SPN AU fic: The Hoard 1/1
SUMMARY: A dragon's hoard need not be all material things. John
Winchester once had a thriving hoard, till an attack when his youngest
son was six months old. Now his hoard is broken and his baby boy is a
Locked -- unable to wear dragon-hide. Can Sam find his place in a
world where he is -- literally -- the odd man out? Or will his being
Locked be the key to saving not only his father's hoard, but to
everything?
NOTE: Written for the spn_reversebang. Art by beelikej
Lawrence, Kansas. May 1, 2000.
Sam Winchester unlocked the front door and let himself into the house, making certain to lock it behind him. He dropped his bookbag carelessly on the couch and jogged up the stairs, his long legs carrying him up two at a time.
As usual, his big brother’s door was open, so Sam didn’t bother to knock before he plopped right down on the bed. “Guess what?” he laughed.
His brother’s small head raised from the tight knot he was curled into on the pillows, crystalline green eyes opening as he gave an inquisitive, if sleepy, chirp.
“We started English legends in Literature as History class today,” Sam chuckled. “Specifically, the tale of Saint George!”
His brother’s tail uncurled from his body, revealing the small forelegs firmly clamped around the golden horned medallion in the form of a misshapen human head. The tail thrashed, striking Sam’s arm with enough force to bruise, if his brother hadn’t been aiming for the part covered by the denim jacket.
“Yeah, I know,” Sam chuckled. “Just find it really funny how wrong they get it, you know?” As his brother nodded, Sam reached over and scratched the baby dragon on the top of his head.
The reaction was immediate. The eyes slowly closed and the tail returned to its place around the body as something that could only be described as a purr erupted.
“You’re a hedonist, Dean,” Sam teased lightly as the small head returned to its nest and a tiny puff of smoke blasted out to caress his fingers, making him chuckle as he stood up. “I’m gonna get a snack. You want anything?”
No answer -- not even the twitch of the end of Dean’s tail. Sam grinned wide enough that his dimples cut furrows into his cheeks and ran a warm hand over his brother’s small back as he stood.
Dean always could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, especially when he felt safe.
Sam had just snapped the burner off and moved the mac and cheese to a bowl when his ears registered the front door opening and the lock re-engaging a few seconds later. He grinned and was reaching for another bowl when a gravel-filled voice asked, “Any left for me?”
“Enough to share,” Sam reported as he divided the food and brought the bowls to the table. “Dean’s asleep upstairs. Were you two out flying late last night?”
His father shook his head as he dug in. A couple of spoonfuls later, he reported, “Not last night, no. We were up at the crack of dawn as usual, flying before work. He must have had an interesting day, if he’s asleep.”
Sam shook his head. “Well, he’s doing his best impression of a hibernating lizard upstairs.”
His father blinked at that. “He’s in dragon-hide? In the middle of the afternoon?”
“He either feels safe or very jittery,” Sam said as he nodded. “Since that’s the only time he shifts when neither of us are around, and he was in dragon-hide when I got home.” He ate a bite, then said, “Oh, speaking of dragon-hide, we’re studying Saint George in Literature As History class.”
That brought a sarcastic snort from his father. “Let me guess -- we’re the bad guys.”
“Aren’t we always?” Sam deadpanned, frowning as he played with the noodles in his bowl. “I mean….”
Without a word, his father reached over and squeezed Sam’s hand.
Sam sighed. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I just wish I wasn’t…. That I could…”
“I can’t imagine how you feel,” his father replied in the same soft tone. “And I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you I do.”
Another sigh erupted from Sam, but this one felt lighter. He smiled at his father, and it was a genuine one. “That honestly makes me feel better, Dad. Knowing that you understand even that much…” He shook his head. “Sometimes I’m glad that you and Dean aren’t the Locked ones. Being stuck in one form all the time? You’d go round the bend.”
As Sam took their half-filled bowls to the refrigerator, since neither of them were hungry any longer, his father had to admit that his youngest was probably right.
It hadn’t always been this way. It hadn’t always been just the three men living in the small house on the outskirts of Lawrence, with plenty of room to run and play -- and to fly.
Nearly two decades earlier, John Winchester had been a happy man. He had a son who could wrap himself in dragon-hide like his old man, and a baby boy who showed signs of being able to do the same thing. Like all dragons, even those who were only in dragon-hide part of the time, John had a hoard.
But where most dragons had hoards of golden coins or golden jewels, John’s hoard was a feisty young woman with a headful of golden curls. His Mary was his wife, the other half of his heart, and she loved the dragon as much as she loved the man. John was happy and content with his family.
Until the terrible night that his youngest turned six months old. Their home had been invaded by evil. There had been a horrible fire and in the wake of it there were two terrible changes.
John’s Mary, his living hoard, was gone.
And Sammy could no longer grow scales or claws or wing-buds. His days of dragon-hide were over.
John lost himself to mindless grief, barely caring for his boys -- until a whirlwind named Missouri Mosely blew into their lives a week past the fire. Then things changed again with one fateful conversation.
In another place or time, that conversation would have sent John down a path that would have led him straight into the eldritch plans that were being woven about him and his sons. This time, however, Missouri was able to give John something he hadn’t had since the fire.
Hope.
She sat John down and told him what had attacked them. But before she started talking, she put baby Sammy into his arms instead of leaving the child for Dean to watch. Dean clambered up and curled into his father’s side; and when Missouri described what it was, John’s arms tightened on both his sons.
In another world, he would have gotten up and stormed out, first to a bar and then to a gun store and a lore expert. But this John, this dragon with children -- he tightened his grip on both boys and looked into their innocent faces.
Then he looked at Missouri and whispered, “What can I do?”
“You’re doing it right now,” she assured him. “You are being a father to those boys. That’s what they need. I know you miss your Mary, I know you saw her as your human hoard. But here is the thing, John.” She put a hand on his arm, stroking Sammy’s cheek as she did so and making the baby coo. “This is also your hoard. Your family. You haven’t lost it all. And this hoard? They need their protector, their fighter, their daddy -- they need you a hell of a lot more than you need revenge.”
John took a deep breath and looked -- really looked -- at his boys. He looked back at Missouri and whispered, “I can’t just ignore what’s out there.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she said. “I’m asking you to prioritise.”
“I can’t stay here,” he said. “Not… Not in that house.”
“And again -- I’m not asking you to. We’ll figure it all out, John. Just remember -- you’re not alone.”
He looked at Sammy, at the tilted eyes looking up at him as the baby sucked on his two middle fingers. He looked at Dean, at the large eyes that held grief that mirrored his own and naked fear. He thought on Missouri’s words for a very long time.
Then he said softly, “Well, then -- help us.”
She smiled and said, “Now that you’ve asked me -- I can. Let’s get some supper and then we’ll get started.”
John had put both his sons to bed and was almost asleep himself when it hit him. His eyes flew open and he gasped, “Now that I’ve asked her?”
He got out of bed and padded barefoot into the living room where Missouri smiled at him. “You are supposed to be sleeping.”
“You said something that puzzled me. What did you mean you can help now that I’ve asked you? You couldn’t help before?”
“No, I couldn’t.” She waved him to sit on the couch and sank into the armchair beside him. “Oh, I could have tried. I could have warned and done all kinds of empty gestures, but they would have been just that. Empty.”
John shook his head. “I don’t understand, Missouri. You talk in riddles.”
She laughed. “One of the drawbacks of what I am, John. Sometimes I get kind’a stuck in the ---” She paused, visibly searching for a word. “The mysteriousness of everything that’s whirling around in my head.” Her smile grew. “That’s a prime example, right there. Thirty or so words just to tell you it’s a habit.”
He shook his head again, but he was chuckling slightly. “Okay, so give it to me straight. Why couldn’t you have helped before I asked you to help me?”
Missouri leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Can you honestly say that, until you asked me for it, you would have accepted my help?” When he paused, she added, “You are a proud, independent man, John. It takes a lot for you to ask for help, much less accept it.”
He nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said softly. He stood and stretched. “I’m wound up, now. I’m going to go fly for a little while -- clear my head and tire myself out.”
She nodded and stood as well. “If you’re not back by dawn, I’ll send Dean after you.”
John blinked at that. “He can barely fly, Missouri.”
She crossed her arms. “You think he’ll let a little detail like that stop him? Boy’s as stubborn as his old man.”
Laughing, John had to agree. He walked out of her back door and wrapped himself in dragon-hide. He took to the air and flew in the cooling night, letting the wind along his body calm his racing thoughts.
He was in bed and asleep well before dawn, secure that the morning would bring the first day of a new life.
John’s boss at the garage gave him time off, and he worked with Missouri to sell the house where his Mary had died. The young family stayed with the psychic and slowly reformed themselves around the mother-shaped hole that gaped in their lives.
Instead of going off half-cocked, driven by alcohol-fueled rage and grief, John focused on something that Missouri had reminded him, and it became his anchor.
Dragons lived much longer than regular humans. John could afford to be patient.
Of course, there was also the very satisfying angle that Missouri had been able to sense the creature that was behind all this seemed to want John off-balance and reeling. It seemed to want John so blindly obsessed that he would do and sacrifice anything to keep after anything and everything supernatural.
So the more methodical and patient John was -- the more of a monkey wrench in the works he would become.
John rather liked that idea.
Things really crystallised for John about two years after the fire. That was the day he met a man who threw everything into final clearness. And it all started when John had trouble at work.
Missouri had the boys while John worked at the garage, and on this fateful day he was struggling with finding parts for a car that was older than his beloved Impala. He was methodically calling through his boss’s Rolodex, and having such bad luck that it was like he was in a four-sided room lined with eight brick walls.
John was on the point of giving up. He decided to make one last call before he quit for the day and dialed the long-distance number, only to hear a weary voice sigh on the other end, “Singer Salvage, Bobby Singer here. Need some help?”
He would never really know why the reply that shot out of his mouth was, “Brother, you sound as tired as I feel. Long day?”
A tired chuckle. “On top of a longer night.”
“Tell me about it. What’s kept you up?”
Another chuckle. “Wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
John’s hand tightened on the receiver as a cold ribbon slid down his spine. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, keeping his tone light. “There’s a lot I’d believe.”
Silence on the other end, then the man’s tone changed. There was a new gravity to the voice. “You callin’ about car business or -- other business, buddy?”
“Car business, but perfectly willing to discuss the other if you want to.”
“Let’s keep it at cars for now.” John caught the unspoken message and knew they’d be talking other business as well. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve got a sick manifold for a 361 SoloRamic Commando engine.”
A low whistle was his answer. “Now that’s a classic. We talkin’ 59 Plymouth or 60?”
“Fifty-nine.”
The silence this time felt thoughtful. “Well, bad news is I don’t think I have one of those. Good news is, I think I can tool you one. What’s your name and where are you?”
“Winchester. John Winchester. I’m in Lawrence, Kansas.”
“Lawrence…. Lawrence…. Ah.” John couldn’t help the smile as he pictured Singer flipping through a phone book. “Here we are. Since you called me, I’m going to assume you’re at BW Motors.”
“You assume right.”
“Okay, well, I’m in Sioux Falls, so it’s going to take a few days, maybe a week or so. That work for you?”
“That works. Just glad you can help me.”
“Don’t thank me yet, buddy. You got me curious about the other business. You might not want to thank me once we’re done.”
John blinked at the suddenly buzzing phone in his hand. “Bye to you, too,” he mumbled as he replaced it in the cradle and tapped a finger against the card in the Rolodex.
This had the potential of becoming very interesting.
Interesting, it turned out, was a vast understatement. Singer drove all the way to Lawrence with the tooled parts and helped John nurse the ill classic car back to health. Once the beauty had been reunited with her very grateful owner, Singer went to the Mosely house and they discussed their other business.
Singer would later admit that it was only the fact that toddler Sammy had decided his lap was the perfect place to sit that had stayed his hand from drawing on John when John revealed what he and his son were. He wouldn’t have revealed it at all except for the fact that Dean had raced in from school and, on seeing a stranger in his house holding his little brother, shot into dragon-hide and snarled, lunging for Singer.
“We have TALKED about this!” John scolded, grabbing the baby dragon by the scruff of the neck and shaking him a little. “Apologise! Now!”
The ridges along the baby’s spine started to glow and John shook him again. “Don’t you even THINK about it, Dean Michael Winchester! Defy me and you won’t fly for a solid month!”
The glow stopped and suddenly John was holding a sullen seven year old boy. “You wouldn’t,” he growled.
“You wanna try me?” John growled back.
Dean’s eyes closed and he ground out, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were a friendly. I thought you was gonna hurt Sammy an’ he can’t protect himself right!”
John sighed, raising his free hand to pinch the bridge of his own nose. “Want to try that again, son?”
Dean glared at his father and then said slowly, “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were going to hurt my little brother.”
Singer’s lips quirked despite himself. “Apology accepted, kid. Just don’t do that again and we’re good.”
At that moment the toddler slid off of Singer’s lap and wobbled over, lifting his arms to be picked up. Dean’s whole stance shifted as his face lit with a wonderful smile. John released him and Dean picked up his brother and headed to another room, chatting warmly to the boy.
John shook his head and sank back into the chair he’d vacated when Dean had burst in. “Sorry about that. He’s a little overprotective since his mother was killed.”
Singer just stared. “What the hell…..” he breathed.
“I think you know,” John replied. “So are we things you hunt, or are we friends?”
“That depends,” came the slow answer. “What did the kid mean, Sammy can’t protect himself?”
“Since the fire…. Sammy’s been different. He can’t transform any more. He’s locked into human form.”
Singer slowly nodded. “And Dean’s dragon form is so small because ---”
“Dragons have longer lifespans. He’s a baby in that form and will be for quite awhile.”
“One more thing. What was that strange glow that got you so mad? What was he gearing up to do?”
John grinned slightly. “Breathe fire. I think he was going to try to scorch my feet for stopping him from clawing you. Like I said -- overprotective.”
Singer leaned back against the seat, and John imagined he could see the man’s agile mind working. At last, Singer met his eyes. “You’ve lived here how long? In Lawrence, I mean.”
“Since I was ten-- minus the two years I spent in-country.”
Singer’s eyes widened. “I did two in-country near the end. Army.”
“Marines.”
Singer chuckled. “My point is, you’ve lived here for decades and there’s been absolutely no reports of dragons hurting anyone.”
John nodded. “Because not everything that’s -- different -- is a monster to be destroyed.”
In another world, those words coming from John Winchester would have been utterly unthinkable. In this one, those words formed the beginning of a beautiful friendship that would cement for John that he was making the right choice in putting his sons first.
After all -- dragons were territorial creatures at heart.
For the next decade and a few years, life went on. John bought a house and took over the garage. His sons grew into young men that had good hearts.
Not once did John lie to them about what they were or what had happened to his family. He raised his boys to be kind and considerate, though Dean never truly lost the overprotectiveness when it came to his brother. Especially because Sam couldn’t change into a dragon like they could.
For his part, when Sam realised he was different than his father and brother, he decided it must be because he was adopted. Once he realised that was not the case, he was hurt and furious by turns. Always, though, his father made sure that Sam knew that he was not “less than” because he was Locked. And that Sam knew that he was the way he was because of the attack on their house, not because something was “wrong” with him.
Dean and John made sure that Sam knew that he was loved.
As he grew older, and grew up, Sam did the same for his father and brother. He gave Dean the golden necklace that was his brother’s tiny personal hoard. He helped John and Singer with the recording of all the dragon history they knew -- which wasn’t very much. He helped Dean with his schoolwork and was his brother’s biggest cheerleader when he elected to apprentice at his father’s auto repair shop rather than go to college.
Sam may have been Locked -- but he was every bit a Winchester.
May 2, 2000 marked Sam Winchester’s 17th birthday. Dean took the day off and made him a cake and John picked him up from school. He drove Sam straight to the Douglas County courthouse.
An hour later, John proudly rode in the passenger seat as his newly licensed son drove them home. Both of them laughed when they heard Dean’s whoop of joy when Sam slid out of the driver’s seat.
Sam’s birthday meal was Missouri’s famous lasagna and garlic bread with a fresh salad on the side. Missouri threatened Dean with her wooden spoon for teasing his brother about his “rabbit food”, and gave Sam a lap desk to work on. She left right after supper, shivering once she left the house. She looked over her shoulder and whispered, “Good luck, you three. I’m proud of you.” With that, she headed straight home.
Sam opened his presents -- a keychain from Dean and a toolbox for the back seat of whatever car Sam was going to buy later on -- and teased his family for all being psychic. “What would you have done if I had failed my test?” he laughed.
“Given you cash to buy your own presents,” Dean snarked right back, and Sam jumped him.
John laughed as they wrestled over the floor, tumbling and laughing. “Watch the walls,” he chided. “Don’t hurt each other!”
All laughter stopped and the brothers froze as the entire house began to shake. Sam rolled to his feet and gasped, “Earthquake?”
“Doesn’t feel like one,” Dean said, looking over at his father.
“I have no idea,” John began, but then the door to the coat closet blew open and a man a couple of years younger than John tumbled out.
In the stunned silence that followed, the strange man gained his feet and gasped, “Johnny, is that you?”
Dean automatically stepped protectively in front of his little brother -- which wasn’t very effective since Sam now had an inch of height over him -- and Sam gently touched between his shoulder blades in one of their nonverbal signals. Dean instantly stepped one step forward and to his left, clearing Sam’s right arm in case his brother needed to access one of the knives Dean knew he had hidden on his person.
For his part, John was just staring, his jaw sliding open. “Holy……” he breathed, censoring himself before the rest of the mild curse could slip out. He took a step forward. “I can’t…. I don’t…. I…. Pops?”
The man nodded, breathing hard. He closed his eyes as he suddenly had an armful of his son, hugging each other convulsively.
Dean and Sam just looked at each other, visibly confused.
John broke the hug and smiled at his boys. “These are my sons. The one in front is Dean, he’s the oldest. Behind him is Sam.” He shook his head slightly. “Boys, I don’t know how, but this is my father -- Henry Winchester.”
“I thought your father ran out on you,” Dean said suspiciously.
“No, I would never…” He shook his head. “We were attacked. I used a spell to escape…”
“Who attacked you?” John asked, his back stiffening.
Henry shook his head. “I don’t know how much is classified now… what level are you?”
John suddenly understood. “So this is why Missouri told me about that secret society. Pops, the Men of Letters were destroyed in 1957. A fire leveled the library and killed everyone.”
“Not everyone, obviously,” Dean said and winced as Sam pinched the side of his hand.
John couldn’t help but chuckle. “Right, you got away. But everyone else was killed and the rumour was that you ran off with Miss Sands, who set the fire.”
“She did,” Henry growled. “But if you’re not Men of Letters, what…. What are you?”
“We are ourselves,” Sam said calmly. “We do what we do and we are very good at it. We study and we defend.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Balance,” he breathed, visibly startled. “You study -- like a Man of Letters -- and you defend… like a Hunter.” He shook his head. “I am impressed, Johnny. Are you still able to---”
The closet trembled again and Henry whirled to face it. “No!” he yelled. “No, no, no! She followed me!”
Again, the coat closet door blew open and a statuesque redhead in a bloody party dress stepped out. “Silly boy, Henry,” she laughed, her eyes clicking black from corner to corner. “You left the door open.”
Before Henry could react, a faint glow and a deep intake of breath came from his elbow. Then a massive jet of flame soared around Henry’s side and John’s five-foot tall dragon form stepped around his father and toward the woman, his dorsal fins glowing and the fire steadily erupting from his mouth reflecting in his blazing eyes.
The flame hit the surprised woman directly in her ebony eyes and kept coming, pouring on as John-dragon took step after step forward. The woman screamed, her face aflame, and she reached to claw at it ineffectively as, blinded and reacting to the unexpected pain, she staggered step after step, lurching backward toward the roaring portal she’d stepped from.
Henry saw Dean’s 21-year-old self suddenly become one of the tiniest dragons he’d ever seen and race forward, small wings pumping and lifting him off the ground. Instead of going for her face or any other unprotected area as Henry initially thought he was going to, Dean rolled himself up into an airborne ball and timed his strike accurately.
The shrieking woman stepped back once more, and her knee folded instantly as the scaly ball of baby dragon solidly impacted with the back of it. Dean hit the ground and rolled into her kitten-heeled ankle on the same leg, shoving it from behind.
John intensified the stream of flame as she began to topple, and the sheer force of it hitting her did the trick, completing her fall and knocking her back into the portal.
Instantly, Henry dashed forward -- barely missing being singed as John cut off the fire -- and slammed the coat closet door shut, slicing his own palm and drawing a strange sigil onto the door.
Sam asked, “Is that it? Is she gone?”
Henry shook his head. “She’s trapped in the tunnel for now, but she’s very powerful. The only thing that can lock her away permanently is if the sigil is ‘bathed in the blood of the Locked’.” He spread his hands. “But I have no idea what a ‘Locked’ is.”
Sam blinked at him.”You’re sure it said the blood of the Locked. Just like that?”
“Yes, that’s what the spell calls for. Why?”
“Dean!” Sam suddenly held out his palm and Dean flew over. A quick nonverbal conversation, then Dean threw his clawed forelimb out, slamming the claws diagonally across his brother’s palm and drawing blood instantly.
Sam strode to the closet door and slapped his palm over the sigil. It flared under his hand and then faded into dull red marks seared into the door. He looked over at Henry’s stunned expression and smiled. “I’m Locked,” he told the newcomer as he removed his hand. “I was born with the same ability as them, but I was Locked into human form when I was six months old.”
Henry swayed. “And…. And because of that… you could….”
“He saved us, Pops,” John said as he and Dean resumed human form. “Because of what he is, he was able to save us from that…. Creature.”
“That was more than a creature, Johnny,” Henry breathed. “That was a thrice-damned Knight of Hell itself.”
Dean was the first one to hug Sam tight. “So proud of you, bitch,” he whispered in his ear. “So damned proud….”
Sam could only manage to choke out, “Jerk…” before the enormity of it hit him and he groped blindly for his father, who took his hand and wrapped both of them into a strong hug as Henry sank straight down until he was sitting on the floor, staring wide-eyed at his rediscovered family.
Once things had calmed down, Henry told them where the dragon-hide ability had come from. It was not a Winchester trait, it was a Harper trait. John’s mother had passed it down.
They found the key in Henry’s pocket, that he had jumped to protect, led to a disused Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon. Using the magicks found there, they were able to build a transport tunnel from it to John’s house in Lawrence.
Sam’s gifts with research and study were fostered at the Bunker and he discovered an innate talent for organisation and accessibility that put the Men of Letters’ old system to shame. He went to the University of Kansas for a business degree, and took over the books at the auto repair shop. When technology caught up with his ambition, he took correspondence courses for a certificate in archival information.
Whenever he was tempted to feel bad or different because his brother and father could wear dragon-hide and he couldn’t, Sam reminded himself of two things: his grandfather/uncle -- time travel messed with ages, so legally Henry was John’s younger brother -- couldn’t wear dragon-hide either, and he’d saved his family due to the fact that he was Locked. He always felt better after that.
Until Henry realised that the weird weather kicking up around Kansas wasn’t just an overly strong late summer storm system. It was demonic sign.
The thing that had Locked Sammy all those years ago was coming back.
With the resources now at their disposal from the bunker, the creature walked into a home that was manned by two irate dragons and two armed men. He began to laugh at them, smug and superior, and to boast of his plans for Sammy.
“I don’t care,” Sam cut him off, causing him to blink sickly yellow eyes at him.
“What?” he growled. “You should feel honored, Sammy, this is a great--”
“I said I don’t care,” Sam shot back. “You targeted my family and that was your fatal mistake.”
“Fatal?” the creature laughed. “I think you’re being overly dramatic, my boy.”
Sam shook his head. “Not your boy. Now!”
Henry began to chant an exorcism and the creature laughed even as twin jets of dragonfire showed a devil’s trap around him. “Well done! But this won’t hold me for long.”
“We don’t need it to,” Sam said, crouching down and drawing something on the floor with a marker. Two sigils, side by side. He smiled triumphantly at the creature, then drew a knife across his own palm and slapped it down on one of the sigils.
The devil’s trap turned into a portal under the creature’s foot, sucking him downward in seconds. Sam slammed his hand on that sigil again and the portal cut off.
Then he moved his hand to the other sigil, sealing the creature away forever with the blood of a Locked.
A sudden sharp quake hit not only Kansas, but the entire central United States, centered on Stull Cemetery. Heaven and Hell alike screamed their fury as their plans, centuries in the crafting, were swiftly undone by those they had bargained would be their envesseled champions.
The best part, or the worst part -- mused a gleeful archangel in hiding and secretly relieved king of the crossroads in their separate realms -- was that none of the brats realised exactly what they had done.
No, the Winchesters just continued on with their hard-won happily ever after lives in blissful ignorance.
Winchester once had a thriving hoard, till an attack when his youngest
son was six months old. Now his hoard is broken and his baby boy is a
Locked -- unable to wear dragon-hide. Can Sam find his place in a
world where he is -- literally -- the odd man out? Or will his being
Locked be the key to saving not only his father's hoard, but to
everything?
NOTE: Written for the spn_reversebang. Art by beelikej
Lawrence, Kansas. May 1, 2000.
Sam Winchester unlocked the front door and let himself into the house, making certain to lock it behind him. He dropped his bookbag carelessly on the couch and jogged up the stairs, his long legs carrying him up two at a time.
As usual, his big brother’s door was open, so Sam didn’t bother to knock before he plopped right down on the bed. “Guess what?” he laughed.
His brother’s small head raised from the tight knot he was curled into on the pillows, crystalline green eyes opening as he gave an inquisitive, if sleepy, chirp.
“We started English legends in Literature as History class today,” Sam chuckled. “Specifically, the tale of Saint George!”
His brother’s tail uncurled from his body, revealing the small forelegs firmly clamped around the golden horned medallion in the form of a misshapen human head. The tail thrashed, striking Sam’s arm with enough force to bruise, if his brother hadn’t been aiming for the part covered by the denim jacket.
“Yeah, I know,” Sam chuckled. “Just find it really funny how wrong they get it, you know?” As his brother nodded, Sam reached over and scratched the baby dragon on the top of his head.
The reaction was immediate. The eyes slowly closed and the tail returned to its place around the body as something that could only be described as a purr erupted.
“You’re a hedonist, Dean,” Sam teased lightly as the small head returned to its nest and a tiny puff of smoke blasted out to caress his fingers, making him chuckle as he stood up. “I’m gonna get a snack. You want anything?”
No answer -- not even the twitch of the end of Dean’s tail. Sam grinned wide enough that his dimples cut furrows into his cheeks and ran a warm hand over his brother’s small back as he stood.
Dean always could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, especially when he felt safe.
Sam had just snapped the burner off and moved the mac and cheese to a bowl when his ears registered the front door opening and the lock re-engaging a few seconds later. He grinned and was reaching for another bowl when a gravel-filled voice asked, “Any left for me?”
“Enough to share,” Sam reported as he divided the food and brought the bowls to the table. “Dean’s asleep upstairs. Were you two out flying late last night?”
His father shook his head as he dug in. A couple of spoonfuls later, he reported, “Not last night, no. We were up at the crack of dawn as usual, flying before work. He must have had an interesting day, if he’s asleep.”
Sam shook his head. “Well, he’s doing his best impression of a hibernating lizard upstairs.”
His father blinked at that. “He’s in dragon-hide? In the middle of the afternoon?”
“He either feels safe or very jittery,” Sam said as he nodded. “Since that’s the only time he shifts when neither of us are around, and he was in dragon-hide when I got home.” He ate a bite, then said, “Oh, speaking of dragon-hide, we’re studying Saint George in Literature As History class.”
That brought a sarcastic snort from his father. “Let me guess -- we’re the bad guys.”
“Aren’t we always?” Sam deadpanned, frowning as he played with the noodles in his bowl. “I mean….”
Without a word, his father reached over and squeezed Sam’s hand.
Sam sighed. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I just wish I wasn’t…. That I could…”
“I can’t imagine how you feel,” his father replied in the same soft tone. “And I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you I do.”
Another sigh erupted from Sam, but this one felt lighter. He smiled at his father, and it was a genuine one. “That honestly makes me feel better, Dad. Knowing that you understand even that much…” He shook his head. “Sometimes I’m glad that you and Dean aren’t the Locked ones. Being stuck in one form all the time? You’d go round the bend.”
As Sam took their half-filled bowls to the refrigerator, since neither of them were hungry any longer, his father had to admit that his youngest was probably right.
It hadn’t always been this way. It hadn’t always been just the three men living in the small house on the outskirts of Lawrence, with plenty of room to run and play -- and to fly.
Nearly two decades earlier, John Winchester had been a happy man. He had a son who could wrap himself in dragon-hide like his old man, and a baby boy who showed signs of being able to do the same thing. Like all dragons, even those who were only in dragon-hide part of the time, John had a hoard.
But where most dragons had hoards of golden coins or golden jewels, John’s hoard was a feisty young woman with a headful of golden curls. His Mary was his wife, the other half of his heart, and she loved the dragon as much as she loved the man. John was happy and content with his family.
Until the terrible night that his youngest turned six months old. Their home had been invaded by evil. There had been a horrible fire and in the wake of it there were two terrible changes.
John’s Mary, his living hoard, was gone.
And Sammy could no longer grow scales or claws or wing-buds. His days of dragon-hide were over.
John lost himself to mindless grief, barely caring for his boys -- until a whirlwind named Missouri Mosely blew into their lives a week past the fire. Then things changed again with one fateful conversation.
In another place or time, that conversation would have sent John down a path that would have led him straight into the eldritch plans that were being woven about him and his sons. This time, however, Missouri was able to give John something he hadn’t had since the fire.
Hope.
She sat John down and told him what had attacked them. But before she started talking, she put baby Sammy into his arms instead of leaving the child for Dean to watch. Dean clambered up and curled into his father’s side; and when Missouri described what it was, John’s arms tightened on both his sons.
In another world, he would have gotten up and stormed out, first to a bar and then to a gun store and a lore expert. But this John, this dragon with children -- he tightened his grip on both boys and looked into their innocent faces.
Then he looked at Missouri and whispered, “What can I do?”
“You’re doing it right now,” she assured him. “You are being a father to those boys. That’s what they need. I know you miss your Mary, I know you saw her as your human hoard. But here is the thing, John.” She put a hand on his arm, stroking Sammy’s cheek as she did so and making the baby coo. “This is also your hoard. Your family. You haven’t lost it all. And this hoard? They need their protector, their fighter, their daddy -- they need you a hell of a lot more than you need revenge.”
John took a deep breath and looked -- really looked -- at his boys. He looked back at Missouri and whispered, “I can’t just ignore what’s out there.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she said. “I’m asking you to prioritise.”
“I can’t stay here,” he said. “Not… Not in that house.”
“And again -- I’m not asking you to. We’ll figure it all out, John. Just remember -- you’re not alone.”
He looked at Sammy, at the tilted eyes looking up at him as the baby sucked on his two middle fingers. He looked at Dean, at the large eyes that held grief that mirrored his own and naked fear. He thought on Missouri’s words for a very long time.
Then he said softly, “Well, then -- help us.”
She smiled and said, “Now that you’ve asked me -- I can. Let’s get some supper and then we’ll get started.”
John had put both his sons to bed and was almost asleep himself when it hit him. His eyes flew open and he gasped, “Now that I’ve asked her?”
He got out of bed and padded barefoot into the living room where Missouri smiled at him. “You are supposed to be sleeping.”
“You said something that puzzled me. What did you mean you can help now that I’ve asked you? You couldn’t help before?”
“No, I couldn’t.” She waved him to sit on the couch and sank into the armchair beside him. “Oh, I could have tried. I could have warned and done all kinds of empty gestures, but they would have been just that. Empty.”
John shook his head. “I don’t understand, Missouri. You talk in riddles.”
She laughed. “One of the drawbacks of what I am, John. Sometimes I get kind’a stuck in the ---” She paused, visibly searching for a word. “The mysteriousness of everything that’s whirling around in my head.” Her smile grew. “That’s a prime example, right there. Thirty or so words just to tell you it’s a habit.”
He shook his head again, but he was chuckling slightly. “Okay, so give it to me straight. Why couldn’t you have helped before I asked you to help me?”
Missouri leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Can you honestly say that, until you asked me for it, you would have accepted my help?” When he paused, she added, “You are a proud, independent man, John. It takes a lot for you to ask for help, much less accept it.”
He nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said softly. He stood and stretched. “I’m wound up, now. I’m going to go fly for a little while -- clear my head and tire myself out.”
She nodded and stood as well. “If you’re not back by dawn, I’ll send Dean after you.”
John blinked at that. “He can barely fly, Missouri.”
She crossed her arms. “You think he’ll let a little detail like that stop him? Boy’s as stubborn as his old man.”
Laughing, John had to agree. He walked out of her back door and wrapped himself in dragon-hide. He took to the air and flew in the cooling night, letting the wind along his body calm his racing thoughts.
He was in bed and asleep well before dawn, secure that the morning would bring the first day of a new life.
John’s boss at the garage gave him time off, and he worked with Missouri to sell the house where his Mary had died. The young family stayed with the psychic and slowly reformed themselves around the mother-shaped hole that gaped in their lives.
Instead of going off half-cocked, driven by alcohol-fueled rage and grief, John focused on something that Missouri had reminded him, and it became his anchor.
Dragons lived much longer than regular humans. John could afford to be patient.
Of course, there was also the very satisfying angle that Missouri had been able to sense the creature that was behind all this seemed to want John off-balance and reeling. It seemed to want John so blindly obsessed that he would do and sacrifice anything to keep after anything and everything supernatural.
So the more methodical and patient John was -- the more of a monkey wrench in the works he would become.
John rather liked that idea.
Things really crystallised for John about two years after the fire. That was the day he met a man who threw everything into final clearness. And it all started when John had trouble at work.
Missouri had the boys while John worked at the garage, and on this fateful day he was struggling with finding parts for a car that was older than his beloved Impala. He was methodically calling through his boss’s Rolodex, and having such bad luck that it was like he was in a four-sided room lined with eight brick walls.
John was on the point of giving up. He decided to make one last call before he quit for the day and dialed the long-distance number, only to hear a weary voice sigh on the other end, “Singer Salvage, Bobby Singer here. Need some help?”
He would never really know why the reply that shot out of his mouth was, “Brother, you sound as tired as I feel. Long day?”
A tired chuckle. “On top of a longer night.”
“Tell me about it. What’s kept you up?”
Another chuckle. “Wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
John’s hand tightened on the receiver as a cold ribbon slid down his spine. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, keeping his tone light. “There’s a lot I’d believe.”
Silence on the other end, then the man’s tone changed. There was a new gravity to the voice. “You callin’ about car business or -- other business, buddy?”
“Car business, but perfectly willing to discuss the other if you want to.”
“Let’s keep it at cars for now.” John caught the unspoken message and knew they’d be talking other business as well. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve got a sick manifold for a 361 SoloRamic Commando engine.”
A low whistle was his answer. “Now that’s a classic. We talkin’ 59 Plymouth or 60?”
“Fifty-nine.”
The silence this time felt thoughtful. “Well, bad news is I don’t think I have one of those. Good news is, I think I can tool you one. What’s your name and where are you?”
“Winchester. John Winchester. I’m in Lawrence, Kansas.”
“Lawrence…. Lawrence…. Ah.” John couldn’t help the smile as he pictured Singer flipping through a phone book. “Here we are. Since you called me, I’m going to assume you’re at BW Motors.”
“You assume right.”
“Okay, well, I’m in Sioux Falls, so it’s going to take a few days, maybe a week or so. That work for you?”
“That works. Just glad you can help me.”
“Don’t thank me yet, buddy. You got me curious about the other business. You might not want to thank me once we’re done.”
John blinked at the suddenly buzzing phone in his hand. “Bye to you, too,” he mumbled as he replaced it in the cradle and tapped a finger against the card in the Rolodex.
This had the potential of becoming very interesting.
Interesting, it turned out, was a vast understatement. Singer drove all the way to Lawrence with the tooled parts and helped John nurse the ill classic car back to health. Once the beauty had been reunited with her very grateful owner, Singer went to the Mosely house and they discussed their other business.
Singer would later admit that it was only the fact that toddler Sammy had decided his lap was the perfect place to sit that had stayed his hand from drawing on John when John revealed what he and his son were. He wouldn’t have revealed it at all except for the fact that Dean had raced in from school and, on seeing a stranger in his house holding his little brother, shot into dragon-hide and snarled, lunging for Singer.
“We have TALKED about this!” John scolded, grabbing the baby dragon by the scruff of the neck and shaking him a little. “Apologise! Now!”
The ridges along the baby’s spine started to glow and John shook him again. “Don’t you even THINK about it, Dean Michael Winchester! Defy me and you won’t fly for a solid month!”
The glow stopped and suddenly John was holding a sullen seven year old boy. “You wouldn’t,” he growled.
“You wanna try me?” John growled back.
Dean’s eyes closed and he ground out, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were a friendly. I thought you was gonna hurt Sammy an’ he can’t protect himself right!”
John sighed, raising his free hand to pinch the bridge of his own nose. “Want to try that again, son?”
Dean glared at his father and then said slowly, “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were going to hurt my little brother.”
Singer’s lips quirked despite himself. “Apology accepted, kid. Just don’t do that again and we’re good.”
At that moment the toddler slid off of Singer’s lap and wobbled over, lifting his arms to be picked up. Dean’s whole stance shifted as his face lit with a wonderful smile. John released him and Dean picked up his brother and headed to another room, chatting warmly to the boy.
John shook his head and sank back into the chair he’d vacated when Dean had burst in. “Sorry about that. He’s a little overprotective since his mother was killed.”
Singer just stared. “What the hell…..” he breathed.
“I think you know,” John replied. “So are we things you hunt, or are we friends?”
“That depends,” came the slow answer. “What did the kid mean, Sammy can’t protect himself?”
“Since the fire…. Sammy’s been different. He can’t transform any more. He’s locked into human form.”
Singer slowly nodded. “And Dean’s dragon form is so small because ---”
“Dragons have longer lifespans. He’s a baby in that form and will be for quite awhile.”
“One more thing. What was that strange glow that got you so mad? What was he gearing up to do?”
John grinned slightly. “Breathe fire. I think he was going to try to scorch my feet for stopping him from clawing you. Like I said -- overprotective.”
Singer leaned back against the seat, and John imagined he could see the man’s agile mind working. At last, Singer met his eyes. “You’ve lived here how long? In Lawrence, I mean.”
“Since I was ten-- minus the two years I spent in-country.”
Singer’s eyes widened. “I did two in-country near the end. Army.”
“Marines.”
Singer chuckled. “My point is, you’ve lived here for decades and there’s been absolutely no reports of dragons hurting anyone.”
John nodded. “Because not everything that’s -- different -- is a monster to be destroyed.”
In another world, those words coming from John Winchester would have been utterly unthinkable. In this one, those words formed the beginning of a beautiful friendship that would cement for John that he was making the right choice in putting his sons first.
After all -- dragons were territorial creatures at heart.
For the next decade and a few years, life went on. John bought a house and took over the garage. His sons grew into young men that had good hearts.
Not once did John lie to them about what they were or what had happened to his family. He raised his boys to be kind and considerate, though Dean never truly lost the overprotectiveness when it came to his brother. Especially because Sam couldn’t change into a dragon like they could.
For his part, when Sam realised he was different than his father and brother, he decided it must be because he was adopted. Once he realised that was not the case, he was hurt and furious by turns. Always, though, his father made sure that Sam knew that he was not “less than” because he was Locked. And that Sam knew that he was the way he was because of the attack on their house, not because something was “wrong” with him.
Dean and John made sure that Sam knew that he was loved.
As he grew older, and grew up, Sam did the same for his father and brother. He gave Dean the golden necklace that was his brother’s tiny personal hoard. He helped John and Singer with the recording of all the dragon history they knew -- which wasn’t very much. He helped Dean with his schoolwork and was his brother’s biggest cheerleader when he elected to apprentice at his father’s auto repair shop rather than go to college.
Sam may have been Locked -- but he was every bit a Winchester.
May 2, 2000 marked Sam Winchester’s 17th birthday. Dean took the day off and made him a cake and John picked him up from school. He drove Sam straight to the Douglas County courthouse.
An hour later, John proudly rode in the passenger seat as his newly licensed son drove them home. Both of them laughed when they heard Dean’s whoop of joy when Sam slid out of the driver’s seat.
Sam’s birthday meal was Missouri’s famous lasagna and garlic bread with a fresh salad on the side. Missouri threatened Dean with her wooden spoon for teasing his brother about his “rabbit food”, and gave Sam a lap desk to work on. She left right after supper, shivering once she left the house. She looked over her shoulder and whispered, “Good luck, you three. I’m proud of you.” With that, she headed straight home.
Sam opened his presents -- a keychain from Dean and a toolbox for the back seat of whatever car Sam was going to buy later on -- and teased his family for all being psychic. “What would you have done if I had failed my test?” he laughed.
“Given you cash to buy your own presents,” Dean snarked right back, and Sam jumped him.
John laughed as they wrestled over the floor, tumbling and laughing. “Watch the walls,” he chided. “Don’t hurt each other!”
All laughter stopped and the brothers froze as the entire house began to shake. Sam rolled to his feet and gasped, “Earthquake?”
“Doesn’t feel like one,” Dean said, looking over at his father.
“I have no idea,” John began, but then the door to the coat closet blew open and a man a couple of years younger than John tumbled out.
In the stunned silence that followed, the strange man gained his feet and gasped, “Johnny, is that you?”
Dean automatically stepped protectively in front of his little brother -- which wasn’t very effective since Sam now had an inch of height over him -- and Sam gently touched between his shoulder blades in one of their nonverbal signals. Dean instantly stepped one step forward and to his left, clearing Sam’s right arm in case his brother needed to access one of the knives Dean knew he had hidden on his person.
For his part, John was just staring, his jaw sliding open. “Holy……” he breathed, censoring himself before the rest of the mild curse could slip out. He took a step forward. “I can’t…. I don’t…. I…. Pops?”
The man nodded, breathing hard. He closed his eyes as he suddenly had an armful of his son, hugging each other convulsively.
Dean and Sam just looked at each other, visibly confused.
John broke the hug and smiled at his boys. “These are my sons. The one in front is Dean, he’s the oldest. Behind him is Sam.” He shook his head slightly. “Boys, I don’t know how, but this is my father -- Henry Winchester.”
“I thought your father ran out on you,” Dean said suspiciously.
“No, I would never…” He shook his head. “We were attacked. I used a spell to escape…”
“Who attacked you?” John asked, his back stiffening.
Henry shook his head. “I don’t know how much is classified now… what level are you?”
John suddenly understood. “So this is why Missouri told me about that secret society. Pops, the Men of Letters were destroyed in 1957. A fire leveled the library and killed everyone.”
“Not everyone, obviously,” Dean said and winced as Sam pinched the side of his hand.
John couldn’t help but chuckle. “Right, you got away. But everyone else was killed and the rumour was that you ran off with Miss Sands, who set the fire.”
“She did,” Henry growled. “But if you’re not Men of Letters, what…. What are you?”
“We are ourselves,” Sam said calmly. “We do what we do and we are very good at it. We study and we defend.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Balance,” he breathed, visibly startled. “You study -- like a Man of Letters -- and you defend… like a Hunter.” He shook his head. “I am impressed, Johnny. Are you still able to---”
The closet trembled again and Henry whirled to face it. “No!” he yelled. “No, no, no! She followed me!”
Again, the coat closet door blew open and a statuesque redhead in a bloody party dress stepped out. “Silly boy, Henry,” she laughed, her eyes clicking black from corner to corner. “You left the door open.”
Before Henry could react, a faint glow and a deep intake of breath came from his elbow. Then a massive jet of flame soared around Henry’s side and John’s five-foot tall dragon form stepped around his father and toward the woman, his dorsal fins glowing and the fire steadily erupting from his mouth reflecting in his blazing eyes.
The flame hit the surprised woman directly in her ebony eyes and kept coming, pouring on as John-dragon took step after step forward. The woman screamed, her face aflame, and she reached to claw at it ineffectively as, blinded and reacting to the unexpected pain, she staggered step after step, lurching backward toward the roaring portal she’d stepped from.
Henry saw Dean’s 21-year-old self suddenly become one of the tiniest dragons he’d ever seen and race forward, small wings pumping and lifting him off the ground. Instead of going for her face or any other unprotected area as Henry initially thought he was going to, Dean rolled himself up into an airborne ball and timed his strike accurately.
The shrieking woman stepped back once more, and her knee folded instantly as the scaly ball of baby dragon solidly impacted with the back of it. Dean hit the ground and rolled into her kitten-heeled ankle on the same leg, shoving it from behind.
John intensified the stream of flame as she began to topple, and the sheer force of it hitting her did the trick, completing her fall and knocking her back into the portal.
Instantly, Henry dashed forward -- barely missing being singed as John cut off the fire -- and slammed the coat closet door shut, slicing his own palm and drawing a strange sigil onto the door.
Sam asked, “Is that it? Is she gone?”
Henry shook his head. “She’s trapped in the tunnel for now, but she’s very powerful. The only thing that can lock her away permanently is if the sigil is ‘bathed in the blood of the Locked’.” He spread his hands. “But I have no idea what a ‘Locked’ is.”
Sam blinked at him.”You’re sure it said the blood of the Locked. Just like that?”
“Yes, that’s what the spell calls for. Why?”
“Dean!” Sam suddenly held out his palm and Dean flew over. A quick nonverbal conversation, then Dean threw his clawed forelimb out, slamming the claws diagonally across his brother’s palm and drawing blood instantly.
Sam strode to the closet door and slapped his palm over the sigil. It flared under his hand and then faded into dull red marks seared into the door. He looked over at Henry’s stunned expression and smiled. “I’m Locked,” he told the newcomer as he removed his hand. “I was born with the same ability as them, but I was Locked into human form when I was six months old.”
Henry swayed. “And…. And because of that… you could….”
“He saved us, Pops,” John said as he and Dean resumed human form. “Because of what he is, he was able to save us from that…. Creature.”
“That was more than a creature, Johnny,” Henry breathed. “That was a thrice-damned Knight of Hell itself.”
Dean was the first one to hug Sam tight. “So proud of you, bitch,” he whispered in his ear. “So damned proud….”
Sam could only manage to choke out, “Jerk…” before the enormity of it hit him and he groped blindly for his father, who took his hand and wrapped both of them into a strong hug as Henry sank straight down until he was sitting on the floor, staring wide-eyed at his rediscovered family.
Once things had calmed down, Henry told them where the dragon-hide ability had come from. It was not a Winchester trait, it was a Harper trait. John’s mother had passed it down.
They found the key in Henry’s pocket, that he had jumped to protect, led to a disused Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon. Using the magicks found there, they were able to build a transport tunnel from it to John’s house in Lawrence.
Sam’s gifts with research and study were fostered at the Bunker and he discovered an innate talent for organisation and accessibility that put the Men of Letters’ old system to shame. He went to the University of Kansas for a business degree, and took over the books at the auto repair shop. When technology caught up with his ambition, he took correspondence courses for a certificate in archival information.
Whenever he was tempted to feel bad or different because his brother and father could wear dragon-hide and he couldn’t, Sam reminded himself of two things: his grandfather/uncle -- time travel messed with ages, so legally Henry was John’s younger brother -- couldn’t wear dragon-hide either, and he’d saved his family due to the fact that he was Locked. He always felt better after that.
Until Henry realised that the weird weather kicking up around Kansas wasn’t just an overly strong late summer storm system. It was demonic sign.
The thing that had Locked Sammy all those years ago was coming back.
With the resources now at their disposal from the bunker, the creature walked into a home that was manned by two irate dragons and two armed men. He began to laugh at them, smug and superior, and to boast of his plans for Sammy.
“I don’t care,” Sam cut him off, causing him to blink sickly yellow eyes at him.
“What?” he growled. “You should feel honored, Sammy, this is a great--”
“I said I don’t care,” Sam shot back. “You targeted my family and that was your fatal mistake.”
“Fatal?” the creature laughed. “I think you’re being overly dramatic, my boy.”
Sam shook his head. “Not your boy. Now!”
Henry began to chant an exorcism and the creature laughed even as twin jets of dragonfire showed a devil’s trap around him. “Well done! But this won’t hold me for long.”
“We don’t need it to,” Sam said, crouching down and drawing something on the floor with a marker. Two sigils, side by side. He smiled triumphantly at the creature, then drew a knife across his own palm and slapped it down on one of the sigils.
The devil’s trap turned into a portal under the creature’s foot, sucking him downward in seconds. Sam slammed his hand on that sigil again and the portal cut off.
Then he moved his hand to the other sigil, sealing the creature away forever with the blood of a Locked.
A sudden sharp quake hit not only Kansas, but the entire central United States, centered on Stull Cemetery. Heaven and Hell alike screamed their fury as their plans, centuries in the crafting, were swiftly undone by those they had bargained would be their envesseled champions.
The best part, or the worst part -- mused a gleeful archangel in hiding and secretly relieved king of the crossroads in their separate realms -- was that none of the brats realised exactly what they had done.
No, the Winchesters just continued on with their hard-won happily ever after lives in blissful ignorance.