor frowned petulantly at Dean as he wiped his hand off on his pants and slipped the small container back into his pocket. Sam watched it as it disappeared, not even disrupting the line of the Doctor’s long brown coat. Like it had disappeared. Like it had never been there.
“ Thing? ” the Doctor echoed. “You wound me. Well. ” He glanced at his shoulder as he pulled the shirt back over the rapidly healing gunshot wound, smiling a little bit, ironically. “In several ways. Right. I’m called the Doctor, but you know that because you heard everything Ellen and I said in the other room. So I suppose small talk is unnecessary. Let’s get to the questions, shall we?”
Sam stared at the pocket for a little bit longer, and when he looked up he saw the Doctor watching him curiously. His eyes were narrowed just a little, and he gave overall the impression of a man solving a very complex math problem. He huffed an almost inaudible laugh, and then said. “Samuel. Questions?”
“How do you know us?” Sam asked. “How did you know our dad?”
The Doctor paused. He lifted his chin, studying Sam from down his nose despite his height disadvantage. Then he turned his eyes down, shaking his head. “Your father and I met,” he said. “Sixteen years ago.”
Sam startled.
“That’s bullshit,” Dean spat. “We would’ve remembered. Hell, I’d’ve been—”
“Thirteen,” the Doctor said, and Dean fell quiet. “And nine,” he added, looking at Sam.
“We’d remember,” Sam said.
The Doctor held his gaze for long enough that Sam was the one to look away. Then the Doctor turned to Ellen, who also looked away. Jo stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulders, but she looked as bewildered as Sam felt. The Doctor stood there for a while, watching Ellen, and when it became clear that she wasn’t going to say anything, he said, “We—well, it was decided that it was best if the three of you didn’t remember what happened.”
Silence fell over the room. Jo took a small step away from Ellen, raising a hand to her mouth. Sam stared at Ellen, saw the tears in her eyes. She ran her hands over her face.
“You were all so young,” she said softly. “We all—we thought it was the right thing to do. The things you saw…” She trailed off, her mouth working like the words just wouldn’t arrive, and she turned to Jo.
Jo inhaled, unsteady, and said, “You let some demon wipe our memories?”
Ellen raised a hand as though to touch Jo’s face, but Jo took another step back. Ellen swallowed visibly and turned to glare at the Doctor.
“Gonna let me field that one, huh?” she asked sharply. “The name calling doesn’t bother you now?”
The Doctor’s gaze was steady and cold as he slipped his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “I respected your wishes sixteen years ago, against my better judgment,” he said quietly. “I didn’t do this, Ellen. You did.”
“You did plenty,” Ellen said. “Now get out of my house. You’ve done enough damage today.”
“I can’t and you know why. If I leave, and things continue like they’ve been, you’re asking me to condemn your daughter and John’s boys to death.” Any trace of kindness that had been present in the Doctor’s expression was gone, and Sam shivered at the anger that remained. “I have done things I am not proud of for you and your family, Ellen Harvelle. But I won’t do this. Not again.”
Ellen took a step closer to the Doctor, who didn’t move, but watched her closely. Sam could see her hands trembling, but her voice was steady as she said, “That’s how this works, then? You respect my wishes until you don’t want to anymore? How are you any different from what we fight?”
Something flashed over the Doctor’s face for a split second, too fast for Sam to parse it, and then a stillness came over his face that was even more frightening than his anger. It was the look of a man who’d made up his mind, and was beyond appeal. He drew himself up straight.
“I am doing my duty under the Shadow Proclamation,” he said flatly. “And I’m being kind. You may not think I’m on your side but if I weren’t, I could arrest Joanna right now and bring her up without another word. Give it a week and I’d be back for Dean and Samuel. Understand that, Ellen. I am protecting you.”
Sam turned to his brother, who had been suspiciously quiet this entire time. Dean’s face was livid, his mouth slightly open and his eyes fixed on the Doctor. “Dean?” Sam said softly, crossing to his brother. “What is it?”
“The Shadow Proclamation,” Dean said. “Dad wrote about that in his journal.”
Despite their quiet tones, the Doctor’s head snapped toward them and he took a step in their direction, Ellen evidently forgotten. “He did what?” he asked, his voice sharp.
“What did it say?” asked Sam, keeping the Doctor in his peripheral vision.
Dean also glanced up at the Doctor, wary, as he said, “Not much. Something about some sort of council of demons. They find and kill Hunters. He didn’t mention it to me, not out loud, but it was in the journal. I never thought much of it. Though, I mean, I guess I should have.” Dean frowned. “Weird.”
The Doctor relaxed during Dean’s explanation, squinting up at the ceiling like he was working it out in his own head. “Well, that’s not quite right,” he said, and then, under his breath so that Sam could barely make it out, “perception filter’s working, at least.” Then he glanced at Ellen. “I thought the deal was none of you would ever speak of it again.”
“John didn’t tell me he wrote about it,” Ellen said defensively. “But that journal was his. He didn’t expect to leave the boys. Not yet.”
Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and felt his brother grow still as Ellen spoke. She couldn’t know how open a wound that was for Dean—Sam knew she missed their dad, too, but John’s death had hurt no one so much as Dean. And beyond that, she was wrong. Wrong, or lying: their dad had left the journal to Dean before his death. Whatever he had written in it, he’d meant for them to know.
The Doctor nodded slowly, but his eyes were narrowed slightly. He turned to Sam and Dean, and his expression changed to one of sympathy. “I am sorry to hear about your father,” he said, sounding genuine. “He was a good man.”
“Damn right,” Dean said gruffly, but Sam could feel the hitch in his breath that he was able to keep out of his voice.
“Look,” Sam said, “let’s lay out some groundwork. Okay? You know, since our memories were wiped. Let’s get on the same page.”
“Ah, well.” The Doctor sucked in a breath through his teeth and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “That’s sort of the, ah, the trouble. You see—”
“Your dad and Bill and I did what we did or a reason,” Ellen interrupted, and the Doctor looked put out, but fell silent. “You may not agree with it or be happy about it, but I stand by our decision. There are things you don’t need to know about.”
Sam was struck silent, staring between Ellen and the Doctor in shock. Finally he recovered himself and said, “We’re adults now, Ellen! You don’t have that right anymore. And whatever Dad thought he could protect us from, he can’t, now.”
Ellen strode up to the Doctor, ignoring Sam, and shoved her finger right in his face. He looked down at her, unmoving. “Don’t you dare tell them, Doctor,” she hissed. “It’s hard enough as it is. You know that. Like it or not, you know that.”
They stayed like that for a moment, Ellen rigid and glowering, the Doctor still and pensive, their eyes never leaving each other’s. Finally, the Doctor sighed and lowered his eyes. “I know,” he said.
Ellen let out a shuddering breath and nodded. “So, what now?” she asked. “I know we aren’t lucky enough for you to just leave us in peace. And if you’re here that means something’s wrong, and it isn’t just Jo mixing up Slitheen and Blitheen.”
“Blathereen,” the Doctor said, sounding pained at Ellen’s ignorance. “And really, they’re not hard to tell apart: totally different linguistic markers and sociocultural behaviors, to say nothing of their tribal markings on all of their belongings, but that aside, no. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Because I’ve been...sent...to keep an eye on the Winchesters.”
“Yeah, like hell,” exclaimed Dean. That was, apparently, the last straw. “Come on, Sammy, we’re leaving.” With that he pushed himself fully upright, using Sam’s shoulder to lever himself away from the counter that had been holding most of his weight.
Sam stared at Dean as he moved like he was speaking Klingon. Did his brother really think the Doctor would let them leave? Just like that? He looked from his brother to the creature, waiting for something to happen. The Doctor just watched them impassively, remaining standing where he was. Sam walked to Dean, never taking his eyes off of the Doctor.
Who, in turn, shook his head wearily. “I’m not going to stop you,” he said. “But, one way or another, I have to watch you. If you let me, I could come with you, keep you from trouble. If not…” He hesitated, choosing his words with care. “...I can’t guarantee what’ll happen. Nothing good.”
Dean bristled. “Is that a threat?” he demanded, reaching for the knife that Sam knew was tucked away in his boot. Sam’s heart began to race.
The Doctor growled, frustrated, and ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up in an impressively gravity-defying manner. “No, it’s not a threat!” he exclaimed, exasperated. Dean stopped reaching for the knife, straightening slowly. “I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to help you. If you don’t want my help, I won’t force it on you. So…” He waved his hands in front of him, making some strangled noises until he finally settled on, “ go .”
“Just like that?” asked Sam. His voice came out quiet, surprised.
The Doctor turned to him curiously. He peered at him through his glasses, studying. Sam felt exposed, and wondered what the Doctor could read in him. “Yes,” the Doctor finally replied. “Just like that.” His voice took on a bright, curious note as he added, “I won’t keep you here against your will, Samuel.”
Sam swallowed hard and deliberately did not take a step backwards, thrown as he felt. I won’t keep you here against your will . Could he know how Sam had felt during the vision? He couldn’t. He also couldn’t have spoken to Sam during the vision, and he couldn’t have healed Dean’s hand like he did, and he couldn’t possibly have met their father sixteen years ago, but he’d done those things, too—or at least claimed he had. So who was to say what the Doctor could and couldn’t do?
But he said nothing, just met the Doctor’s eyes for another long moment, watching the interest in the mysterious creature’s face as they watched each other. Like Sam was something fascinating, something puzzling. Something new.
“Let’s go, Sammy,” Dean said again, heading for the door. Sam shot one last, nervous look at the Doctor, Ellen, and Jo, before following his brother.
The light outside was blinding as they left Ellen’s house. It felt like they’d been in there for ages, and it was somehow jarring to realize that it was still light outside; so little time had actually passed. Once they were far enough from the door that Sam was fairly confident they wouldn’t be overheard, he hissed, “I thought you didn’t want to leave Ellen alone with that thing.”
“She said he won’t hurt them,” Dean said shortly, not looking at Sam, striding right up to the Impala and swinging himself in quickly. “We have to trust her.”
Sam climbed into the passenger seat, frowning at having his words thrown back at him. But he said nothing, just shot one last, anxious glance at the house.
The tires of the Impala screeched their protest as Dean peeled out of the neighborhood, in silence for a long while until Dean said, “I don’t like that thing, Sammy. Gave me the creeps.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Sam muttered. He passed a hand over his face. “Think he’s gonna follow us?”
Dean scoffed. “He can try. We’ve got some practice at avoiding the authorities.”
Sam smiled half-heartedly, appreciating Dean’s effort to cheer him, but the smile faded quickly. “I don’t know, man. I’m not so sure. Ellen was freaked out. And he seemed pretty confident that he could let us go and find us again.”
Dean waved dismissively with one hand. “The bigger they are, yadda yadda.”
Sam thought briefly about arguing, trying to make him take this threat more seriously, but quickly rejected it as unlikely to work based on the precedent of his entire life. He also suspected that beneath the bravado that was probably for his benefit, Dean was as worried as he was. “So. Where to?” he asked.
Dean shrugged. “Figure we’ll drive til we hit a motel that’s less than 50% bedbugs, then find us a case,” he said.
Sam nodded, settling back into his seat. “Okay,” he said. No point in arguing. Dean, ultimately, had the wheel.
It took them a couple of hours and one pit stop for gas and beef jerky (nothing for Sam, thanks), but eventually they found a motel with a vacancy. They climbed out of the car, grabbed their bags, and headed inside.
The motel was a pretty standard issue right-off-the-interstate dive, fading 70s wallpaper and avocado green carpets, but it didn’t look too bad. Behind the counter was a young woman, college aged at the most, with blonde hair and a brighter smile than he usually found in places like this. Her eyes lit up when she saw them, and she stood.
“Afternoon!” she said brightly, leaning on the counter on her elbows. Sam smiled wearily at her, grateful for the warm welcome, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Dean give her a once-over. He elbowed his brother in the side, shaking his head. Dean grunted and glared, but behaved himself.
“We could use a room for a couple of nights,” Sam said once they arrived at the counter.
“Sure, let me see what we’ve got,” the girl said, ducking under the counter. As Sam heard the rattle of keys, he tried to place her accent. Boston, maybe? Definitely not Nebraska. Odd to hear it out in the boonies, whatever it was. She emerged with two keychains. “Room 216, down to your right. How many nights, did you say?”
“I didn’t,” Sam said, “but three would be great. We might need more, if that’s okay?”
“No problem,” she said, smiling sweetly. Sam found himself smiling back, disarmed by the authenticity. “How’re you planning to pay?”
Dean handed her a card and worked out the payment with her while Sam leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted. They hadn’t, he thought grimly, gone far enough. And they certainly hadn’t taken enough backroads. He peered out into the bright afternoon through the dusty windows, watching the odd car pass by on the highway. If the Doctor was following them, they’d made it really easy for him. And he didn’t seem like a creature who needed things made easy.
He startled when Dean punched him in the arm. “Come on let’s head up,” Dean said, nodding towards the stairwell. Sam cracked his neck, and as he was tilting it he saw the girl grinning at him. He smiled back, then quickly looked away and followed Dean up towards their room.
“So,” Dean drawled once they’d arrived, making the word last the length of about four syllables. Sam groaned, and Dean burst out laughing. “I saw you looking! Puppy-dog eyes and everything. Can’t be helped, she’s smoking.”
“Shut up,” Sam retorted. “She just had a nice smile. It was nice to see somebody happy like that.”
Now Dean groaned as he pulled out the key and opened their room. “Don’t make this a moment, man,” he said. “I just want to grab a local paper and a bite to eat.”
Sam nodded his agreement, tossing his bag on the floor by the bed that Dean hadn’t already claimed. He paused, then unzipped the bag and dug into it, pulling out their dad’s journal. He flipped quickly to the back.
It only took a few minutes of searching for him to find it. It was a short passage, nothing like the well-researched, carefully-written and -illustrated entries that the journal consisted mostly of. It said:
The Shadow Proclamation
Collective designed to
hunt
find/try Hunters. Located in separate dimension. Capable of transporting humans across dimensions. Powerful locating spells. More than one type of demon involved. Some humans (?)
And last, in larger, heavier handwriting:
DON’T Trust the Dr.
Sam didn’t know what else he’d expected, but his stomach dropped nonetheless. The word don’t was written a little too far off to the left of the page, in blue ink, while the rest was in black. It was like his dad had changed his mind after writing it the first time. He wondered what had happened, that the Doctor had gained, and then lost, his father’s trust.
“Feel like a burger, Sammy?” Dean asked, and Sam jumped at his sudden voice.
He started to answer, but stopped when a thought occurred to him. “Lemme see your hand, Dean,” he said, reaching across the gap between the beds. Dean frowned but held his hand out, and as he did, his eyes widened.
“Damn,” Dean whispered.
It was unreal. It was like the gun hadn’t backfired at all. His hand was reddened and warm where the wounds had been, but the skin had knitted itself back together perfectly. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, Sam would never have believed that Dean had sustained such a painful injury only a few hours ago.
Dean took his hand back and turned it back and forth in amazement. “I almost forgot,” he said.
It didn’t make sense. Don’t trust the Doctor. But what kind of demon healed the very Hunter it was hunting?
Sam tried to shake it off, and said, “Okay, so I found the entry you talked about in Dad’s journal.” He handed the book to Dean, pointing out the passage.
Dean whistled low. “How’d I forget the part about the Doc?” he asked after a moment. “So he did know Dad, and it had something to do with whatever this Shadow Proclamation is. What did the Doctor say about it?”
“He said he was doing his duty under the Shadow Proclamation,” Sam recalled. “That, plus this, doesn’t sound great.”
“Well, Dad did cross out hunt , so that’s something at least,” Dean said, but he didn’t look up from the journal, and that if nothing else showed Sam how disturbed his brother was. Finally he tore his eyes away from the paper and looked up at Sam. “What did he mean try ?”
“I mean, like a court?” Sam offered, but it sounded strange in his own head. Demons holding court? Demons with a judicial system? Dean snorted, and Sam didn’t blame him. Then Dean tossed the journal back onto Sam’s bed and grabbed the telephone book from under the lamp stand. Sam gave him a quizzical look.
“Demon collective or no demon collective, I’m still freakin’ hungry,” Dean said simply.
As Dean began his ongoing search for the perfect cheeseburger anew, Sam lay back on his bed and thought. Thought about this Shadow Proclamation that they knew so little about. Thought about the fact that his dad had withheld information from them that could be so vital now. Thought about the Doctor, and Dean’s hand. Why on earth would he have fixed Dean’s hand?
And, a small voice in the back of Sam’s head added, if he’d fixed Dean’s hand, what else might he be able to fix?
Sam looked up at Dean, watching his brother scour the telephone book, his finger following the lines and his brow furrowed as he tried to judge the quality of the burger by the name of the place. He smiled to himself, just a little bit. His brother. His stupid, arrogant, self-sacrificing brother, who had less than a year to live. Thanks to Sam.
The smile faded.
Sometimes, when they were turning in for the night, nursing whatever various injuries they’d sustained but high on the adrenaline of a hunt well-finished, Sam would watch his brother and swear he could see flames licking at his shoulders already, chains rising up to snake around his ankles. It hurt so much, and even his grief made him angry, because he wasn’t the one who was going to suffer. He never was. Dean always made sure of that.
But.
If the Doctor really was part of whatever this Shadow Proclamation was, powerful demon collective or whatever it turned out to be, maybe he knew somebody who could help get Dean out of his deal. Maybe that somebody was him. Maybe, if they kept him happy, he could save Dean.
Immediately, Sam sighed and ran his hands over his face. Dean was never going to go along with that. He hadn’t when it was Ruby, and he wouldn’t now, especially now that he’d seen their dad’s note about not trusting the Doctor. But maybe Dean didn’t need to know. Sam wasn’t sure that his inevitable displeasure with the idea was enough of a reason not to give it a shot. Because whatever else the Doctor might be, for all the things Sam didn’t know about him, all signs pointed to him being powerful. Maybe powerful enough to do it.
“I give up,” Dean announced, slamming the phone book down on the lamp stand. Sam jumped and glanced over at Dean, who was grinning at him in a way that promised nothing good. “Guess we’ll have to ask your girlfriend where to get a good burger,” he said, sure enough.
Sam groaned. “Dude, let it go,” he begged, but he knew it was useless. Dean was already up, grabbing his wallet, a gun, and a knife, and he took off downstairs without even seeming to have heard Sam’s words. Sam followed him quickly, if only to do damage control.
When they arrived at the front desk, the girl was sorting papers and looking irritable. Her mouth was twisted down in a frown and she was muttering something under her breath as she evened out a stack of papers by banging them against the counter with considerable violence. She rolled her eyes and had that look about her of somebody rehearsing an argument and winning it pretty handily.
Dean cleared his throat, and she jumped and put the papers down. “Oh!” she exclaimed, flushing a little bit and smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, didn’t see you. Can I help you?”
Dean sidled up to the counter and leaned on it with one elbow, cranking the charm up to eleven with a million-watt grin. Sam looked pained. “We’re looking for the best burger in town,” Dean said smoothly. “Know where that might be?”
The girl’s grin turned genuine and she leaned in close to Dean, conspiratorially. “Oh, I can do you one better than that,” she said, just as smoothly as Dean. Dean raised an eyebrow. “If you can wait about five minutes, I’m off shift, and I’ll show you where you can get the best burger in town.”
Dean twisted around so that Sam could see his face but not the girl, and his expression could only be described as gleeful . “We can wait,” he said, doing a pretty miserable job of keeping that same glee out of his voice. The girl gave a quirky smile, her tongue sticking out between her teeth just the smallest amount, and gestured for them to have a seat while she bustled around behind the counter, arranging and tidying.
A few minutes later a disgruntled-looking young man arrived through the front door, and the girl greeted him. He ignored her aside from a grunt, which didn’t seem to bother her. She told him good-bye cheerily and then came around to the front of the counter as he took her place behind it, and she looked expectantly at the Winchesters.
“I assume,” she said, “you have a car.” Her eyebrows lifted a little.
Dean’s eyes grew wide, and he nodded, grinning ear to ear. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I have a car.”