Chapter Text
THEN:
It had been twenty years, twenty years since Dean has seen or heard of his uncle Jack Campbell. John had banged on the door in the dead of night, demanding his eldest son to wake up, grab his brother and get in the car. It was uncle Jack who opened the door instead of Dean. Uncle Jack, with the same green eyes as Dean turned cold and unyielding on John Winchester’s face. Dean had crept silently to the top of the stairs, holding a sleeping Sam. He remembers angry shouts and threats thrown between his father and uncle. His mom’s death, the yellow-eyed demon, monsters, and hunting were all words blurring together. Words that barely held any meaning to a young Dean, but still created a sinking sense of dread that spread throughout his body.
Dean remembers flashing red and blue lights and sirens piercing the air. He remembers angry screams waking up Sammy and a terrified shout as black smoke poured out of the police officer and into uncle Jack. But most of all he remembers green eyes turning yellow and his uncle Jack’s voice asking, “why so serious?”
Dean never remembers how he made it down the stairs or when he shoved Sam into his father’s arms. He doesn’t remember the tears streaking down his face as he stands between his uncle and father.
He remembers the knife. It’s not some big butcher’s knife; it’s delicate and subtle, easily slipped out from uncle Jack’s sleeve. Green eyes remain fixed on the knife, but his ears pick up a loud thud followed by a quiet groan and Sam’s wailing sobs. Dean remembers the crushing need to look behind him and see if his dad and brother are alright. But a cool, pale hand grasps his chin and yellow eyes are staring into his own. Uncle Jack’s cheek is pressed against his own, the knife in between them reflecting Dean’s tears.
“Let’s put a smile on that face,” is breathed against Dean’s cheek. No pain is felt, only the hot, iron spray of blood as Dean stares, petrified. The knife slicing cleanly through his uncle’s cheeks, painting a crimson grin as black smoke erupts from the new openings. Dean doesn’t remember watching the smoke disappear. He doesn’t remember catching his uncle before he hits the ground. Dean doesn’t remember the groan his father heaves out signaling his return to consciousness or Sam’s quiet whimpers.
What Dean does remember with a stunning clarity are glazed green eyes clearing to reveal shattered pieces. Shattered pieces which slowly fused back together, snuffing out any light they once held. These eyes stay with Dean in his memories, his nightmares. It was only after Hell that he began to see them in the mirror.
****
NOW:
Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, green eyes resting for a moment of the small knife thrown on the backseat. The Impala hummed as Metallica played through the speakers and Dean pressed the gas pedal a little harder. He was making good time without Sam bitching about making stops to rest. Just under an hour and he’d be at Gotham’s city limits and then a cheap motel and bed. Dean’s stomach growled in protest and he patted it, silently apologizing for the lack of food.
The last hour passed quickly as Dean heaved a sigh, turning down the radio as he pulled into a shoddy motel with a flickering vacancy sign. The desk clerk was barely awake as Dean shuffled in, the dawn light pouring over his shoulder. A room key was handed over and Dean made his way down the hall. The room itself was dark with chipped wallpaper and bedding that hadn’t been changed since the motel opened. Dean glanced at the mirror hanging over the dresser, an old crack cutting through his reflection. Dean turned away wishing he brought Sam with him.
****
Dean found himself in a diner after he had woken up later that afternoon. He ordered the biggest, greasiest burger and tucked into it with gusto as soon as it was placed in front of him. As Dean ate he glanced around taking in the other patrons. The diner was relatively quiet for a Sunday afternoon, a few old timers, a mother and two sons, and a trio of dark haired guys sitting with their backs to the walls. Dean was sitting in the opposite corner of them, eyes flickering every once and a while to the broad shoulders and sharp eyes.
Dean had heard of the vigilantes that roamed Gotham at night and protected the city. He’d done his research on them too, Sam had insisted and for once Dean agreed with his brother. Especially with the reason Dean had for visiting the city. That being said, maybe it wasn’t so strange here in Gotham to see three built and intense looking guys sitting vigilant in a diner. He focused back on his meal, missing the way three sets of calculating eyes slid over his form.
****
Night fell and Dean remembered why he adamantly hated cities. A cold bitter wind whipped through the streets, the tall buildings acting as a funnel. Dean pulled his collar up as he braced himself against the unforgiving wind. Standing in the shadows on the docks wasn’t helping either. But Dean had heard a deal was going down with some shipment being smuggled in. So here Dean was, standing in the shadows, gun tucked into his waist and his knives in their sheaths. The slim dagger tucked up against his left forearm. Dean was here for one reason and that was to find a way to contact the Joker.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alerting Dean to a new presence as a shadow moved out of the corner of his eye. Dean stiffened, holding still within his own shadow as the Batman dropped down silently followed by two smaller forms, one in green and the other in red. The two Robins snaked back into the shadows after receiving a silent command. Batman’s head tilted in Dean’s direction before he too silently moved back into the shadows.
It was a thing of beauty to watch. Dean wished he could dispatch monsters as easily as the Bats dispatched criminals. The brawl was winding down as sirens could be heard coming closer. Dean had a slim window of opportunity if he wanted to get any information tonight. For once luck seemed to be on his side as a man came barreling towards him, huffing out pained grunts. Dean stepped out of the shadows wrapping the large man in a chokehold. He quickly dragged the man back against the building, squatting down in front of the red faced criminal.
“Just a quick question buddy then I’ll let you pass out,” Den whispered, flashing a smile.
“Where can I find the Joker?” Dean asked eyebrows rising as hysterical laughter forced its way out of the beaten man.
“Look man, whatever the Joker did to you, just let it go. That’s one brand of crazy that no one is ever gonna be able to fix without a bullet to the head,” the guy winced through his busted lip.
“Yeah, wasn’t actually looking for an opinion just a location,” Dean rolled his eyes.
“You won’t be able to kill him, never mind Red Hood wanting that for himself, the clown is beyond crafty and merciless,” the thug sneers, regaining his breath.
“Maybe I don’t want to kill him, maybe I just want to talk,” Dean responds with a sly smile.
“No good has ever come of talking with the Joker, but it’s your funeral. If you really want to meet him, I hear he’s going to be setting a nice little trap for the lovely heroes of this city in one of the warehouses near Crime Alley,” the thug told Dean as footsteps made their way towards them.
“Thanks,” Dean smirked as he heaved the man out of the shadows and into an unsuspecting police officer whose name tag read Grayson. Dean hightailed it through the docks, hearing a few shouts demanding he stop, but his legs kept pumping.