Chapter Text
14 May 2009
In front of the altar, a tall man stands. His presence is overpowering, even demons are scared of the raw power radiating from him. His arm is stretched toward the blonde woman sitting before the altar. She appears both scared and eager, her arms reaching upward as if held by a divine entity.
The man takes a few deep breaths. Darkness seems to surge up from inside of him, spreading out like a wave. His eyes turn black. The veins in his neck and hands swell, growing larger and darker.
There is a bright light coming from the woman’s chest. It comes and goes, again and again.
Now, a dead woman is sitting in front of the altar.
Lilith is dead.
Blood runs from her mouth to the ground, forming odd shapes. Place shakes with an invisible force. There is a sudden, terrifying realization. The young man did the wrong thing again.
The final seal is broken.
He stares at his brother standing a few feet away. A small, devastated word escapes his mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
A blinding light comes from the spiraling circle of blood; it begins to turn, and an opening on the floor reveals itself.
“Sammy, let’s go.”
“Dean. He’s coming.”
Lucifer is rising.
---
There is only darkness.
An endless void.
There is nothing. He is no one. He can’t feel his body. Who is he? Does he even have a body?
A small light seen far away. It is getting bigger, brighter. It’s blinding; he can’t see anything. His eyes hurt. His head hurt. Oh… he has eyes, a head, a body.
It’s unbearable. The pain is constant; he can’t breathe, think, or do anything.
It ends.
---
Sam takes a huge breath, his eyes flying open. It feels like resurrection, like he was drowning and someone had hauled him back to the surface at the last possible second. Fresh air burns his lungs. It hurts so badly, but pain means life, it means he can breathe again.
He is lying on the ground. The surface beneath him is uneven; rocks press into his back, sharp and unforgiving. At the same time, his body feels strangely numb, as if the pain hasn’t fully decided where to settle. Sensation and emptiness blur together, leaving him suspended between awareness and oblivion.
How much time has passed?
What happened?
He pushes himself upright and scans the horizon. Far in the distance, a thin line of trees breaks the emptiness. Aside from that, there is nothing, no movement, no sound. Just vast, hollow space stretching in every direction. He is stranded in the middle of nowhere. There has to be a road somewhere. A town. Something.
Where is Dean?
“Dean,” he calls, his voice raw. Louder this time. “Dean? DEAN!”
The silence answers him. No sign of his brother. Panic coils in his chest. He needs a phone. He needs to find Dean.
Sam is on his feet in an instant. A road cuts through the land nearby, narrow and worn, and hope flares. He only has to follow it, it has to lead somewhere.
It takes hours, his feet hurt so badly, but he can’t care less. He lived so much to care about something this small.
An odd shape seen on the horizon, a simple building, barely seen against the sky. He released a shaky breath didn’t knew he held. He walked for God knows how long, his throat dry, he needs to drink some water.
He pushes himself onward for a few more minutes until he finally stands in front of the building. It is a gas station and a diner. It says, ‘Broken Mile Diner’, weird name. He opens the front door.
An old, musty smell lingered; light filtered through the windows, but no matter how much sunlight streamed in, it couldn’t dispel the gloomy atmosphere. The place looked untouched for the last 50 years; the only thing that gave it a lively feel was the cheerful chatter of the children of a family of four sitting at a table in the corner of the door.
His eyes fell on the girl behind the bar, probably in her early twenties, with blonde hair pulled back in a tired bun, an old blue t-shirt, and an apron tied in front. She reminded him of Jess. But he didn’t have time; he needed to reach Dean immediately. Perhaps Dean had also woken up in the midst of nothingness, not knowing where he was, and was now searching for him. He always does.
Sam sat at the bar. The counter girl approached him with a polite smile.
“How can I help you, handsome?”
“Hi. Can I get some water, please?" He asks with a charming smile. “Sure, thing you can.” She answers. Claire. It is written on her name tag. “Claire, can I use your cellphone? I think I lost mine.”
“My cellphone?” She answers with a confused face. “Yes.”
“Do I look like I can afford a cellphone?” A strange expression crossed the girl’s face, and an odd laugh escaped her lips. Can’t everyone?
“You can use the payphone. It’s outside.” Outside? How did Sam not notice? He smiled at the girl, drank his water, and stood up to go outside.
Two cars are parked outside the door: a truck and a van. The van probably belongs to the family inside. The truck belongs to the restaurant owner. He might need to ask one of them for help getting to the nearest city. He looks around, and there is the payphone. It looks old, too. They always stay at piece of crap motels, so it is familiar. He needs money. He checks his pockets fortunately there are a few 25 cents. He makes the call. His hands are shaking just a little.
“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service.” What? He called the right number. Right? Try again, the same response. He tries another number Dean uses.
“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service.”
Another…
Another…
Nothing works.
Something is wrong.
At least one of the numbers should have worked.
Sam returns to the diner, takes a seat, and asks for a newspaper. If he finds where he is, then he can find a solution. The same girl brings the paper. “Here you go, handsome. You know my lunch break is in 30 minutes. If you are interested.” She says with a flirty smile. He doesn’t feel like doing anything with her, especially not right now.
He thanked her and takes the paper. A state or town name must be written somewhere. Yes, it’s there. He is in Michigan. How? He was in Kansas, it’s hundreds of miles away. How is he here? Maybe Lucifer did something. After a few seconds, something small written in the upper right corner catches his attention too.
31 August 1996
“What?”
---
21 November 1996
“I don’t care, Sammy! Dad said we need to go. You know the rules.” He wants to stay as much as Sam, but he can’t cross Dad. It’s not his fault that Sammy couldn’t understand.
“You always do what Dad says. Daddy’s perfect little soldier.” Dean knows that Sam doesn’t mean these words; he is just disappointed that they couldn’t stay a few more weeks. However, this does not mean that words couldn’t hurt. Dean may do everything his father tells him to do, but he doesn’t do it for himself or just to be a good son. At least, that’s what he thinks. He must. People’s lives are at stake. He can’t be selfish. Sammy will learn too.
“Sam, you know that I have to. Stop whining and get ready. Dad will be here in ten.” Sam clenches his fist and secretly wipes away a tear with the edge of his sweater. He thinks Dean didn’t notice, but Dean always notices. How could he not?
“Yeah, whatever.” He goes to the room they shared for the last three weeks. Shut the door with a bang. When they came here dad said they would be here for a while, and it might take more than a month. It looks like his job ended early, but it is good news this means that people had less trouble. They must be glad, not angry. At least he says this to himself.
He wanted to stay a little longer too. He was having fun in the small town. Even though he was no longer in high school, he got along well with a group of teenagers a few years older than himself whom he had met while going to pick Sam up from school. It was as if their lives were normal for a short time, they were two normal teenagers. But we are going means we are going. That’s it.
Dad came a little later. They were on the road for the last few hours when he explained the situation.
“Somebody acted before me.” He said after a long silence.
“Who?” he asked with hesitation. His father looked more pensive than usual. Although he wasn’t shouting, the stern lines on his face created an air of anger, even as he pondered. Were all fathers like that, perhaps, ready to explode at the slightest touch?
“Last victims were almost dead, then somebody burned the ghost. I didn’t see him, but the grave guard said it was a tall young man. I stayed there few more days but couldn’t find any more clues. Must be another hunter, but Caleb said he doesn’t know any hunter who works in this area right now.” After a few seconds, his father’s expression suddenly became determined.
“It doesn’t matter who he is. We got work to do.”
---
30 November 1996
“Yes, Bobby, what did you find?” John asked. John had already called Bobby to ask for information about the mysterious man. Bobby said he didn’t know, but if he gave him some time, he would investigate and get back to him. After a week, he called back.
“His name is Sam Wesson. I know the kid, but I didn’t know he was there when you called. Actually, I didn’t even know he’d chosen this path. He used to argue a lot with his old man, even vowing never to be a hunter and to give up this life. He left for a short time but must have come back for some reason. He’s been working alone for a few months. I heard he’s very tough; he even saved James from werewolves. He took down three of them with just one knife. James said he wouldn’t be here without him.”
“We need more hunters, it’s good,” John said. He knows once you walk this road, there is no going back.
“Yes, I know. He is a good kid, dependable. I don’t know if your roads will cross, but still.” John does not like to work with other hunters. He has boys to take care of. He can’t trust people. More people mean more trouble.
“Yeah, I don’t think so, but thanks. So, what about the case in Illinois? You got anything?”
---
08 January 1997
They are in Pratt, Kansas. There are three bodies. They were killed in their bed in the last six weeks, one by one. Police think the deaths are not related and all the man died in their sleep because of a heart attack. However, John doesn’t buy it. There is a connection, he is sure of that.
John and Dean go to the crime scene. A few police officers and sheriffs are standing in front of the house. The sheriff looks old, probably in his 50s. They stand in front of the man, introduce themselves, raising their fake badges for just a few seconds. They couldn’t do more; their badges are good enough, but there is still a risk of being caught.
“Frank Beards. This is the intern, Billy Gibbons. State Bureau of Investigation.” John says. Dean is too young to be a worker; intern is their best lie. He is only 18 years old, and his baby face is not helping them.
“SBI? This is just a normal heart attack. There is nothing to investigate.” Sheriff looks a little annoyed.
“There have been three deaths in the last six weeks. We believe there is.” John says with a harsh expression. He knows he looks threatening; he is a tall and well-built man with sharp facial features.
“Okay, do as you wish. They died in their sleep. The bedroom is on the second floor. Maybe you can catch the killer in the closet.” Sheriff says while taking a step back, but he still adds the sarcastic comment. He doesn’t want trouble.
They entered the house after giving a small nod to the man. A brunette woman in her 30s is sitting on the couch. She looks sad and in shock. It is reasonable, her husband died a few hours ago. They came to the town after hearing the second death. Tirth happened when they were having their first night’s sleep in the motel. They were in the address as soon as they heard.
John sits on the seat opposite the woman. Dean sits next to him. They try to look empathetic. They need to learn what women know. It is possible that she saw something.
“Ma’am, hi. I am Frank Beards. This is Billy Gibbons. State Bureau of Investigation. Can we ask few questions?” She looks at them; eyes are red and empty.
“What? I have already explained everything to the police. What more do you want to learn?” She is uncomfortable talking about the event more. He understands, but their job is important; he has to ask.
“Yes, we understand, but it will just take a minute.” Dean says it in a calm, understanding tone of voice. The kids’ charm comes in handy a lot. John is secretly proud of his son; he has become a fine man.
“Okay.” she says in an exhausted voice.
“You found Mr. Walker not moving at 4 a.m. right?” John tries not to say dead; he knows that it is hard to hear it this soon.
“Yes, it is when he…” she breathes heavily, the weight of the accident on her shoulders, can’t finish the sentence.
“Okay. Did you recognize any weird things? Like a sound or see something unusual?” Dean says. John gives him a look; he is a little too forward.
“No. What? Do you think it is not a heart attack? Something did this?” She looks confused. John doesn’t want a scene, he answers quickly.
“No, no. We are just trying to understand. It’s all. So?” He looks at her expectantly.
“I don’t know. I woke up because the bed was shaking a little, I guess. I remember it was cold, and there was a smell of rain, but it didn’t rain for a week. I don’t know. I just… I can’t do this right now.” Rain, cold… this might be nothing. However, it can be everything too. You can’t ever know if you are a hunter.
“Okay, thank you for your help. This is more than enough.” They stand up and walk to the stairs.
“Rain, cold, this might be something, right? Maybe it is a ghost? They make the place cold.” Dean says in a whisper.
“It can, but we need more evidence. If it is a ghost, then there must be an angry spirit who wants revenge.” Bedroom looks normal enough; it is a simple place, a big closet with a king bed. Before they even look at the body lying in the bed, a man enters the room.
He looks like a giant; must be several inches longer than him. He wears a suit that fits him like a glove, muscles showing even from the jacket. Stands with his weight evenly distributed, hands relaxed but ready, like someone who learned long ago not to lean, not to rush, not to waste motion. His hair is ear-length, eyes hazel. In his late twenties or early thirties, maybe. Hard to tell. The face says younger. The eyes don’t. They’re flat. Not empty, experienced. The kind that’s seen enough to stop reacting. Man looks at him in the eyes.
“Agent Walker, federal.”