Chapter Text
‘When you’re falling in a forest
and there’s nobody around
do you ever really crash or even make a sound?
Did I even make a sound?
It's like I never made a sound.
Will I ever make a sound?’
Lawrence, Kansas
John Winchester was standing in front of the burning house, not more than a hundred feet away or so. His body - so strong and firm and reassuring on any other day – was trembling from head to toe; he was just standing, speechless, his legs shaking so badly it was a goddamn miracle he hadn’t collapsed yet. He couldn’t, though, because baby Sammy was wrapped tightly in a blanket (or maybe a sweater or was it a t-shirt John had picked up on their way out?), face pressed against his father’s chest, held safe with one harm. It was freezing, the winter picking up faster than usual that year. The only point of warmth seemed to be somewhere near John’s palm, where Dean’s small hand was holding his.
« Dad? »
The voice was soft, and impossibly calm, in a way that made it all feel even more wrong. He looked down at his eldest child, completely at loss. He barely noticed how his own hand seemed much paler than Dean’s.
Only then John realised he had used his own jumper to keep Sammy warm, and that was probably why he was freezing to death on the side of the road in Lawrence, Kansas, a dead wife in the nursery of his burning house, and two children on the wanting list of a monster.
Somewhere in the States
Can you sue the Devil?
Ruby was fairly sure you could, given the right circumstances.
‘Ruby do this, no, Ruby undo that, wait, Ruby, let’s try this one instead.’
Ruby was officially done setting in place new plans that would always, always be cancelled. And who was supposed to cut off loose ends? Kill demons? Erase memories? She was, of course. And she had not crawled out of Hell to be a fucking cleaning lady, not even for Satan themselves.
Now, it was all about the damn baby again.
Ruby hated babies on normal days, but when Lucifer was going through one of their overprotective soulmate phases, God save them all. Literally.
‘Have you checked on Sammy today?’, they would ask. And ‘yes, your Evilness, I have’, she would reply. ‘Would you mind checking again?’, which actually meant ‘go and check on him now, or I’ll have a meltdown that would make the whole underworld shake’.
Sammy was objectively cute for a human baby, but also objectively human. There wasn’t anything remotely interesting about him and the demon blood dear old Azazel had spatted on his face wasn’t showing any fun demonic side effects yet. The amount of Grace Lucifer was wasting daily to project their own image so that Sammy would know they were watching over him was frankly embarassing.
Also, Ruby had so many questions.
Firs of all, aren’t baby humans supposed to forget basically everything by the time they’d grown up? That would make Lucifer’s mind trips useless. And what shape was Lucifer appearing as, considering their one true form was known to be The Terror of All Terrors, human and divine? Or was Sammy truly the Evil’s spwan thus he could just giggle and smile in front of Satan in all their glory? And regardless of all this, why not saving up precious Grace considering they were all planning to take over the world and overthrow God?
Just asking for a friend.
’bit everywhere, but mostly Singer Salvage Yard, South Dakota.
John stared at the first page of a dusty yet well-kept notebook, almost in a trance. He was trying his best to put together words and sentences, and nonetheless nothing was making any sense.
‘I figured I will start with the easy stuff', the woman had said.
Missouri, wasn’t it?
He huffed a joyless laugh and pressed both palms against his forehead. The waitress gave him the look - the ‘I never met you before, but I you are a parent in a public space so I feel entitled to judge you’ kind of look. John was too exhausted to even notice, let alone to give a shit. He adjusted Sammy’s blanket, thanking God the baby was still napping peacefully on the bench next to him.
'I will start with the easy stuff', Missouri had lied to him, and then proceeded saying unspeakable things, like ‘monsters are real’. Things John couldn’t possibly accept or didn’t want to accept; things his body - his sleep-deprived, drained body, every day one step closer to let him collapse and never wake up again - didn’t have the energy to accept.
Once again, he could sense it stirring up in his belly: it was pain, so sharp and focused - Mary Mary Mary, Mary was dead - John was genuinely surprised he could still notice the surrounding world. He had read about that in some book, a lifetime ago after the war, but clumsily, the way you read about those things that will most definitely never happen to you. The human body is not a machine, not like cars, and when it breaks, you’re fucked. You gotta take the time to let it heal, because you can’t fix it, hell, you can’t even fix cars sometimes. That suffering is kinda like an illness, and you have to face it or it eats you up from the inside, nothing different from cancer or shitty things like that.
But how-?
John wanted to scream his lungs out and sleep for a month at the same time. He wanted to lie on something soft, their old bed or a nice grass, like the one in the park they always went to with Dean every other Sunday, he wanted to stare into the distance and feel all of that pain washing over himself - he wanted to drown, die with her, stop thinking about the fucking next thing. The next place to go. The next page to read. The next name on the list of ‘friends who kill things’ Missouri had given him. The next breath he knew he had to force out of himself, instead of holding it in and see if it was true that human instinct will always prevent any attempt at self-suffocating.
« Dad! ‘Lady gave me extra cheese on the fries. She’s so nice! »
Dean was barely tall enough to look over the table; he stood on his tiptoes to put the plate of fries in front John. John couldn’t bring himself to say anything, instead, he forced a little smile. Awful idea, as he felt closer to tears than ever.
« Dad..? »
You have to say something, he screamed in his own head, you owe it to Dean to say something. He was fighting a losing war - he knew that. He felt himself starting to shake, this time too hard and too quickly to try and hide it from Dean.
This is isn’t happening. God, please, let me wake up.
Dean climbed on the bench next to him, and gently pulled at his father’s arm, putting it around his own shoulder. He went to rest his head in the crook of John’s neck, while his tiny hand rubbed circles on John’s back.
Say it. You gotta say it, goddamnit!
« ‘Tsokay, dad. It’s gonna be okay. »
Turned out, the list of people was more than a reminder that all this crazy bat monster thing was real.
First, John stumbled over the Harvelle’s, both hunters and also owners of the Roadhouse - the kind of pub which would be perfect as a cover up for illegal stuff. Not so illegal, apparently, but definitely nothing to brag about in any other bar. Ellen seemed eager to help the moment she set eyes on the kids, although Dean practically hissed when she tried and picked up Sammy. John had just stared at the scene stupidly, until Ellen had gently pushed him toward one of the rooms. He would have felt guilty about Dean, who had spent the night running back and forth from John’s room to Ellen’s office, where she took care of Sammy while dealing with her usual business, and yet John hadn’t had a single night of sleep since the fire. A few stolen hours every now and then, scattered between the scarce but regular visits to Missouri and some other random moments, like a weird afternoon with one Bobby Singer.
John could hardly blink knowing a thing he had now learned to call demon was after them. (After Sammy, in the best case scenario.)
So, by the time Dean had entered the room for the second time, he was already passed out.
John kept jumping from one hunter - or sort of - to the other, becoming something in between a kicked puppy everybody felt sorry for and a relative who has recently been dumped. The only person he had felt a connection with, however fleeble, was that Bobby Singer. The man didn’t know the first thing about parenting, not to mention the most basic social norms to express condolences. He had been the most comforting presence in John’s life since the fire.
‘Are we going to Bobby’s, dad?’ Dean would ask every other day, meaning ‘I hope we’re going to Bobby’s’.
So, John did go to Bobby’s.
The clock signed a quarter to midnight, when John suddenly stood up on his bed. He cautiously manoeuvred Dean to a more comfortable position - he still used to be Dean’s pillow most of the time, tonight not being an exception - and adjusted the blankets around him. He glanced at Sammy. The baby glanced back from his improvised baby crib, eyes wide open.
Sam spent his days between playing, napping, and refusing any food that wasn’t extremely healthy; and yet, every time John checked on him at night, the boy was awake. He had a long one-sided conversation with him, once, asking what was so interesting about nights. Sammy had gingerly pointed at one of the angels painted on the cover of Bobby’s most recent reading and John had simply archived the episode. Nobody had ever mentioned angels to him yet, and he wasn’t going to give anyone the chance to, just in case.
« You be quiet Sammy, ‘lright? »
Sammy waved his arms at him. John took a deep breath.
He sat on the kitchen floor, one of Bobby’s phones in his lap. He seemed lost in his thoughts, eyes scanning Bobby’s legendary telephone wall. Who’s better? He shook his head. Who’s less than horrible? He finally settled his gaze on one of the phones: the big white label with black letter read ‘F B I’. So be it. He reached for Bobby’s personal telephone book, the one with real contacts, until he found what he was looking for: FBI Local Headquarter, Kansas City.
John pressed the first number.
Kansas City, Kansas
Day one sucks, by definition. And yet, Victor was used to defy any and all clichés. He had walked inside the building - a freaking FBI building - like he owned the place, all confidence and prompt answers. He had the physical need to impress his new boss, to make the best impression and start collecting golden stars for his career. Becoming an FBI agent had always been his dream, but Victor wasn’t a light dreamer: his dreams were precise, neatly listed on a notebook (squares, never lines), completed with deadlines, and, of course, escalating. Dreams were hard work and no faffing around.
Some might have said that Victor Henriksen was a control freak.
From his perspective, it was a compliment.
He obviously, obviously volunteered to stay on night duty straight away. And there he was, fidgeting with the phone cable, already on top of his daily and nightly paperworks. The phone hasn’t rang once, so Victor was considering leaving his desk to make himself some coffee, when finally it happened.
Victor made sure his perfectly sharpened pencil and immaculate notebook where aligned on the desk, straightened his tie and picked up the phone.
« Good evening. You have reached the FBI local office in Kansas City. This is Agent Henriksen. How can I assist you? »
« I- »
The speaker went quiet.
« Hello? Sir? »
« I’m- I am calling about a murder. Sort of. »
« Sir, if this is an emergency I can transer you immediately to 911- »
« No, no. It’s too late now. There ain’t nothing no one can do about it. »
There was a deep, painful sigh. Victor could easily tell he was speaking to an adult male. The tone matched the little information he had been given so far – he could sense the despair, perhaps with a hint of regret, but above all, the man sounded defeated. Whatever did happen to him, the caller wasn’t going to fight it for much longer.
« I understand, sir. Can you tell me anything about this murder? Who’s the victim? »
« My wife. »
Oh.
Victor closed his eyes for a moment and thought of his training to keep focused.
« I am truly sorry for your loss. But I can only help if you give me some information. You said it was a murder? »
« Well, it was a fire. But she was also- she- fuck, I’m not sure I can explain this. »
« You mean arson? Someone set a fire? »
« No, no no no, it’s, uhm. » he sighed again, and every time he did, Victor almost expected him to break into tears « They say it was a monster. A demon. Monsters are real, okay? God, I sound like a fucking crazy person. But- but it’s true. And I have to learn how to kill them, otherwise what are we going to do? If he- it comes back? There must be someone, I don’t know, the fucking army maybe, that can stop it- »
« Okay, I need you to take a deep breath. I understand you are scared for your own safety right now- »
« It’s the kids I am worried about. »
« You have kids? »
« Yeah, two kids. »
« And they are in danger...? »
« They’re safe for now, but- » there was a painful pause « I- »
« Sir. Do you have thoughts about hurting them? »
« What?! »
The man sounded outraged, to say the least. Victor bit his tongue.
« I didn’t mean- »
« You know what, this was a mistake. »
And just like that, the man hunged up.
Victor stared at the empty space in front of himself, horrified. He couldn’t move, he could barely breathe. Never, not once, in all those years of training had he messed up so badly. Fuck fuck fuck...
The phone rang.
« Hello? » Victor swallowed, all the answering-the-phone protocol forgotten.
« I’m sorry. »
« No, I am. » it was him, and Victor felt the air back in his lungs « I shouldn’t have said something like that. » great, now he was apologising to an anonymous caller « I just heard ‘kids’ and, well, I panicked. »
« You tell me. » the man scoffed « I panick all the time. It seems all I can do right now. »
« Tell me about the fire again, please. »
« I know you think I am crazy. I would think the same. No hard feelings. And it’s not like I don’t appreciate their help, we’d be dead or worse without them. »
What’s worse than dead?, Victor wanted to ask.
Instead, he digged deep into his knowledge and tried to put his instinctive reactions aside, to focus on the man’s words. Monsters were not real, but this man’s pain was. His fear was real. Something was threatening his kids. The fact he called them “demons” didn’t meant he did not deserved Victor’s help.
« Do you want to tell me about these people, then? The ones who told you about the demons? »
There was a laugh – brief and stained with bitterness, but a laugh nonetheless.
« I get it sounds bad, but I wasn’t kidnapped by a cult or anything like that. »
« Well, that’s not so unusual as you might think. People in pain are particularly vulnerable. There’s no shame in seeking help or comfort in others. »
The caller went quiet for a long moment. Victor didn’t know what to make of it, wondering if that comment had hit too close to home; and yet, when he spoke again, the man sounded anything but resentful.
« That’s a good concept. However, it might be reassuring for you to know I am very bad at seeking help, let alone comfort. »
« In the context of cults and brainwashing yes, it is somewhat reassuring. Although I can say it isn’t a good habit, on the long run. Actually, it is precisely my job to help you, Mr...? »
« Seriously? Is that what they teach you at the Academy? » the man mocked him, but somewhat kindly « I’m afraid it’s going to take a little bit more than that to get my name. »
« I just thought it would be easier to trust each other if we can at least use our first names. »
« Wouldn’t it, Agent Henriksen? »
« Victor. » he replied, without thinking.
There was nothing wrong in sharing his first name, the man could have probably looked it up anyway. It was the feeling attached to it that scared him. Was it going to be like this every single time? Was he going to feel like his value as an agent was completely and only dependable on helping this one man and his family?
« Okay, Victor. You can call me ‘John’. »
« Very creative. »
« What can I say. I’m a simple man. »
« What about your wife? What was her name? »
« You can call her- » his voice broke off for a second « -Mary. Let’s call her ‘Mary’ for now. »
John and Mary. Sure.
Victor massaged his temples. Well, if he really wanted to find ‘John’ and his kids, he would have had to think of another way.
« I’m so sorry for Mary. I’d really like to help finding whoever did this to her. Can’t do that if you don’t trust me, John. »
« I’m very glad I called. »
That just sounded wrong to Victor’s ears.
« John- »
« You sound like a very good person, Victor. I am sure you will help many people. Sorry for wasting your time. »
« John, wait- »
And just like that, John was gone.