In This Universe
TITLE: In This Universe
AUTHOR: e313
SPOILER: mmm, a lot. Including the end of season 2 of SPN and season 5 of AtS.
GENRE: Gen. Xover with Angel the series
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Wes, various unnamed demons
SUMMARY:Sam can see.
RATING: PG-13
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t want to own them. They carry illegal firearms of too great a variety, are wanted by the police, are targeted by demons, manage to mess in all sort of impossible situations…they’re too noisy and too dangerous, tend to die… they’d make my life hell...
NOTE: xover of a sort. I needed an extra (dead) character so I borrowed one.
The first time Sam sees him, it’s only a few days after the Incident.
Bobby and Ellen managed to close the gate, but not before an army of demons was set loose upon the earth.
When Sam thinks back on that day, too many mixed feelings assail him, so he tends to avoid it. It’s his nature to ponder and think, but lately there isn’t enough time for it and he doesn’t want to make any. He’s not in denial for that would be a luxury beyond his reach.
He is afraid. He counts the reasons on one hand folding finger after finger:
1. too many demons on the loose, and dealing with them is not like ghosts or monsters at all.
2. Dean has a year to live and then a sentence of eternity in Hell, and Sam’s need to fix this is fever bright, but he doesn’t know how.
3. There is a gate. An actual gate to Hell. That can open. It is closed and sealed at the moment, but the knowledge of its existence has somehow screwed Sam’s perception of the world and life in it.
4. He died. He truly died. He is alive now though he shouldn’t be. He tries to deal with it. Tries to pin down what scares him about it. His mortality hitting home? The fact he doesn’t remember being dead? How his being alive has cost Dean his soul? Even in their life of supernatural and impossibilities, death has been an ultimatum. Death is no more life. Yes, sure, they fight ghosts, but that is no life, not even a mockery of it. And here he is, defying the last unbroken law. It should be comforting perhaps, even hopeful, but sometimes it’s just scary how it makes the world a little more unstable, the rules a bit more bendy and breakable. He won’t ask Dean how he handled it, how he handles it still.
He can’t.
There is no five. He leaves one finger free to fold on a future fear that’s bound to haunt him sooner or later. The last two years have been an educational experience of worse upon worse and it’s wise to have an opening on the top five.
He is also hopeful. Happy. He folds the fingers of his right hand:
1. Both he and Dean -and Bobby and Ellen- are alive and well, and they made it, even
2. succeeding to close the gate to Hell, probably stop a premature apocalypse, and,
3. finally kill the yellow eyed Demon, bane of their existence and ultimate goal of their hunt. To top it all
4. their father is no longer in Hell, but probably in Heaven with mum watching over them.
He keeps 5 for when Dean’s life and soul are safe and he has managed to save him without killing himself in the process. He knows now that Dean would follow him to hell, and that would defeat the purpose.
Okay, perhaps he is thinking about it. More than he’s realised.
Still, time is blissfully scarce and that is good.
The first couple of days after the Incident are crystal clear. They all took refuge in Bobby’s. He used some contacts, had the railroads repaired, Ellen got the word out to the hunters’ grapevine that demons were roaming free, that the Roadhouse was no longer. She called Jo in, and she came. They’re still at Bobby’s but Jo hasn’t left to hunt. She’ll help her mother rebuild the saloon. Bobby is giving pointers.
Dean and Sam stayed there for a few days, enough for some wounds to heal, and then they were off, hunting.
Sam wanting to find a way to break that contract, dived head first in book after book one more obscure than the other rearranging Bobby’s hazardous piles into a new geography of book mountains and file hills, but some demons are more careless than others and louder in their random attack for death and chaos. Dean was sipping his morning coffee in Bobby’s kitchen and reading newspapers on line when his eye fell on an article of Philadelphia Post about people going berserk and shooting in public before putting a bullet in their own brain at the first sound of siren. These things do happen. Five times in two weeks nevertheless is flashing ‘demon’ more obviously than a casino neon add in Las Vegas.
Thus the hunt began.
Finding the demon was not the difficult part. Mostly because they accidentally stumbled upon it on their first night of driving around town. They were out of the car and running towards the restaurant the shots were heard from in record time. A classy place of heavy furniture and tasteful décor with a second half floor like a terrace overlooking the large space bellow. It was too late for the dinner rush hour and Dean felt vaguely grateful for that taking in the broken china, the overturned chairs and the nauseating smell of blood and terror in the air. People were crouching under tables, whimpering. Others had rushed out already. Some were lying dead completing the set of a senseless massacre. The shooter himself was on the terrace, back to the low, wooden railing and shooting at whomever was upstairs and Dean didn’t think. He had his gun in his hand the minute he walked in and his shot hit true, right in the middle of the man’s turned back, right to the heart. Sam remembers the next few seconds as if they were Polaroids he spent hours staring at. The man’s whole body shuddered, he jerked and fell backwards, down to the floor less than 14 feet from them, with a thud that rang curiously loud in the sudden silence of a lack of bullets being shot by an automatic. All the time the gun clutched at his hand, and then at the moment of impact, a wrinkled, too white hand unclenching, fingers falling open loosing their hold on it. An old man, in death his face looking kind and grandfatherly. Just an old man. Horror and relief both flared in Sam’s heart, the intense feeling almost making him dizzy and then gone. Gone, as the man, that dead body, sat up and stared at them with glassy, dead eyes, and pulled itself standing. It was instinct that took over. They both had their guns up and firing without a blink, yet the dead man took some more steps, all the time staring at them, a cruel, inhuman smile marring naturally mild features. Sam stopped first and pulled a few feet back mind frantically trying to go over options that simply didn’t exist. Drawing a Solomon Seal, where and how? Salt wasn’t working and silver wouldn’t, and he was looking around for an accelerant to set the walking corpse on fire, when that man stepped out of the shadows at the other side of the room. His voice was low and calm and it hit the demon wearing the man like nothing else had. It stopped and staggered and turned and Sam would swear on an expression of sock on that face, that was purely the demon’s. It didn’t even have time to utter a single word, or fully turn really, before the body shuddered once more, and then there was the black ‘smoke’, the demon gone and the puppet it stirred crumbled motionless on the floor.
A couple of heartbeats to take a breath, a quick check of the old man’s body to make sure it was dead-dead, and they were out of there running for the car and heading straight out of town, never having checked in a motel in the first place.
Ten miles out and Dean turned on a side road leading who knew where. Two miles on that and he pulled at the side and stopped.
“What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sam, what the hell, man? How’d we do that?”
Well, Sam didn’t think they’d done it. He mentioned the man to Dean. He told him how his voice was clear and steady reciting what was probably an exorcism. He had to admit that once they checked for pulse, he looked up but the man was gone.
“Another hunter?”
Sam shrugged and suggested they head back to Bobby’s.
They drove straight back and collapsed into a fitful sleep letting the issue drop till the next day at coffee. Coffee was turning into an important time of the day lately, what with all serious discussions and major decision making taking place first thing in the morning. Probably being half awake was lowering inhibitions or something. Same effect like drinking, only leaving your head clearer afterwards and your reflexes good for battle.
Dean hadn’t seen the man at all. That was curious in itself, cuz failure to notice non-tiny details like a whole grown man in a room guarantees a very sort life span for a hunter and Dean had lived way too many years as one. He hadn’t heard him either. That was impossible. Sam tried to recall more. He remembered the man’s voice, a faint accent, a cadence almost gentle like reading a story aloud. That made Dean snort, but otherwise wasn’t any help. If Sam hadn’t recognised the words or even what language it was, it wasn’t any hick with a gun, as Bobby put it. A description would have been good, but the man’s face was in shadow, the lights were flickering. Sort dark hair. Dull coloured clothing. That was all Sam could give.
Helen had left for them a file with another case of another possible demon in another town. Dean hit the net and Sam hit the books huffing because at least the info on line was in English while half the books in who knew what and Bobby had to leave after lunch to help someone, somewhere, probably against another demon. By eight that evening a little wrinkle of a frown on his forehead had grown, he had acquired the habit of rubbing between his eyes every fifteen minutes, a beer Dean had brought him lay warm and three quarters full forgotten on the floor by the sofa, and he hadn’t hit any big breaks yet.
Dean made him stop for dinner.
Afterwards there were just more hours hazy and fruitless and he fell asleep on the sofa with a throbbing headache behind his eyes.
He slowly came to, warm and relatively comfortable. Dean had pulled off his shoes and covered him with a blanket. The room was quite and with his eyelids closed he could tell it was dark. He would just turn and go back to sleep but Sam knew there was someone in the room silently watching him. He half opened his eyes, and there, on an armchair beyond the table and the piles of books was a man with his head resting on his left hand staring at Sam. Sam blinked and the man was still there.
“Hi!” he mumbled not awake yet.
“Hello!” the man offered back and then the corner of his mouth lifted a little in the hint of a smile.
Sam turned and fell back asleep.
In the morning Sam awoke before Dean. The house was too silent and since Bobby was an early riser as well, it could only mean that he wasn’t back yet. Sam stretched and yawned and blinked and decided that he really felt like coffee. As an extra bonus the smell would probably wake Dean up. He pulled his snickers on and stretched once more rising and then his eyes fell on an armchair now green on the sunlight and the man on it, a charcoal turtleneck, jeans, brown hair, blue eyes.
“Aaah, hi!”
“Hello!”
“Are you a friend of Bobby’s?”
“No, not really.”
Sam’s eyes fell on the various heavy tomes strewn around; some of them open on grotesque pictures.
“It’s okay. I’m rather familiar with the…subject,” was a very welcome statement indeed, since coming up with any reassuring explanations at 6:30 in the morning is difficult at the best of times, and when a quietly murmured Christo failed to elicit any response on the stranger, Sam marginally relaxed.
In the absence of anything else to say, Sam offered coffee. The other politely declined, but did stand up to follow the younger one in the kitchen.
It was in the middle of a very interesting account on the various forms of exorcisms and related spells that Dean walked in. Sam had taken a notebook in front of him and had moved a couple of books there. He was furiously scribbling incantations phonetically transcribed in English, including the one Wes had used the other night. After the basic introductions of name exchange their discussion had drifted towards the Winchesters’ new target, Ellen’s file the first to find its way next to Sam’s cup. A few minutes in it and Sam had felt the first stirrings of hope. They could do this. With Wes guiding him to the right books, easily translating some relevant passages from them and offering more info and titles he could cross-reference, yes, they had a number of possible banishing spells accumulated already and one of them would certainly work. Wes was over his shoulder making sure he had the sounds down right, and Sam was listening to his voice, trying to make his own pronounce the unfamiliar words the same, when Dean strolled in and headed straight for the coffee. He filled a cup for himself and took it to the table opposite his brother, pulled the notebook closer and leafed through the newly filled pages. He glanced back at Sam with his big brother’s proud of you smile and winked.
“Sammy, I knew you could do it!”
Then he sprawled back in his chair and raised his coffee in a cheerful salute all the time looking straight at Sam and only Sam, and Sam would have asked him, if he’d mind getting a cup of coffee for Wes, just to rub it in that Dean is an inconsiderate jerk once in a while, but then he got it.
Almost two months later Sam hasn’t told his brother or even Bobby. Wes is not lost or in denial, unaware of what has happened to him. The gates opened and he walked out, cuz who wouldn’t, but this is not his world. Sam helped him check out some names of people and firms that don’t exist at all here and now. There is nowhere to move on. There is no body to burn. Sam wondered once or twice, if one of Wes’ banishing spells would work on the man himself, but he’ll never do that either. Why send him in an alien Heaven away from even the little that’s become familiar to him? Sam can talk to him about stuff he’s afraid to bring up with Dean. How he died and his brother brought him back, but he doesn’t remember being dead. How some of the blood in his veins is from a yellow eyed demon who wanted to open the Hellmouth and overwrite his own world on the blueprints of their realm. They search for a way to break Dean’s contract together. Sam thinks he’s picking up some key words in other languages and Wes manages to lift books and turn the pages himself.
Sometimes they don’t see each other for days.
Other times that English bastard will enter a motel room Sam’s sharing with Dean, plop in a chair or one of the beds, and start talking, sombre faced about the problem at hand and Dean’s been joking with his brother, when Sam’s attention seems to waver between their discussion and an empty space in the room and evidently trying not to frown or glare at said empty space or around. Dean will flip him one over the head or throw a pretzel at him and tell him to rest cuz his eyes are crossing and, oh, is Sammy getting woozy already? You’re turning into an old man Sammy? Dean sprawls on his bed and takes the remote to flip through channels and Sam almost growls at the guy only he can see for Wes can play the dead serious all he wants, Sam can tell he’s giggling inside, and just cuz he’s bored, it doesn’t mean he can just…do this.
There was this one time, a close call. A classical poltergeist, but Sam got hurt crashing on a table and it threw Dean hard enough against a wall to knock him out. Wes showed up and threw a punch at the thing and Sam’s eyesight was greying but he could bet he saw him smile when the fist connected. Then something surprisingly like a fireball leapt out of Wesley’s palm and set the crumbling photographs on the mantelpiece on fire and Sam’s eyes cleared back to colour to the sight of the ghost trembling aflame to destruction.
Dean doesn’t notice anything. Really.
The End
AUTHOR: e313
SPOILER: mmm, a lot. Including the end of season 2 of SPN and season 5 of AtS.
GENRE: Gen. Xover with Angel the series
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Wes, various unnamed demons
SUMMARY:Sam can see.
RATING: PG-13
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t want to own them. They carry illegal firearms of too great a variety, are wanted by the police, are targeted by demons, manage to mess in all sort of impossible situations…they’re too noisy and too dangerous, tend to die… they’d make my life hell...
NOTE: xover of a sort. I needed an extra (dead) character so I borrowed one.
The first time Sam sees him, it’s only a few days after the Incident.
Bobby and Ellen managed to close the gate, but not before an army of demons was set loose upon the earth.
When Sam thinks back on that day, too many mixed feelings assail him, so he tends to avoid it. It’s his nature to ponder and think, but lately there isn’t enough time for it and he doesn’t want to make any. He’s not in denial for that would be a luxury beyond his reach.
He is afraid. He counts the reasons on one hand folding finger after finger:
1. too many demons on the loose, and dealing with them is not like ghosts or monsters at all.
2. Dean has a year to live and then a sentence of eternity in Hell, and Sam’s need to fix this is fever bright, but he doesn’t know how.
3. There is a gate. An actual gate to Hell. That can open. It is closed and sealed at the moment, but the knowledge of its existence has somehow screwed Sam’s perception of the world and life in it.
4. He died. He truly died. He is alive now though he shouldn’t be. He tries to deal with it. Tries to pin down what scares him about it. His mortality hitting home? The fact he doesn’t remember being dead? How his being alive has cost Dean his soul? Even in their life of supernatural and impossibilities, death has been an ultimatum. Death is no more life. Yes, sure, they fight ghosts, but that is no life, not even a mockery of it. And here he is, defying the last unbroken law. It should be comforting perhaps, even hopeful, but sometimes it’s just scary how it makes the world a little more unstable, the rules a bit more bendy and breakable. He won’t ask Dean how he handled it, how he handles it still.
He can’t.
There is no five. He leaves one finger free to fold on a future fear that’s bound to haunt him sooner or later. The last two years have been an educational experience of worse upon worse and it’s wise to have an opening on the top five.
He is also hopeful. Happy. He folds the fingers of his right hand:
1. Both he and Dean -and Bobby and Ellen- are alive and well, and they made it, even
2. succeeding to close the gate to Hell, probably stop a premature apocalypse, and,
3. finally kill the yellow eyed Demon, bane of their existence and ultimate goal of their hunt. To top it all
4. their father is no longer in Hell, but probably in Heaven with mum watching over them.
He keeps 5 for when Dean’s life and soul are safe and he has managed to save him without killing himself in the process. He knows now that Dean would follow him to hell, and that would defeat the purpose.
Okay, perhaps he is thinking about it. More than he’s realised.
Still, time is blissfully scarce and that is good.
The first couple of days after the Incident are crystal clear. They all took refuge in Bobby’s. He used some contacts, had the railroads repaired, Ellen got the word out to the hunters’ grapevine that demons were roaming free, that the Roadhouse was no longer. She called Jo in, and she came. They’re still at Bobby’s but Jo hasn’t left to hunt. She’ll help her mother rebuild the saloon. Bobby is giving pointers.
Dean and Sam stayed there for a few days, enough for some wounds to heal, and then they were off, hunting.
Sam wanting to find a way to break that contract, dived head first in book after book one more obscure than the other rearranging Bobby’s hazardous piles into a new geography of book mountains and file hills, but some demons are more careless than others and louder in their random attack for death and chaos. Dean was sipping his morning coffee in Bobby’s kitchen and reading newspapers on line when his eye fell on an article of Philadelphia Post about people going berserk and shooting in public before putting a bullet in their own brain at the first sound of siren. These things do happen. Five times in two weeks nevertheless is flashing ‘demon’ more obviously than a casino neon add in Las Vegas.
Thus the hunt began.
Finding the demon was not the difficult part. Mostly because they accidentally stumbled upon it on their first night of driving around town. They were out of the car and running towards the restaurant the shots were heard from in record time. A classy place of heavy furniture and tasteful décor with a second half floor like a terrace overlooking the large space bellow. It was too late for the dinner rush hour and Dean felt vaguely grateful for that taking in the broken china, the overturned chairs and the nauseating smell of blood and terror in the air. People were crouching under tables, whimpering. Others had rushed out already. Some were lying dead completing the set of a senseless massacre. The shooter himself was on the terrace, back to the low, wooden railing and shooting at whomever was upstairs and Dean didn’t think. He had his gun in his hand the minute he walked in and his shot hit true, right in the middle of the man’s turned back, right to the heart. Sam remembers the next few seconds as if they were Polaroids he spent hours staring at. The man’s whole body shuddered, he jerked and fell backwards, down to the floor less than 14 feet from them, with a thud that rang curiously loud in the sudden silence of a lack of bullets being shot by an automatic. All the time the gun clutched at his hand, and then at the moment of impact, a wrinkled, too white hand unclenching, fingers falling open loosing their hold on it. An old man, in death his face looking kind and grandfatherly. Just an old man. Horror and relief both flared in Sam’s heart, the intense feeling almost making him dizzy and then gone. Gone, as the man, that dead body, sat up and stared at them with glassy, dead eyes, and pulled itself standing. It was instinct that took over. They both had their guns up and firing without a blink, yet the dead man took some more steps, all the time staring at them, a cruel, inhuman smile marring naturally mild features. Sam stopped first and pulled a few feet back mind frantically trying to go over options that simply didn’t exist. Drawing a Solomon Seal, where and how? Salt wasn’t working and silver wouldn’t, and he was looking around for an accelerant to set the walking corpse on fire, when that man stepped out of the shadows at the other side of the room. His voice was low and calm and it hit the demon wearing the man like nothing else had. It stopped and staggered and turned and Sam would swear on an expression of sock on that face, that was purely the demon’s. It didn’t even have time to utter a single word, or fully turn really, before the body shuddered once more, and then there was the black ‘smoke’, the demon gone and the puppet it stirred crumbled motionless on the floor.
A couple of heartbeats to take a breath, a quick check of the old man’s body to make sure it was dead-dead, and they were out of there running for the car and heading straight out of town, never having checked in a motel in the first place.
Ten miles out and Dean turned on a side road leading who knew where. Two miles on that and he pulled at the side and stopped.
“What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sam, what the hell, man? How’d we do that?”
Well, Sam didn’t think they’d done it. He mentioned the man to Dean. He told him how his voice was clear and steady reciting what was probably an exorcism. He had to admit that once they checked for pulse, he looked up but the man was gone.
“Another hunter?”
Sam shrugged and suggested they head back to Bobby’s.
They drove straight back and collapsed into a fitful sleep letting the issue drop till the next day at coffee. Coffee was turning into an important time of the day lately, what with all serious discussions and major decision making taking place first thing in the morning. Probably being half awake was lowering inhibitions or something. Same effect like drinking, only leaving your head clearer afterwards and your reflexes good for battle.
Dean hadn’t seen the man at all. That was curious in itself, cuz failure to notice non-tiny details like a whole grown man in a room guarantees a very sort life span for a hunter and Dean had lived way too many years as one. He hadn’t heard him either. That was impossible. Sam tried to recall more. He remembered the man’s voice, a faint accent, a cadence almost gentle like reading a story aloud. That made Dean snort, but otherwise wasn’t any help. If Sam hadn’t recognised the words or even what language it was, it wasn’t any hick with a gun, as Bobby put it. A description would have been good, but the man’s face was in shadow, the lights were flickering. Sort dark hair. Dull coloured clothing. That was all Sam could give.
Helen had left for them a file with another case of another possible demon in another town. Dean hit the net and Sam hit the books huffing because at least the info on line was in English while half the books in who knew what and Bobby had to leave after lunch to help someone, somewhere, probably against another demon. By eight that evening a little wrinkle of a frown on his forehead had grown, he had acquired the habit of rubbing between his eyes every fifteen minutes, a beer Dean had brought him lay warm and three quarters full forgotten on the floor by the sofa, and he hadn’t hit any big breaks yet.
Dean made him stop for dinner.
Afterwards there were just more hours hazy and fruitless and he fell asleep on the sofa with a throbbing headache behind his eyes.
He slowly came to, warm and relatively comfortable. Dean had pulled off his shoes and covered him with a blanket. The room was quite and with his eyelids closed he could tell it was dark. He would just turn and go back to sleep but Sam knew there was someone in the room silently watching him. He half opened his eyes, and there, on an armchair beyond the table and the piles of books was a man with his head resting on his left hand staring at Sam. Sam blinked and the man was still there.
“Hi!” he mumbled not awake yet.
“Hello!” the man offered back and then the corner of his mouth lifted a little in the hint of a smile.
Sam turned and fell back asleep.
In the morning Sam awoke before Dean. The house was too silent and since Bobby was an early riser as well, it could only mean that he wasn’t back yet. Sam stretched and yawned and blinked and decided that he really felt like coffee. As an extra bonus the smell would probably wake Dean up. He pulled his snickers on and stretched once more rising and then his eyes fell on an armchair now green on the sunlight and the man on it, a charcoal turtleneck, jeans, brown hair, blue eyes.
“Aaah, hi!”
“Hello!”
“Are you a friend of Bobby’s?”
“No, not really.”
Sam’s eyes fell on the various heavy tomes strewn around; some of them open on grotesque pictures.
“It’s okay. I’m rather familiar with the…subject,” was a very welcome statement indeed, since coming up with any reassuring explanations at 6:30 in the morning is difficult at the best of times, and when a quietly murmured Christo failed to elicit any response on the stranger, Sam marginally relaxed.
In the absence of anything else to say, Sam offered coffee. The other politely declined, but did stand up to follow the younger one in the kitchen.
It was in the middle of a very interesting account on the various forms of exorcisms and related spells that Dean walked in. Sam had taken a notebook in front of him and had moved a couple of books there. He was furiously scribbling incantations phonetically transcribed in English, including the one Wes had used the other night. After the basic introductions of name exchange their discussion had drifted towards the Winchesters’ new target, Ellen’s file the first to find its way next to Sam’s cup. A few minutes in it and Sam had felt the first stirrings of hope. They could do this. With Wes guiding him to the right books, easily translating some relevant passages from them and offering more info and titles he could cross-reference, yes, they had a number of possible banishing spells accumulated already and one of them would certainly work. Wes was over his shoulder making sure he had the sounds down right, and Sam was listening to his voice, trying to make his own pronounce the unfamiliar words the same, when Dean strolled in and headed straight for the coffee. He filled a cup for himself and took it to the table opposite his brother, pulled the notebook closer and leafed through the newly filled pages. He glanced back at Sam with his big brother’s proud of you smile and winked.
“Sammy, I knew you could do it!”
Then he sprawled back in his chair and raised his coffee in a cheerful salute all the time looking straight at Sam and only Sam, and Sam would have asked him, if he’d mind getting a cup of coffee for Wes, just to rub it in that Dean is an inconsiderate jerk once in a while, but then he got it.
Almost two months later Sam hasn’t told his brother or even Bobby. Wes is not lost or in denial, unaware of what has happened to him. The gates opened and he walked out, cuz who wouldn’t, but this is not his world. Sam helped him check out some names of people and firms that don’t exist at all here and now. There is nowhere to move on. There is no body to burn. Sam wondered once or twice, if one of Wes’ banishing spells would work on the man himself, but he’ll never do that either. Why send him in an alien Heaven away from even the little that’s become familiar to him? Sam can talk to him about stuff he’s afraid to bring up with Dean. How he died and his brother brought him back, but he doesn’t remember being dead. How some of the blood in his veins is from a yellow eyed demon who wanted to open the Hellmouth and overwrite his own world on the blueprints of their realm. They search for a way to break Dean’s contract together. Sam thinks he’s picking up some key words in other languages and Wes manages to lift books and turn the pages himself.
Sometimes they don’t see each other for days.
Other times that English bastard will enter a motel room Sam’s sharing with Dean, plop in a chair or one of the beds, and start talking, sombre faced about the problem at hand and Dean’s been joking with his brother, when Sam’s attention seems to waver between their discussion and an empty space in the room and evidently trying not to frown or glare at said empty space or around. Dean will flip him one over the head or throw a pretzel at him and tell him to rest cuz his eyes are crossing and, oh, is Sammy getting woozy already? You’re turning into an old man Sammy? Dean sprawls on his bed and takes the remote to flip through channels and Sam almost growls at the guy only he can see for Wes can play the dead serious all he wants, Sam can tell he’s giggling inside, and just cuz he’s bored, it doesn’t mean he can just…do this.
There was this one time, a close call. A classical poltergeist, but Sam got hurt crashing on a table and it threw Dean hard enough against a wall to knock him out. Wes showed up and threw a punch at the thing and Sam’s eyesight was greying but he could bet he saw him smile when the fist connected. Then something surprisingly like a fireball leapt out of Wesley’s palm and set the crumbling photographs on the mantelpiece on fire and Sam’s eyes cleared back to colour to the sight of the ghost trembling aflame to destruction.
Dean doesn’t notice anything. Really.
The End