Between Shadow and Light: Part 7-11
Title: Between Shadow and Light
Author: Roselani24
Genre: crossover, friendship, drama, angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing for a little while.
Spoilers: Anything from White Collar up until 4.10 and Supernatural Seasons 1-7 is fair game.
Warnings: Some violence, gore, and at one point animal abuse. That section will have a specific warning beforehand for readers.
Summary: Sequel to Secrets in Shadow. Haunted by the case in Gettysburg, Detective Peter Burke seeks out one Dean Winchester in hope of finding answers. Peter finds Dean and a whole lot more than he expected. What started out as mutual respect soon evolves into a strong friendship. Over the years, that friendship has a ripple effect on their families, friends, and even opponents. Includes appearances from Sam Winchester, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, and a special guest appearance by John Winchester. Story told in 25 parts.
Author Notes: First off, a humongous thank you to my beta and artist, Twisted_Slinky who’s editing, encouragement, and gorgeous art made the completion of this story possible. Be sure to check out her art work here. Thank you so much, Slinky!!!! Laughtersmelody deserves a special shout out too because if it weren’t for her word prompts at christianfanfic, this story would have never even made it off the ground. Thanks girl!
Written for the spn_gen_bigbang moderated by the lovely reapertownusa. Thanks for running the community so smoothly! :)
Story Notes: “Between Shadow and Light” is the direct sequel to “Secrets in Shadow” and picks up two months after the first story ended. This story covers the years of 1995 to 2010, after the Apocalypse is over. In my version, however, the Apocalypse ends differently than according to canon. It doesn’t matter too much for this particular story because it is not addressed until the final chapter, but I wanted to make sure readers are aware. As far as canon goes, everything up to 5.14, bar 5.06 and 5.13 occurs in the SPN verse before it goes AU.
ETA: This story started out as a series of connected drabbles that morphed into something much bigger than originally planned. That is why the story is broken down in different parts and then put together in a few compact posts. Each part is a different character segment at a certain time and place. Some are long, some are short depending on what the drabble was originally about. Hope that helps clear things up a bit.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Part 7: Dean - June 1998
The kid was ambitious. He was a good pool player, but way too cocky for this particular rough crowd.
Bright blue eyes were narrowed on the white ball as he feigned fumbling and planning his shot. A dark shock of brown hair curled in a cowlick made him look younger still. All that was missing was his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
The cue hit the ball, and it rocked forward, barely bumping into the solid blue second ball and narrowly avoided sending it into the bunch of three stripes nearby. With his turn over, the kid stepped back to give his opponent room,
Dean supposed the scruff made Rebel Ollie appear somewhat older, but for someone who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, it was easy to tell that the scruff was something the kid wasn’t completely used to. Plus, the ragged clothes that hung loosely over his frame? No doubt about it, the kid was a runaway.
It was Ollie’s turn again. He hit the white ball, striking two solids, including the one he hit with his previous shot, and sending them both into the pocket. Dean caught the flick of blue eyes, saw unease, even as he feigned shocked happiness. Yeah, the kid knew he was pushing his luck but was apparently willing to chance it.
Rebel Ollie’s opponent appeared to be an average redneck, but Dean had quickly sussed out the burly man was king of this particular bar. Mentally, Dean dubbed him Johnny Sullivan. The redneck had that ‘I can lick anyone in the world’ vibe about him. Sullivan was definitely not the person to hustle unless you had a serious desire to duke it out afterwards to keep the winnings. But Rebel Ollie was high on his earlier wins and, stupidly, he’d challenged Sullivan instead of just walking away and calling it a night.
He watched Sullivan carefully as he finished his beer. Dark eyes suddenly narrowed, lips curled in a snarl barely visible underneath a bushy beard. Sullivan exchanged glances with two goons who’d come in with him. Ollie was too preoccupied with his next shot to notice. Crap. The kid was made.
Really it was none of his business what happened to the kid. He needed to head out soon if was going to meet up with Dad and Sam in Tallahassee by tomorrow evening. If Ollie was dumb enough to keep playing long after he should have hightailed it out, it was no skin off his nose. Kid would learn. He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the counter.
In his peripheral, he noticed goon number one, Rocky, shifting, exposing muscled arms and meaty fists. A glance at goon number two, Bullwinkle, confirmed the relative same size and build. They’d snap Ollie like a twig. That and they were both carrying what looked like large hunting knives. Double crap.
Oh, he was so going to regret this.
“Hey, man,” he stumbled toward Ollie. “How’s it going? Been watching your game, dude. Gettin’ better.”
He wrapped his arm around the kid’s shoulder, swaying and smiling drunkenly. Ollie was looking at him slightly wide-eyed, confused. He whispered in his ear. “You’re blown. Play along.”
The kid tensed slightly under his arm, but otherwise, his facial expression betrayed nothing.
“Oh, you know me, Dave. Always looking to improve my game.”
Dean guffawed, maintaining his drunken sway. The key to playing drunk convincingly was to understate and not overdo it. “Sure, Ollie boy. Suuuure! But weren’t you supposed to meet your girl, whatshername, Laura, for dinner?”
Ollie blanched and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall.
“She’s gonna kill me,” Ollie moaned.
Dean smothered a smile. Kid was good; he had to give him that.
“S’kay, man. Jus’ blame me!” He grinned dopily, staggering back and to the side.
“Hey, snake eyes, are we gonna finish our game or what?” Sullivan cut in. Dean didn’t know who he was calling snake eyes. If anyone had the beady eyes like a snake, it was Sully boy, not Ollie. But at least he was between the kid and the redneck now.
“No.” Ollie shook his head, stepping forward to pull Dean’s arm over his shoulders. “I need to get Dave here home or his girlfriend will join mine in roasting us over the coals. Let’s call this one a draw and keep our money.”
Sullivan considered.
Dean really hoped he’d let it go easy, but he wasn’t counting on it.
“Fine.”
Really? Dean didn’t believe what he just heard. He swayed again, adding a groan for good measure. “We goin’, Ollie?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just a sec, Dave.”
Sullivan picked up the wad of cash and counted up the bills. Finally he handed Ollie some. It certainly wasn’t the amount Ollie had won in the previous bets, but it wasn’t too much less either.
He could see the protest forming on the kid’s face, and he quickly swayed and tripped over his feet, forcing Ollie to scramble to keep him up. “Let it go, kid,” Dean murmured before saying in a louder voice, “Whoo-whee! Gonna have a good time!”
Ollie quickly stuffed the cash in his pocket and grabbed onto Dean with both hands as he started bobbing in a drunken attempt to dance.
“I got to get him out of here before he starts singing karaoke!” Ollie added in a stage whisper, “Can never shut him up afterwards. Not to mention he’s gotta voice like nails on a chalkboard.”
“You talkin’ bout me, Ollie?” Dean feigned offense. “That’s sooo not cool!”
Sullivan snorted and waved them off. “Scram.”
Mentally, Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It worked! Together, the pair made their way out of the bar. Dean didn’t let the kid pull away once they were out the front door. Better safe than sorry.
“Chevy Impala on the right,” he instructed quietly. Then he rocked to the side and bellowed, “Hang on, Lisa! I’m a’ comin’ home!”
Obediently, the boy headed toward the classic muscle car. Now came the hardest part, letting the kid drive his car. Gritting his teeth, Dean slipped the boy the keys. “You screw up my car, I’ll kick your butt from here to next week. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” was the quiet reply. Good. The kid’s self-preservation hyperdrive was apparently kicking back in.
He tried not to think about the kid sitting in the driver’s seat, touching the wheel of his car as the boy started the engine. Dean slumped in the passenger seat, bobbing slightly so any prying eyes would still believe he was drunk and out of it.
“Go left.”
Ollie acknowledged him with a slight nod and carefully drove the car out of the parking lot and onto the two lane highway.
Once they had gone a sufficient distance from the bar, Dean dropped the drunken act completely.
“Pull over.”
As the Impala came to a halt on the side of the road, Dean turned to fully face Ollie. “You are ten kinds of stupid, kid.”
Ollie was indignant. “I am not! I knew what I was doing.”
“Really?” Dean deadpanned.
Ollie’s opened his mouth to retort, only for it to snap shut as Dean finished. “Did you notice the blades Rocky and Bullwinkle had on them? Or that they were planning to turn you into a fish fillet?”
“I would have gotten away,” Ollie muttered sullenly, pouting at his lap.
Dean shook his head. “Not without being badly hurt. And then what, huh? You’re homeless and on the run. Where would you have gone?”
He was surprised the kid didn’t get whiplash with how fast his head snapped up.
“How did you-you’re a cop!”
Dean scoffed. “Not a chance! I just get around. It’s not hard to recognize newbies in places like that.”
The kid looked chagrined. “That obvious, huh?”
“Only to those who know what to look for,” Dean assured him. There was more he wanted to say, but it could wait. “Slide over.”
Ollie’s eyes widened slightly.
“It’s my car, kid. Move over so I can drive.”
Ollie obeyed as Dean got out and walked to the driver’s side. Back behind the wheel, Dean felt the last of the pressure draining away. This is where he belonged. To his right, Ollie was now rigid and desperately trying to play it off. But exhaustion was quickly catching up to the boy.
Dean pretended not to notice as he guided the Impala back out onto the road.
“What do you say we grab some food at that diner? I’m starving!” Dean declared. “I think they were having a pecan pie special or something. Anything’s better than the so-called food they had at the bar.”
Kid’s big blue eyes were wide with disbelief. Dean just glanced over and smiled lazily. He was pleased as the kid slowly deflated and nodded a minute later. Good. He was afraid the kid was gonna argue with him.
Besides, he really was hungry.
________________________________________________________________________________
The diner was typical for rural America: rundown and decorated for a bygone era ranging from the thirties to the eighties. This one boasted a late sixties style. Despite the peeling paint and cement cushions, it was clean and the food reputedly wasn’t half bad.
The waitresses weren’t half bad either, Dean thought with an appreciative grin, enjoying the way the red-head’s slender waist swayed as she walked by with another customer’s dinner. It was very difficult to tear his attention away. She looked like she would be a lot more fun than his sullen companion.
“So, care to tell me what a scamp like you was doing in a bar like that?”
“What were you doing there?” the younger boy countered. Dean shrugged easily. “Getting a drink. I’ve been on the road all day.”
Ollie seemed to consider that. “Where are you going?”
“Tallahassee. You, Ollie boy?”
“That’s not my name,” the boy said, a challenge creeping into his voice.
Dean’s mouth twisted down in an exaggerated innocent frown as he scanned the menu. “My name’s not Dave either.”
A beat. Then the dark haired boy held out his hand. “Neal.”
“Dean.” He shook Neal’s hand.
“Thanks for...you know.”
“No problem, kid.”
Neal glared. “You’re not much older than me!”
Dean grinned cheekily. “So?”
Age was just a number anyway.
The waitress’s arrival cut off Neal’s rejoinder. “What can I get you boys?”
Once they had ordered and the waitress left, Dean settled back against the booth. He considered how to approach this. Probably best to build up some and then hammer the point home.
“How long have you been playing pool?”
Neal didn’t answer, fidgeting, keeping his head turned away.
“I’ve been playing since I was ten,” Dean offered. Technically, he’d been playing since he was tall enough to see over the table and hold the cue, which was about the same time he learned how to shoot a gun. But he had not started hustling until he was ten. Dad had been leaving for longer periods of time and the money he left almost always ran out before he got back. Dean had to supplement their income somehow.
“Nine.”
“That when you learned how to hustle?”
A slow nod.
“Yeah, well, you need to go back to class, Sparky. Because you definitely failed.”
Neal glared at him. “It’s none of your business! I can handle myself.”
“Oh, you mean like stealing my wallet, my knife, and my car keys while we were walking in here?”
The boy froze, fear flittering across his face before he hid it behind defiance. Blasted kid and his fearful puppy eyes! He was nearly as bad as Sam. Crap, he might as well be Sam after Dean caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
He held out a hand. “Give it.”
Neal reluctantly pulled the wallet out of his pocket and gave it to him. Dean waggled his fingers. “All of it, kid.”
Scowling, Neal slapped the knife and keys into his hand too. Good thing it was his folded knife and not the bowie knife. Otherwise his hand would have been sliced open. He glared fiercely at Neal for a moment, silently warning him to be more careful. Reddened cheeks and a ducked head confirmed his message was received.
“Thank you.” He quickly stowed his knife and keys in his pockets, then checked his wallet. Forty bucks was missing, nothing else. Dean closed it crisply. “You’re buying, kid.”
Neal seemed surprised. His hair had fallen into his face, and Dean was once again seeing another younger, mop haired boy. He shook his head.
“Next time, just ask.”
“Oh look, the hustling king offering me tips.”
Dean’s eyebrow shot up.
“I play a decent game,” he offered, faking modesty. Actually, he was frigging great and had hustling down to a science. It only took a few mistakes to learn what to do to avoid getting the crap beat out of him.
Dean arrested the boy’s attention with a single punctuated finger.
“And I know when it’s gotten too hot that it’s time to clear out and find new hunting grounds. You were stupid and reckless, Neal. You got lucky this time. Next time, you probably won’t. Figure it out. If you’re gonna hustle, you have to pay attention to your surroundings and know your own limits.”
“Thanks for that, Big Jim.” Neal snapped.
“You’re welcome,” he returned with mock cheerfulness. “I’m always happy to pass on my wisdom to slim fellows like you. Eventually, you might get there where you can thrash me, Slim.” Maybe beat him at the game, but physically no way. Dean had grown up fighting things that were faster, meaner, and all around nastier than anything this kid could imagine. “But not unless you wise up first, or you’ll be the one getting thrashed.”
He could see the kid considering whether or not it was worth listening to a word Dean said. Whatever. He’d said his piece and whether or not Neal took his advice to heart wasn’t his concern.
Instead, he relaxed against the booth and enjoyed the quiet. Once he joined back up with his dad and little brother, he would be lucky to get a few moments like this. They argued all the time. Dean was constantly playing the mediator, and it was wearing him down. Why couldn’t they just get along?
Neal’s soft voice drew him from his thoughts.
“I-I guess I could have been more careful.”
“You guess?”
“Fine, I should have,” Neal snapped, cheeks coloring pink. “I screwed up. It won’t happen again.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, you will. But you’ll learn.”
“Here you go, boys,” the waitress announced, placing their order on the table, cutting off whatever response Neal had. There was a bacon cheeseburger for Dean and a chicken sandwich for Neal. Neal took a bite of the sandwich and then started to devour it.
“Whoa there, tiger,” Dean said, holding up a hand. “Slow down or you’ll be getting acquainted with the head.”
Neal grimaced, but obeyed. He swallowed and lowered the sandwich. “Personal experience?”
“Unfortunately. Trust me, eat slowly. No rush.”
Not yet anyway. He still had a little time.
With Neal no longer gorging on his sandwich, Dean happily sunk his teeth into his burger. They ate in silence.
Dean’s burger was half way gone when Neal spoke again.
“Thanks.”
They locked gazes again. Dean smiled crookedly, knowing exactly what the kid was thanking him for.
“You’re welcome.”
~*~
Part 8: Peter - July 1998
Peter was nervous by the time lunch rolled around. He had a date with the lovely Elizabeth Mitchell at a new Italian restaurant downtown. With some maneuvering on his part and extra hours working on the latest cases last night, he ensured as best he could he had a solid hour to spend with her. He wouldn’t be called away. Again.
No, he prayed he wouldn’t be interrupted, Peter corrected, brow furrowing.
Unfortunately, his job was very demanding. The White Collar Division of the FBI was hardly considered as tough as some of the other divisions, particularly Violent Crime or Organized Crime, by most people, which wasn’t true. Crime was high and the number of cases the division had handled in the past year since he had been there was staggering. Working in the White Collar division was not easy. It required critical thinking and analysis skills to figure out schemes for stealing money or jewels or paintings or other valuables. And somehow, inevitably, the big break in the case would come during lunch or supper, when he was with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, bless her, understood completely. It was the strangest thing. The women Peter had dated in the past had always gotten fed up with his schedule, which really had not changed too much from the police department to the FBI. In fact, Peter was pretty sure he was working less than he had since he was sworn in as an undercover officer years ago. It was nothing short of amazing. She was amazing.
And Peter had no intention of letting her go.
He already knew where he planned to propose. It was cheesy and cliché, but he hoped Elizabeth would like it anyway. Dean would no doubt tease him mercilessly if he found out, which he wouldn’t. He may owe the kid for giving him the kick in the pants to realize he wanted to marry Elizabeth, but that didn’t mean he was going to tell him every detail!
If he did find out…well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. With his luck, Dean would find out somehow. For living on the road, and often over a thousand miles away, it was disconcerting how much the young hunter knew sometimes.
A glance at his watch told him he was going to be even later if he didn’t get moving.
Closing up the files, Peter grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevator.
~*~
Part 9: Peter and Elizabeth - June 1999
Peter Burke stood at the altar. His breath caught.
An angel in white was gliding down the aisle towards him.
Elizabeth Mitchell, soon to be Mrs. Elizabeth Burke, shone as she took his hand, her sapphire blue eyes glittering.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat. How had he gotten so lucky? Life was hardly a picnic, especially for Peter and any woman he had ever dated. His job was very demanding, challenging, and he loved it. He didn’t know how to explain that to those past women, and he’d fumbled through more than one awkward date and relationship. Yet, somehow the woman standing at his side had seen through all his bumbling and fallen in love with him.
Elizabeth, the most amazing, kind, and beautiful woman Peter had ever known, loved him. Peter Burke. And here they were, about to become husband and wife. There wasn’t a luckier or more blessed man on Earth.
The preacher began to speak and Peter sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. As they recited their vows, pledged to love each other, through sickness and health, through the good and the hard times, Peter felt fit to burst.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Your bride. His bride. His beautiful Elizabeth.
She smiled up at him, radiant and pure and happy. He wasted no time claiming her lips in a deep kiss.
Distantly he heard their families and friends let out a thundering cheer before it faded away as he lost himself in his new wife’s embrace.
________________________________________________________________________________
In the far back corner of the church, hidden in the shadows of the columns, a party crasher grinned with pride.
Quietly he turned and walked out.
A sly grin crossed his face as he walked down the church steps. He could only imagine Peter’s face when the DJ went to play Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” and Tracy Byrd’s “Watermelon Crawl”, and AC/DC’s “Back in Black” and Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” came on instead.
Laughing, he climbed into a black ’67 Chevy Impala and roared away.
~*~
Part 10: Dean - October 1999
“Of all the asinine-”
“Hey, I saved your butt, Professor.”
“And nearly got killed in the process!” Peter Burke, more commonly known as the Professor in the Winchester hunting circle, glared, his hands coming to rest on his hips.
“That’s the job, dude. Hunting isn’t exactly a safe gig, you know.”
Peter snarled and turned away, pacing furiously at the end of the bed. Really, would it hurt the guy to show a little gratitude? Probably. Getting thanked for saving somebody’s bacon was pretty rare since said person or persons was normally freaking out from the supernatural encounter. Just because he was kinda, sorta friends with the detective-turned-fed didn’t mean he should expect anything from the man. The better you knew someone, the less grateful they were. Dean knew that from personal experience.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”
Okay, Peter was officially an idiot. “Burke, you’re a friggin rookie! No way were you handling your first hunt without backup.”
“I was hardly alone,” Peter retorted. “The FBI-”
“Doesn’t have a frigging clue! They would have been slaughtered the minute they stepped foot inside the house.” Dean leveled a glare of his own at the FBI agent. “You know that! That’s why you called in the first place. Right?”
Peter scowled and spun away to resume pacing.
Dean sighed in frustration. This was stupid. “Untwist your boxers, Peter. We’re both here, alive and in one piece, and the poltergeist is gone for good.”
Peter shook his head. “Dean, that doesn’t give you a license to be reckless!”
Dean’s brow knit. Reckless? He distracted the poltergeist so it didn’t skewer Peter with a frigging spoon! It wasn’t like he intended to get thrown through a door. Actually, getting thrown through a door was pretty mild compared to getting thrown into antique china hutches or walls. The point was it worked. Peter was able to grab the shotgun and finish the job while Dean kept the thing busy.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I don’t,” Dean growled, temper starting to fray. “You’re mad. Fine, I get that. Leave and get back to your FBI desk and all those white collar crimes.”
Peter froze mid-step. Slowly, he faced Dean. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Dean spread his hands in the universal gesture of ‘what?’ The older man sighed heavily.
“You could have been killed today.”
Dean groaned, flopping back against the pillows. Geez, overreact much? “Peter, what do you want from me?”
“How about showing a little sense of self-preservation? You just said it yourself, hunting is not a safe career.”
Wait, this whole thing was a result of Peter being worried about him? Apparently so because Peter was glaring at him, his expression screaming, ‘You scared me, you moron!’
Man, this was worse than dealing with Dad or Sam. Sam, at least, would say something in his nerdy, little brother way. Dad would either lecture him or order him through numerous more training regimes to increase his speed and response time. But Peter wasn’t family and couldn’t do any of that. He supposed he should be grateful Peter didn’t instigate a chick-flick moment, but sheesh! And Sam complained about him not expressing his feelings. He had nothing on Peter.
Dean carefully considered how to approach this. The FBI agent was not his little brother and would probably not handle his usual platitudes well. He wasn’t like Dad either because Dad didn’t ask for explanations, much less admit that he was scared or hurt. Dean was an expert at reading his dad, knowing when his dad needed him to lean on before he could straighten back up or when he was holding back. Peter was something else entirely. He was the closest thing Dean had to a friend. Friends worried about each other, right?
Ugh, he sucked at this kind of thing. How could he convince Peter everything was fine? He might as well be tap-dancing on ice.
Dean sat up, mindful of his bruised shoulder. “Peter, this job…everything we do is has a risk. From getting the information we need from the victims, to the actual take down.”
“You can still minimize the risk.”
“Sometimes,” Dean conceded. Peter was no longer yelling. He counted that as a win. Now to pound into Peter’s thick skull that risks like today were normal. “But most of the time you can’t count on that. When you’re hunting things that are stronger, faster, can throw a million things at you at once or just pop through walls-anything can happen.”
Peter visibly deflated, sinking down on the edge of the bed.
“Why you?”
“Why me what?”
Brown eyes locked him in place. “Why do you have to take all the risk? No, don’t. I know you do,” he cut off Dean’s protest with a raised up hand. “What you did today, drawing away the poltergeist, you did the same thing at Gettysburg. You’re used to playing the bait, distracting things so someone else can take them out. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dean scrambled to come up with a response. How could he explain that it was his job to protect innocent people, his job to protect Sam and his dad and their few friends in particular with everything he had? Mom died because no one was protecting her. Dean had not been able to help her, but he could help other people now. No one else had to experience the loss that his family had. Not if he had anything to say about it.
He settled for a half shrug and a smirk. “I’m good at creating distractions.”
Peter sighed, appearing torn between exasperation, annoyance, and concern. “Don’t I know it!”
Dean grinned and Peter even smiled back somewhat. But it didn’t last.
“Be careful, Dean. I know you don’t think anything of throwing your life in the way of danger, but at least remember there are people who care about you.”
“I’ll remember,” Dean solemnly promised. And he would. Nevertheless he would not forget that his first responsibility was to protect and take care of them. If he fell in battle, then so be it. At least he would go down swinging. Not much more a hunter could ask for.
Seeming satisfied for the moment, Peter grabbed the remote off the television. “The Yankees were playing the Angels today. Maybe we can catch the last inning.”
Chuckling, Dean settled back against the pillows, Peter resuming his spot at the edge of the bed as the game came on. He pretended not to notice that Peter was sitting close enough for Dean’s boot to touch his side.
~*~
Part 11: Elizabeth - April 2000
She sat on a shaded bench along the park sidewalk, book forgotten in her lap as she watched her husband and Winchester dance around, the orange and black sphere in constant motion as it changed hands and bounced on the blacktop.
Elizabeth had been surprised, but pleased, to meet the mysterious Dean Winchester her husband would mention from time to time.
He had arrived at their apartment out of the blue that warm spring Saturday morning looking pale and exhausted.
The boy was very polite, addressing her as ma’am when he’d inquired about Peter. Dean had then flashed a smile Elizabeth knew could melt any woman with its charm. Despite that, he seemed almost shy. What she had noticed the most, however, were his eyes. His eyes were a lovely forest green tinged with gold, reflecting his every feeling and thought. Standing in the door of their apartment, those eyes reflected uncertainty and self-consciousness.
Elizabeth had liked him immediately.
When Peter joined them, he visibly relaxed. Elizabeth remembered Peter mentioning in passing that Dean did not trust easily and hardly let his guard down around people. A product of the harsh lifestyle he grew up in. Watching the young man speak and interact with her husband, it was clear Peter was one of the few he trusted. She smiled. Peter was great at inspiring trust in others. There was just something about her husband that made people feel safe.
Elizabeth closed her book in favor of fully focusing on the two players. The game had clearly stepped up a notch and both were sweating profusely, their cheeks pink from the sun and exertion as they ran up and down the court.
She could easily recall her shock when, one night after dinner, Peter told her how they met in Gettysburg and how Dean saved his life and the lives of two others. Peter had believed the boy to be twenty or so only to discover he was sixteen. Part of her found it difficult to believe Peter had not realized Dean was younger than he pretended. Surely there would have been signs of his young age! Peter had only shaken his head, conceding the possibility but not agreeing. He had been preoccupied at the time with the issue of a ghost stalking him. But Elizabeth could tell he didn’t believe it for a second.
Now, having met him personally, Elizabeth could understand why Peter believed Dean was older. For one so young, he was incredibly old.
The ghost was another issue. Elizabeth knew Peter would never lie to her, but when he initially told her the story, she had been skeptical. It wasn’t until a case came along involving an enraged, very dead banker turned poltergeist that Elizabeth began to believe. As she re-called, Dean had actually helped her husband on that case and saved his life while scaring the crap out of Peter in the process. She could still hear Peter’s furious mutterings about unnecessary risk and the danger of the job, as well as how infuriating the younger man was. Dean had saved Peter though, and, despite how upsetting it was to know he was willing to put himself in jeopardy to protect, it was also a great comfort.
Peter was still a relatively new agent, still forming bonds with his co-workers, and he didn’t have anyone to watch his back except one Dean Winchester. A boy barely twenty-one years old was hardly her idea of back up. Yet he had proved more than capable. He was a like a panther guarding from the shadows.
She wondered what Dean had seen, what precisely he had done to become as he was. There was the obvious, of course, but Elizabeth was interested in the unspoken stories and pains she saw in Dean's eyes.
More than once, Peter had referred to Dean as a puzzle, a mess of contradictions whose loud mouth concealed a great deal of truths through misdirection. From the little she had interacted with him, Elizabeth quickly deduced that it was largely due to Dean having to grow up too fast in a harsh environment. He was used to being overlooked and going without. Peter’s attention was something relatively new, something Dean didn’t seem to understand, but appreciated nonetheless. Around her, he was cautious, wary, even a bit of a cold. With time, she hoped that would fade and he would act natural around her. She was reasonably certain it would. Dean may act tough, but she had a feeling he was really a big softie just like her husband.
The game was over. A tie, if Elizabeth wasn’t mistaken. As Peter and Dean shook hands and slapped each other’s shoulders, she silently prayed he would find his way to New York more often. Anyone who could make her husband beam like that was welcome in her home.
Peter waved her over. She joined them, happily kissing her sweaty, smelly husband while Dean made a face.
Hand in hand, they started back home with Dean trailing along beside them, chattering about a John Wayne marathon that was supposed to be on that night that included True Grit and The Searchers.
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Author: Roselani24
Genre: crossover, friendship, drama, angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing for a little while.
Spoilers: Anything from White Collar up until 4.10 and Supernatural Seasons 1-7 is fair game.
Warnings: Some violence, gore, and at one point animal abuse. That section will have a specific warning beforehand for readers.
Summary: Sequel to Secrets in Shadow. Haunted by the case in Gettysburg, Detective Peter Burke seeks out one Dean Winchester in hope of finding answers. Peter finds Dean and a whole lot more than he expected. What started out as mutual respect soon evolves into a strong friendship. Over the years, that friendship has a ripple effect on their families, friends, and even opponents. Includes appearances from Sam Winchester, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, and a special guest appearance by John Winchester. Story told in 25 parts.
Author Notes: First off, a humongous thank you to my beta and artist, Twisted_Slinky who’s editing, encouragement, and gorgeous art made the completion of this story possible. Be sure to check out her art work here. Thank you so much, Slinky!!!! Laughtersmelody deserves a special shout out too because if it weren’t for her word prompts at christianfanfic, this story would have never even made it off the ground. Thanks girl!
Written for the spn_gen_bigbang moderated by the lovely reapertownusa. Thanks for running the community so smoothly! :)
Story Notes: “Between Shadow and Light” is the direct sequel to “Secrets in Shadow” and picks up two months after the first story ended. This story covers the years of 1995 to 2010, after the Apocalypse is over. In my version, however, the Apocalypse ends differently than according to canon. It doesn’t matter too much for this particular story because it is not addressed until the final chapter, but I wanted to make sure readers are aware. As far as canon goes, everything up to 5.14, bar 5.06 and 5.13 occurs in the SPN verse before it goes AU.
ETA: This story started out as a series of connected drabbles that morphed into something much bigger than originally planned. That is why the story is broken down in different parts and then put together in a few compact posts. Each part is a different character segment at a certain time and place. Some are long, some are short depending on what the drabble was originally about. Hope that helps clear things up a bit.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Part 7: Dean - June 1998
The kid was ambitious. He was a good pool player, but way too cocky for this particular rough crowd.
Bright blue eyes were narrowed on the white ball as he feigned fumbling and planning his shot. A dark shock of brown hair curled in a cowlick made him look younger still. All that was missing was his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
The cue hit the ball, and it rocked forward, barely bumping into the solid blue second ball and narrowly avoided sending it into the bunch of three stripes nearby. With his turn over, the kid stepped back to give his opponent room,
Dean supposed the scruff made Rebel Ollie appear somewhat older, but for someone who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, it was easy to tell that the scruff was something the kid wasn’t completely used to. Plus, the ragged clothes that hung loosely over his frame? No doubt about it, the kid was a runaway.
It was Ollie’s turn again. He hit the white ball, striking two solids, including the one he hit with his previous shot, and sending them both into the pocket. Dean caught the flick of blue eyes, saw unease, even as he feigned shocked happiness. Yeah, the kid knew he was pushing his luck but was apparently willing to chance it.
Rebel Ollie’s opponent appeared to be an average redneck, but Dean had quickly sussed out the burly man was king of this particular bar. Mentally, Dean dubbed him Johnny Sullivan. The redneck had that ‘I can lick anyone in the world’ vibe about him. Sullivan was definitely not the person to hustle unless you had a serious desire to duke it out afterwards to keep the winnings. But Rebel Ollie was high on his earlier wins and, stupidly, he’d challenged Sullivan instead of just walking away and calling it a night.
He watched Sullivan carefully as he finished his beer. Dark eyes suddenly narrowed, lips curled in a snarl barely visible underneath a bushy beard. Sullivan exchanged glances with two goons who’d come in with him. Ollie was too preoccupied with his next shot to notice. Crap. The kid was made.
Really it was none of his business what happened to the kid. He needed to head out soon if was going to meet up with Dad and Sam in Tallahassee by tomorrow evening. If Ollie was dumb enough to keep playing long after he should have hightailed it out, it was no skin off his nose. Kid would learn. He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the counter.
In his peripheral, he noticed goon number one, Rocky, shifting, exposing muscled arms and meaty fists. A glance at goon number two, Bullwinkle, confirmed the relative same size and build. They’d snap Ollie like a twig. That and they were both carrying what looked like large hunting knives. Double crap.
Oh, he was so going to regret this.
“Hey, man,” he stumbled toward Ollie. “How’s it going? Been watching your game, dude. Gettin’ better.”
He wrapped his arm around the kid’s shoulder, swaying and smiling drunkenly. Ollie was looking at him slightly wide-eyed, confused. He whispered in his ear. “You’re blown. Play along.”
The kid tensed slightly under his arm, but otherwise, his facial expression betrayed nothing.
“Oh, you know me, Dave. Always looking to improve my game.”
Dean guffawed, maintaining his drunken sway. The key to playing drunk convincingly was to understate and not overdo it. “Sure, Ollie boy. Suuuure! But weren’t you supposed to meet your girl, whatshername, Laura, for dinner?”
Ollie blanched and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall.
“She’s gonna kill me,” Ollie moaned.
Dean smothered a smile. Kid was good; he had to give him that.
“S’kay, man. Jus’ blame me!” He grinned dopily, staggering back and to the side.
“Hey, snake eyes, are we gonna finish our game or what?” Sullivan cut in. Dean didn’t know who he was calling snake eyes. If anyone had the beady eyes like a snake, it was Sully boy, not Ollie. But at least he was between the kid and the redneck now.
“No.” Ollie shook his head, stepping forward to pull Dean’s arm over his shoulders. “I need to get Dave here home or his girlfriend will join mine in roasting us over the coals. Let’s call this one a draw and keep our money.”
Sullivan considered.
Dean really hoped he’d let it go easy, but he wasn’t counting on it.
“Fine.”
Really? Dean didn’t believe what he just heard. He swayed again, adding a groan for good measure. “We goin’, Ollie?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just a sec, Dave.”
Sullivan picked up the wad of cash and counted up the bills. Finally he handed Ollie some. It certainly wasn’t the amount Ollie had won in the previous bets, but it wasn’t too much less either.
He could see the protest forming on the kid’s face, and he quickly swayed and tripped over his feet, forcing Ollie to scramble to keep him up. “Let it go, kid,” Dean murmured before saying in a louder voice, “Whoo-whee! Gonna have a good time!”
Ollie quickly stuffed the cash in his pocket and grabbed onto Dean with both hands as he started bobbing in a drunken attempt to dance.
“I got to get him out of here before he starts singing karaoke!” Ollie added in a stage whisper, “Can never shut him up afterwards. Not to mention he’s gotta voice like nails on a chalkboard.”
“You talkin’ bout me, Ollie?” Dean feigned offense. “That’s sooo not cool!”
Sullivan snorted and waved them off. “Scram.”
Mentally, Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It worked! Together, the pair made their way out of the bar. Dean didn’t let the kid pull away once they were out the front door. Better safe than sorry.
“Chevy Impala on the right,” he instructed quietly. Then he rocked to the side and bellowed, “Hang on, Lisa! I’m a’ comin’ home!”
Obediently, the boy headed toward the classic muscle car. Now came the hardest part, letting the kid drive his car. Gritting his teeth, Dean slipped the boy the keys. “You screw up my car, I’ll kick your butt from here to next week. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” was the quiet reply. Good. The kid’s self-preservation hyperdrive was apparently kicking back in.
He tried not to think about the kid sitting in the driver’s seat, touching the wheel of his car as the boy started the engine. Dean slumped in the passenger seat, bobbing slightly so any prying eyes would still believe he was drunk and out of it.
“Go left.”
Ollie acknowledged him with a slight nod and carefully drove the car out of the parking lot and onto the two lane highway.
Once they had gone a sufficient distance from the bar, Dean dropped the drunken act completely.
“Pull over.”
As the Impala came to a halt on the side of the road, Dean turned to fully face Ollie. “You are ten kinds of stupid, kid.”
Ollie was indignant. “I am not! I knew what I was doing.”
“Really?” Dean deadpanned.
Ollie’s opened his mouth to retort, only for it to snap shut as Dean finished. “Did you notice the blades Rocky and Bullwinkle had on them? Or that they were planning to turn you into a fish fillet?”
“I would have gotten away,” Ollie muttered sullenly, pouting at his lap.
Dean shook his head. “Not without being badly hurt. And then what, huh? You’re homeless and on the run. Where would you have gone?”
He was surprised the kid didn’t get whiplash with how fast his head snapped up.
“How did you-you’re a cop!”
Dean scoffed. “Not a chance! I just get around. It’s not hard to recognize newbies in places like that.”
The kid looked chagrined. “That obvious, huh?”
“Only to those who know what to look for,” Dean assured him. There was more he wanted to say, but it could wait. “Slide over.”
Ollie’s eyes widened slightly.
“It’s my car, kid. Move over so I can drive.”
Ollie obeyed as Dean got out and walked to the driver’s side. Back behind the wheel, Dean felt the last of the pressure draining away. This is where he belonged. To his right, Ollie was now rigid and desperately trying to play it off. But exhaustion was quickly catching up to the boy.
Dean pretended not to notice as he guided the Impala back out onto the road.
“What do you say we grab some food at that diner? I’m starving!” Dean declared. “I think they were having a pecan pie special or something. Anything’s better than the so-called food they had at the bar.”
Kid’s big blue eyes were wide with disbelief. Dean just glanced over and smiled lazily. He was pleased as the kid slowly deflated and nodded a minute later. Good. He was afraid the kid was gonna argue with him.
Besides, he really was hungry.
________________________________________________________________________________
The diner was typical for rural America: rundown and decorated for a bygone era ranging from the thirties to the eighties. This one boasted a late sixties style. Despite the peeling paint and cement cushions, it was clean and the food reputedly wasn’t half bad.
The waitresses weren’t half bad either, Dean thought with an appreciative grin, enjoying the way the red-head’s slender waist swayed as she walked by with another customer’s dinner. It was very difficult to tear his attention away. She looked like she would be a lot more fun than his sullen companion.
“So, care to tell me what a scamp like you was doing in a bar like that?”
“What were you doing there?” the younger boy countered. Dean shrugged easily. “Getting a drink. I’ve been on the road all day.”
Ollie seemed to consider that. “Where are you going?”
“Tallahassee. You, Ollie boy?”
“That’s not my name,” the boy said, a challenge creeping into his voice.
Dean’s mouth twisted down in an exaggerated innocent frown as he scanned the menu. “My name’s not Dave either.”
A beat. Then the dark haired boy held out his hand. “Neal.”
“Dean.” He shook Neal’s hand.
“Thanks for...you know.”
“No problem, kid.”
Neal glared. “You’re not much older than me!”
Dean grinned cheekily. “So?”
Age was just a number anyway.
The waitress’s arrival cut off Neal’s rejoinder. “What can I get you boys?”
Once they had ordered and the waitress left, Dean settled back against the booth. He considered how to approach this. Probably best to build up some and then hammer the point home.
“How long have you been playing pool?”
Neal didn’t answer, fidgeting, keeping his head turned away.
“I’ve been playing since I was ten,” Dean offered. Technically, he’d been playing since he was tall enough to see over the table and hold the cue, which was about the same time he learned how to shoot a gun. But he had not started hustling until he was ten. Dad had been leaving for longer periods of time and the money he left almost always ran out before he got back. Dean had to supplement their income somehow.
“Nine.”
“That when you learned how to hustle?”
A slow nod.
“Yeah, well, you need to go back to class, Sparky. Because you definitely failed.”
Neal glared at him. “It’s none of your business! I can handle myself.”
“Oh, you mean like stealing my wallet, my knife, and my car keys while we were walking in here?”
The boy froze, fear flittering across his face before he hid it behind defiance. Blasted kid and his fearful puppy eyes! He was nearly as bad as Sam. Crap, he might as well be Sam after Dean caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
He held out a hand. “Give it.”
Neal reluctantly pulled the wallet out of his pocket and gave it to him. Dean waggled his fingers. “All of it, kid.”
Scowling, Neal slapped the knife and keys into his hand too. Good thing it was his folded knife and not the bowie knife. Otherwise his hand would have been sliced open. He glared fiercely at Neal for a moment, silently warning him to be more careful. Reddened cheeks and a ducked head confirmed his message was received.
“Thank you.” He quickly stowed his knife and keys in his pockets, then checked his wallet. Forty bucks was missing, nothing else. Dean closed it crisply. “You’re buying, kid.”
Neal seemed surprised. His hair had fallen into his face, and Dean was once again seeing another younger, mop haired boy. He shook his head.
“Next time, just ask.”
“Oh look, the hustling king offering me tips.”
Dean’s eyebrow shot up.
“I play a decent game,” he offered, faking modesty. Actually, he was frigging great and had hustling down to a science. It only took a few mistakes to learn what to do to avoid getting the crap beat out of him.
Dean arrested the boy’s attention with a single punctuated finger.
“And I know when it’s gotten too hot that it’s time to clear out and find new hunting grounds. You were stupid and reckless, Neal. You got lucky this time. Next time, you probably won’t. Figure it out. If you’re gonna hustle, you have to pay attention to your surroundings and know your own limits.”
“Thanks for that, Big Jim.” Neal snapped.
“You’re welcome,” he returned with mock cheerfulness. “I’m always happy to pass on my wisdom to slim fellows like you. Eventually, you might get there where you can thrash me, Slim.” Maybe beat him at the game, but physically no way. Dean had grown up fighting things that were faster, meaner, and all around nastier than anything this kid could imagine. “But not unless you wise up first, or you’ll be the one getting thrashed.”
He could see the kid considering whether or not it was worth listening to a word Dean said. Whatever. He’d said his piece and whether or not Neal took his advice to heart wasn’t his concern.
Instead, he relaxed against the booth and enjoyed the quiet. Once he joined back up with his dad and little brother, he would be lucky to get a few moments like this. They argued all the time. Dean was constantly playing the mediator, and it was wearing him down. Why couldn’t they just get along?
Neal’s soft voice drew him from his thoughts.
“I-I guess I could have been more careful.”
“You guess?”
“Fine, I should have,” Neal snapped, cheeks coloring pink. “I screwed up. It won’t happen again.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, you will. But you’ll learn.”
“Here you go, boys,” the waitress announced, placing their order on the table, cutting off whatever response Neal had. There was a bacon cheeseburger for Dean and a chicken sandwich for Neal. Neal took a bite of the sandwich and then started to devour it.
“Whoa there, tiger,” Dean said, holding up a hand. “Slow down or you’ll be getting acquainted with the head.”
Neal grimaced, but obeyed. He swallowed and lowered the sandwich. “Personal experience?”
“Unfortunately. Trust me, eat slowly. No rush.”
Not yet anyway. He still had a little time.
With Neal no longer gorging on his sandwich, Dean happily sunk his teeth into his burger. They ate in silence.
Dean’s burger was half way gone when Neal spoke again.
“Thanks.”
They locked gazes again. Dean smiled crookedly, knowing exactly what the kid was thanking him for.
“You’re welcome.”
~*~
Part 8: Peter - July 1998
Peter was nervous by the time lunch rolled around. He had a date with the lovely Elizabeth Mitchell at a new Italian restaurant downtown. With some maneuvering on his part and extra hours working on the latest cases last night, he ensured as best he could he had a solid hour to spend with her. He wouldn’t be called away. Again.
No, he prayed he wouldn’t be interrupted, Peter corrected, brow furrowing.
Unfortunately, his job was very demanding. The White Collar Division of the FBI was hardly considered as tough as some of the other divisions, particularly Violent Crime or Organized Crime, by most people, which wasn’t true. Crime was high and the number of cases the division had handled in the past year since he had been there was staggering. Working in the White Collar division was not easy. It required critical thinking and analysis skills to figure out schemes for stealing money or jewels or paintings or other valuables. And somehow, inevitably, the big break in the case would come during lunch or supper, when he was with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, bless her, understood completely. It was the strangest thing. The women Peter had dated in the past had always gotten fed up with his schedule, which really had not changed too much from the police department to the FBI. In fact, Peter was pretty sure he was working less than he had since he was sworn in as an undercover officer years ago. It was nothing short of amazing. She was amazing.
And Peter had no intention of letting her go.
He already knew where he planned to propose. It was cheesy and cliché, but he hoped Elizabeth would like it anyway. Dean would no doubt tease him mercilessly if he found out, which he wouldn’t. He may owe the kid for giving him the kick in the pants to realize he wanted to marry Elizabeth, but that didn’t mean he was going to tell him every detail!
If he did find out…well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. With his luck, Dean would find out somehow. For living on the road, and often over a thousand miles away, it was disconcerting how much the young hunter knew sometimes.
A glance at his watch told him he was going to be even later if he didn’t get moving.
Closing up the files, Peter grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevator.
~*~
Part 9: Peter and Elizabeth - June 1999
Peter Burke stood at the altar. His breath caught.
An angel in white was gliding down the aisle towards him.
Elizabeth Mitchell, soon to be Mrs. Elizabeth Burke, shone as she took his hand, her sapphire blue eyes glittering.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat. How had he gotten so lucky? Life was hardly a picnic, especially for Peter and any woman he had ever dated. His job was very demanding, challenging, and he loved it. He didn’t know how to explain that to those past women, and he’d fumbled through more than one awkward date and relationship. Yet, somehow the woman standing at his side had seen through all his bumbling and fallen in love with him.
Elizabeth, the most amazing, kind, and beautiful woman Peter had ever known, loved him. Peter Burke. And here they were, about to become husband and wife. There wasn’t a luckier or more blessed man on Earth.
The preacher began to speak and Peter sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. As they recited their vows, pledged to love each other, through sickness and health, through the good and the hard times, Peter felt fit to burst.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Your bride. His bride. His beautiful Elizabeth.
She smiled up at him, radiant and pure and happy. He wasted no time claiming her lips in a deep kiss.
Distantly he heard their families and friends let out a thundering cheer before it faded away as he lost himself in his new wife’s embrace.
________________________________________________________________________________
In the far back corner of the church, hidden in the shadows of the columns, a party crasher grinned with pride.
Quietly he turned and walked out.
A sly grin crossed his face as he walked down the church steps. He could only imagine Peter’s face when the DJ went to play Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” and Tracy Byrd’s “Watermelon Crawl”, and AC/DC’s “Back in Black” and Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” came on instead.
Laughing, he climbed into a black ’67 Chevy Impala and roared away.
~*~
Part 10: Dean - October 1999
“Of all the asinine-”
“Hey, I saved your butt, Professor.”
“And nearly got killed in the process!” Peter Burke, more commonly known as the Professor in the Winchester hunting circle, glared, his hands coming to rest on his hips.
“That’s the job, dude. Hunting isn’t exactly a safe gig, you know.”
Peter snarled and turned away, pacing furiously at the end of the bed. Really, would it hurt the guy to show a little gratitude? Probably. Getting thanked for saving somebody’s bacon was pretty rare since said person or persons was normally freaking out from the supernatural encounter. Just because he was kinda, sorta friends with the detective-turned-fed didn’t mean he should expect anything from the man. The better you knew someone, the less grateful they were. Dean knew that from personal experience.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”
Okay, Peter was officially an idiot. “Burke, you’re a friggin rookie! No way were you handling your first hunt without backup.”
“I was hardly alone,” Peter retorted. “The FBI-”
“Doesn’t have a frigging clue! They would have been slaughtered the minute they stepped foot inside the house.” Dean leveled a glare of his own at the FBI agent. “You know that! That’s why you called in the first place. Right?”
Peter scowled and spun away to resume pacing.
Dean sighed in frustration. This was stupid. “Untwist your boxers, Peter. We’re both here, alive and in one piece, and the poltergeist is gone for good.”
Peter shook his head. “Dean, that doesn’t give you a license to be reckless!”
Dean’s brow knit. Reckless? He distracted the poltergeist so it didn’t skewer Peter with a frigging spoon! It wasn’t like he intended to get thrown through a door. Actually, getting thrown through a door was pretty mild compared to getting thrown into antique china hutches or walls. The point was it worked. Peter was able to grab the shotgun and finish the job while Dean kept the thing busy.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I don’t,” Dean growled, temper starting to fray. “You’re mad. Fine, I get that. Leave and get back to your FBI desk and all those white collar crimes.”
Peter froze mid-step. Slowly, he faced Dean. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Dean spread his hands in the universal gesture of ‘what?’ The older man sighed heavily.
“You could have been killed today.”
Dean groaned, flopping back against the pillows. Geez, overreact much? “Peter, what do you want from me?”
“How about showing a little sense of self-preservation? You just said it yourself, hunting is not a safe career.”
Wait, this whole thing was a result of Peter being worried about him? Apparently so because Peter was glaring at him, his expression screaming, ‘You scared me, you moron!’
Man, this was worse than dealing with Dad or Sam. Sam, at least, would say something in his nerdy, little brother way. Dad would either lecture him or order him through numerous more training regimes to increase his speed and response time. But Peter wasn’t family and couldn’t do any of that. He supposed he should be grateful Peter didn’t instigate a chick-flick moment, but sheesh! And Sam complained about him not expressing his feelings. He had nothing on Peter.
Dean carefully considered how to approach this. The FBI agent was not his little brother and would probably not handle his usual platitudes well. He wasn’t like Dad either because Dad didn’t ask for explanations, much less admit that he was scared or hurt. Dean was an expert at reading his dad, knowing when his dad needed him to lean on before he could straighten back up or when he was holding back. Peter was something else entirely. He was the closest thing Dean had to a friend. Friends worried about each other, right?
Ugh, he sucked at this kind of thing. How could he convince Peter everything was fine? He might as well be tap-dancing on ice.
Dean sat up, mindful of his bruised shoulder. “Peter, this job…everything we do is has a risk. From getting the information we need from the victims, to the actual take down.”
“You can still minimize the risk.”
“Sometimes,” Dean conceded. Peter was no longer yelling. He counted that as a win. Now to pound into Peter’s thick skull that risks like today were normal. “But most of the time you can’t count on that. When you’re hunting things that are stronger, faster, can throw a million things at you at once or just pop through walls-anything can happen.”
Peter visibly deflated, sinking down on the edge of the bed.
“Why you?”
“Why me what?”
Brown eyes locked him in place. “Why do you have to take all the risk? No, don’t. I know you do,” he cut off Dean’s protest with a raised up hand. “What you did today, drawing away the poltergeist, you did the same thing at Gettysburg. You’re used to playing the bait, distracting things so someone else can take them out. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dean scrambled to come up with a response. How could he explain that it was his job to protect innocent people, his job to protect Sam and his dad and their few friends in particular with everything he had? Mom died because no one was protecting her. Dean had not been able to help her, but he could help other people now. No one else had to experience the loss that his family had. Not if he had anything to say about it.
He settled for a half shrug and a smirk. “I’m good at creating distractions.”
Peter sighed, appearing torn between exasperation, annoyance, and concern. “Don’t I know it!”
Dean grinned and Peter even smiled back somewhat. But it didn’t last.
“Be careful, Dean. I know you don’t think anything of throwing your life in the way of danger, but at least remember there are people who care about you.”
“I’ll remember,” Dean solemnly promised. And he would. Nevertheless he would not forget that his first responsibility was to protect and take care of them. If he fell in battle, then so be it. At least he would go down swinging. Not much more a hunter could ask for.
Seeming satisfied for the moment, Peter grabbed the remote off the television. “The Yankees were playing the Angels today. Maybe we can catch the last inning.”
Chuckling, Dean settled back against the pillows, Peter resuming his spot at the edge of the bed as the game came on. He pretended not to notice that Peter was sitting close enough for Dean’s boot to touch his side.
~*~
Part 11: Elizabeth - April 2000
She sat on a shaded bench along the park sidewalk, book forgotten in her lap as she watched her husband and Winchester dance around, the orange and black sphere in constant motion as it changed hands and bounced on the blacktop.
Elizabeth had been surprised, but pleased, to meet the mysterious Dean Winchester her husband would mention from time to time.
He had arrived at their apartment out of the blue that warm spring Saturday morning looking pale and exhausted.
The boy was very polite, addressing her as ma’am when he’d inquired about Peter. Dean had then flashed a smile Elizabeth knew could melt any woman with its charm. Despite that, he seemed almost shy. What she had noticed the most, however, were his eyes. His eyes were a lovely forest green tinged with gold, reflecting his every feeling and thought. Standing in the door of their apartment, those eyes reflected uncertainty and self-consciousness.
Elizabeth had liked him immediately.
When Peter joined them, he visibly relaxed. Elizabeth remembered Peter mentioning in passing that Dean did not trust easily and hardly let his guard down around people. A product of the harsh lifestyle he grew up in. Watching the young man speak and interact with her husband, it was clear Peter was one of the few he trusted. She smiled. Peter was great at inspiring trust in others. There was just something about her husband that made people feel safe.
Elizabeth closed her book in favor of fully focusing on the two players. The game had clearly stepped up a notch and both were sweating profusely, their cheeks pink from the sun and exertion as they ran up and down the court.
She could easily recall her shock when, one night after dinner, Peter told her how they met in Gettysburg and how Dean saved his life and the lives of two others. Peter had believed the boy to be twenty or so only to discover he was sixteen. Part of her found it difficult to believe Peter had not realized Dean was younger than he pretended. Surely there would have been signs of his young age! Peter had only shaken his head, conceding the possibility but not agreeing. He had been preoccupied at the time with the issue of a ghost stalking him. But Elizabeth could tell he didn’t believe it for a second.
Now, having met him personally, Elizabeth could understand why Peter believed Dean was older. For one so young, he was incredibly old.
The ghost was another issue. Elizabeth knew Peter would never lie to her, but when he initially told her the story, she had been skeptical. It wasn’t until a case came along involving an enraged, very dead banker turned poltergeist that Elizabeth began to believe. As she re-called, Dean had actually helped her husband on that case and saved his life while scaring the crap out of Peter in the process. She could still hear Peter’s furious mutterings about unnecessary risk and the danger of the job, as well as how infuriating the younger man was. Dean had saved Peter though, and, despite how upsetting it was to know he was willing to put himself in jeopardy to protect, it was also a great comfort.
Peter was still a relatively new agent, still forming bonds with his co-workers, and he didn’t have anyone to watch his back except one Dean Winchester. A boy barely twenty-one years old was hardly her idea of back up. Yet he had proved more than capable. He was a like a panther guarding from the shadows.
She wondered what Dean had seen, what precisely he had done to become as he was. There was the obvious, of course, but Elizabeth was interested in the unspoken stories and pains she saw in Dean's eyes.
More than once, Peter had referred to Dean as a puzzle, a mess of contradictions whose loud mouth concealed a great deal of truths through misdirection. From the little she had interacted with him, Elizabeth quickly deduced that it was largely due to Dean having to grow up too fast in a harsh environment. He was used to being overlooked and going without. Peter’s attention was something relatively new, something Dean didn’t seem to understand, but appreciated nonetheless. Around her, he was cautious, wary, even a bit of a cold. With time, she hoped that would fade and he would act natural around her. She was reasonably certain it would. Dean may act tough, but she had a feeling he was really a big softie just like her husband.
The game was over. A tie, if Elizabeth wasn’t mistaken. As Peter and Dean shook hands and slapped each other’s shoulders, she silently prayed he would find his way to New York more often. Anyone who could make her husband beam like that was welcome in her home.
Peter waved her over. She joined them, happily kissing her sweaty, smelly husband while Dean made a face.
Hand in hand, they started back home with Dean trailing along beside them, chattering about a John Wayne marathon that was supposed to be on that night that included True Grit and The Searchers.
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