In The Grip of Fate Chapter 1/?
Title: In The Grip of Fate Chap 1/?
Author: JCRGIRL
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wincest
Word Count: 3,206
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: The boys begin their lives together, but life throws them an unexpected curveball. Finally settling into their new home, they decide to visit Bobby.
Author Notes: Sequel to Just Breathe and set approximately 6 weeks after Good Good Night with references to that timestamp. As always unbeta-ed.
Dean teetered precariously on the kitchen chair, tapping the nail into the newly painted drywall. He crouched down to pick up the picture leaning against the chair legs and with some slight grumbling shifted it until the wire on the back caught the nail head. Stepping down, he walked backward to eyeball the level of the frame.
Low on the left.
He nudged the left corner up and wiped his palms together, satisfied with a job well done. That was the last thing that needed to be hung. Granted they didn’t have much in the way of decorations yet, but still this part was done. He smiled up at the picture, taken by Sam of the beach behind their cottage at sunset. Sam had it developed in black and white and enlarged for over the mantle of their new home and Dean had to agree it was a good idea.
“Dean?” Sam’s muffled voice drifted from the kitchen.
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean walked around the corner and snorted a laugh.
Sam was bent over at the waist, head and shoulders completely engulfed in a large box labeled ‘KITCHEN’ on the side, newspaper piled on the floor around the outside.
“Have you seen the pots and pans the girls from Bunnie’s bought us? I thought they were in this box.” Sam’s ass shifted side to side as he continued to dig through the contents of the box he was half buried in. Unable to help himself, Dean stepped forward, molded his legs to the back of his brothers, and ran his palms over Sam’s ass.
“No, but I’ve seen something else.” Dean smoothed large circles over the denim covered globes.
“Dean, come on. If I’m gonna get dinner on the table some time tonight, I need pots and pans,” Sam whined, pulling his upper body out of the cardboard and newspaper. Groaning at the feel of Dean’s hands on him, he leaned back into the solid frame of his brother.
“I can think of something else you can put on the table.” Dean spun Sam around, fingers automatically reaching up to tangle in silky hair, bringing soft lips to his own.
Sam pulled back and quirked an eyebrow at his brother. “Really? That’s the best line you’ve got?”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that my lines are grade A material, able to drop panti-, uh, boxer briefs in a matter of seconds.” Dean pressed their mouths together again. His hands made a lazy path down Sam’s back to cup his ass as he backed him up toward the dining room table.
“Nice save, stud. You’re just lucky I’m an easy lay,” Sam smiled against Dean’s plush lips, sitting on the table top when it pressed into the back of his legs.
“Yep, I’m a lucky stud.” Dean leaned over, nibbling along Sam’s jaw, forcing Sam to moan as he lay flat.
Yeah, they could order Chinese later.
“Hey, pass me some of that chicken,” Dean pointed with his fork. Sam slid the white cardboard box of sweet and sour chicken across the floor, a few spilling from the open top when the container came to an abrupt stop against Dean’s knee. They were sitting on the kitchen floor, hemmed in by boxes, Styrofoam peanuts and newspaper, the detritus associated with moving.
“You sure you want to go to Bobby’s next week?” Dean surveyed the space, mentally listing the chores that still needed to be done.
“Yeah, it’s not like this stuff won’t be here when we get back.” Through the open archway, Sam could see the dining room table covered with miscellaneous items that they hadn’t decided where to put yet. “We haven’t seen Bobby since…well, in a long time and he did invite us. I think he kinda’ misses us a little even though he’d probably eat his hat before admitting it. Besides, I wouldn’t mind a little vacation before school begins and with you starting work in two weeks, I don’t know when we’ll have another opportunity.”
“Because living in a house on the beach for the better part of the year was such a hardship. Not at all what most people think about when they picture going on vacation.” Dean dunked a piece of chicken in the red, syrupy sweet and sour sauce and popped it in his mouth with a smirk.
“You know what I meant, asshole.” Sam threw a fortune cookie at his brother’s head.
Dean picked up the carton of Lo Mein and dug his fork into the depths, pushing aside noodles and vegetables in search of the beef that always seemed to gravitate to the bottom. He looked up to see Sam chewing thoughtfully, eyes continually roving over every square inch of their home visible from his position.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Sam turned, smiling at his brother. “It’s just going to take some time to get used to.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “This is our home. Like, your name is on the deed, I can unpack my things, we don’t have to up and leave next week, home. This is where we live. Just seems surreal, you know?”
“I know. I went into the store this morning to get milk and the lady behind the counter greeted me…by name.”
Sam huffed a laugh. “Don’t laugh, man,” Dean chuckled, “I almost ‘christo’ed her out of habit.”
“Trust me, I understand. Same thing happened to me at the bank yesterday. ‘Hello, Mr. Remington’,” he mimicked in a falsetto voice, “I had to stop myself from running out the door.”
Dean nodded his head, “You gonna’ be happy here, Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam’s smile was soft and tender. “You?”
Dean thought for a moment.
The town was small, population 2, 177 - correction 2,179 now, with one main road in and out, and close enough to South Bend to commute. The people were friendly and oddly more open-minded regarding Sam and Dean’s relationship - the gay one, their new identities concealed the incestuous aspect - for a rural Midwestern town. Sam believed it was the close proximity to a college town which exposed people to a variety of cultures and lifestyles, Dean believed in not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
They’d stayed in the only motel in the area, out by the interstate some 10 miles away, for the first three weeks while they searched for a house. Dean had already accepted a job at a fire station in South Bend - thanks in large part to a hacker friend of Bobby’s that was able to change the name on his State of Florida credentials from Dean Remington to his new alias, Dean Browning - but wasn’t scheduled to start until after the fourth of July to give them time to house hunt and set up housekeeping.
They found an affordable home quicker than either expected and while waiting for it to close, became regulars at the local stores and sole diner in town. When they pulled the Jeep and Impala into the driveway the day before, both laden with a surprisingly large number of boxes brought from Florida, - when had they accumulated so much stuff? - neighbors started dropping by with cakes and covered dishes welcoming them to the town. Introductions were unnecessary, everyone seemed to know them and they already seemed to know everybody. It was strange, but in a nice way.
“Yeah, Sammy. I know I will be.” He squeezed the cellophane covering his fortune cookie until the internal pressure caused one end to pop. He pulled the sugary treat out and broke it open to reveal his fate. “Your life will soon change in unexpected ways,” he read.
“In bed,” Sam added automatically.
“What do you know, Sammy. Sounds like you’re going to start getting kinky between the sheets,” Dean drawled, waggling his eyebrows and narrowly dodging the napkin Sam aimed at his head.
The Impala rumbled under the metal scaffolding arched over the entrance to Bobby’s place, rusted letters spelling out Singer Auto Salvage the only identifier of the business at the end of the dusty driveway. A large Rottweiler bounded down from the hood of an old Chevy truck parked near the front porch of the aging house. Extending the chain around its neck as far as it would go, the dog’s stub tail wagged back and forth in excitement as the black car rolled to a stop.
The passenger side door opened with a creak and the excited dog pulled against the restraining chain hard enough to force it up on its back legs. Feet and ankles appeared beneath the open door and the animal jumped, twisting in the air, with a beseeching whine.
“Rumsfeld, you remember me, huh?” Sam laughed at the happy dog’s antics, kneeling down to scratch behind its ears.
Dean got out and stretched, smiling at his brother affectionately playing with his childhood friend. Bobby had gotten the dog when Sam was 10 and the two had been inseparable whenever the Winchesters visited the salvage yard. Shaking his head, Dean opened the back door to pull out their duffle bags.
The hinges on the house’s front door squeaked and Sam looked up to see the familiar face of their family friend standing on the front porch. With his attention distracted, Rumsfeld took advantage and used his power and weight to knock the young man to the ground. Leaning over the supine form, the dog enthusiastically began licking over Sam’s face.
“Stop! Stop, Rumsfeld. Get down. Come on.” Sam was barely able to get the words out between laughs, hearing echoes coming from the direction of the Impala.
“Rumsfeld, enough!” Bobby’s rough voice ordered, not raised but firm.
The dog’s head snapped up at its master’s command, stepping away to sit on the ground near Sam’s knees. Still laughing, Sam hoisted himself up and brushed the dust from his jeans. “I swear, Bobby, you’re the only one that dog listens to. “ Sam wiped his hands together, sweat dampened dirt and dog hair gritting into the crevices of skin.
“Not the only one,” the older man muttered. “Well, you idgits gonna stay out in the yard or are you gonna come in.”
“We’re coming,” Dean answered, stepping up beside Sam. As Bobby turned to head back indoors, Dean leaned over and whispered in Sam’s ear, “If you want me to kiss you again today, you better wash the dog slobber off your face first.”
They had been there for three days, spending it much as they did when they were children with Dean out in Bobby’s auto shop, grease up to his elbows, and Sam in Bobby’s library, dust up his nose and Rumsfeld at his feet. At night, Sam would cook something or another -Bobby couldn’t help but think around a bite of chili that he needed to invite them more often - then they would pull out a battered deck of cards and the cheap whiskey. It was comfortable, it was companionable, it was family.
Each night the three men drug their half-drunk selves up the stairs, Bobby retiring to his bed and passing out before he could overhear the tell-tale sounds of two twin bed frames being pushed together in the next room.
The morning of the fourth day was similar to the previous ones, the boys got up and pulled the beds apart, careful to make as little noise as possible, - Is this really necessary, Sam? He’s old, Dean. I don’t think his heart could take this kind of shock - before starting their morning hygiene routines and heading down to breakfast. They were most of the way through a stack of pancakes when Bobby’s house line started to ring. Looking at the clock to check the time, the older man grumbled and rose from his chair to answer the phone.
“Hello, Singer Auto Salvage,” Bobby gruffed, obviously displeased with the early hour of the call. Dean and Sam could hear a frantic voice through the receiver, speaking fast and furious in a tone that sounded like a mix between manic and authoritative.
Someone in charge about to lose control, Dean thought.
“Hold on. We’ll be right there.” Bobby slammed down the phone. Instinctively, both boys stood, exchanging questioning gazes at the worry and panic evident in the crinkle edged blue eyes before them.
Dean went to the hook by the back door and picked up the keys to the Impala. “Bobby, what’s going on? Is someone in trouble?”
He didn’t get an answer, only the scraping of the chair that Bobby ran into on the way out the back door.
Dust swirled up behind the back tires of the Impala, Dean coaxing as much speed from his baby as he dared on the gravelly road. “Direction, Bobby?”
“Head to the gate,” Bobby’s terse reply came from the back seat.
Turning the corner that brought the main entrance in sight, Dean planted both feet on the brake to stop the forward momentum of the car. Just this side of the perimeter fence sat a red muscle car, nose facing the main highway, deep grooves in the dirt indicating that the car had pulled in and whipped around. The gate, that in all the years the Winchester boys had been coming to this property had always been open, was pulled shut, a flurry of movement visible through the metal posts. Squinting, Sam could make out five people moving, four figures circling around the fifth, and two on the ground motionless. Unconsciously, he leaned forward in his seat, closer to the windshield, trying to get a clearer view.
“Is that…,” he trailed off then turned, wide-eyed, to the man in the backseat. “Bobby, is that Casey?”
Dean pulled his own gaze away from the spectacle in front of him, eyes going to his brother before landing on their adopted uncle. “Bobby, is he right?”
“Less talk, more action,” Bobby growled, wrenching open the back door and taking off in the direction of the fight.
Following closely on Bobby’s heels, the brothers saw another man drop to the ground as Casey withdrew an oddly shaped silver sword from his torso. Red light flashed behind the man’s eyes, he opened his mouth on a scream only to release more of the light from the orifice before he went lifeless. Casey turned tight circles, breathlessly panting, trying to keep her remaining adversaries in sight.
“Come now, little warrior. Give it to us and we’ll let you live,” one of them said. An evil smile marred what would otherwise be the handsome face of a college aged boy.
Chest heaving in a vain attempt to pull more oxygen into her lungs, Casey’s eyes quickly darted toward the closed gate and the rag-tag calvary coming to her rescue. A macabre smile split her face, lips and teeth coated in blood from a split upper lip, as she took off running toward the fence. She reached the metal barricade at the same time Bobby and the Winchesters did and started to scale it.
“Sam, exorcism now,” Bobby yelled, pulling on the girl’s upper arms to help her over.
Latin flowed smoothly from Sam’s lips, words memorized long ago and as easily recalled as the Pledge of Allegiance. Dean watched as the three remaining men stopped in their pursuit of the girl, bodies thrashing involuntarily as black smoke slithered from their mouths and noses. As the last word filled the air, the hosts fell limply to the ground.
“Casey. Casey, stop! You’re hurt. Let me look at you.” Dean and Sam turned to see Bobby desperately trying to hold Casey to the ground. Blood darkened both of his hands as she squirmed slickly in his grasp.
Casey leveled a gaze at him, fingers clasping his restraining forearms tightly. “Bobby,” She gasped, breaths still coming in labored pants. “Car to the house. Important. Keep safe. Now. ” She pushed him in the direction of her Judge, eyes pleading.
Bobby nodded at her reluctantly. Walking past the younger men he growled, “Get her to the house anyway you can. Hog tie her if you have to.”
They moved in unison to the girl still slumped on the ground by the fence post, jumping at the sound of Bobby slamming the car door. Nearing her, they saw her lips moving, forming words rendered inaudible over the roar of the Judge’s engine between gulps of air, and her finger drawing symbols on the metal post. Kneeling next to her, the brothers watched her finger dip back into the wound at her side, collecting more blood to finish the sigil she was making.
Pushing up the side of her tanktop, Sam sucked in a breath at the deep cut down her flank. “Casey, we have to get you to the house. Patch you up.”
Casey weakly batted his hand away, gathered more blood on her fingers and began a circular pattern.
“This is ridiculous. Come on,” Dean moved his arms under her back and legs to pick her up.
“Wait,” she mumbled, her breathing slowing and gaining some semblance of a normal rhythm, as she darkened the lines of what appeared to be a complicated diamond. “Finished,” she exhaled, going slack against Dean’s chest, the sword she’d used earlier falling from her lax hand.
“Grab that, Sam. Let’s get out of here.” Dean hefted Casey up and carried her back to the Impala where he placed her in the back seat. Sam slipped in beside her, hands moving over her still form, searching for other injuries.
“Dean, hurry. She’s losing a lot of blood.”
Without waiting to be asked again, Dean started the car and sped back toward Bobby’s house. Before the tires completely skidded to a halt, Sam scooped the girl up and was out of the car. He bounded up the stairs and through the front door, his brother a step behind. Dean brushed past him to clear the mountain of books off the couch so Sam could lay her down, his shirt stained red with her blood. Bobby entered the room, a red tackle box in his hands.
“Sam, everything you need is in there,” Bobby pointed at the container. “Dean, can I, uh, talk to you for a minute?”
Dean began to protest but something about Bobby’s tone made him think better of it. Patting Sam on the shoulder, he stood and followed the older man into the hallway.
Sam found the items he needed and with shaky hands threaded the needle. He thanked whatever higher powers he could think of that Casey had passed out and pushed the needle through the skin. Twenty small stitches later, he wiped the sweat from his brow and taped gauze over the newly closed wound. He felt more than heard his brother return.
“She going to be okay?” Dean’s voice was low and soft; the way he spoke when he thought Sam was asleep.
“Yeah,” Sam replied over his shoulder, knuckles kneading his tired eyes.
“Good, because she’s got some serious explaining to do.”
Sam heard a soft coo and spun around. Dean was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a small, blanketed bundle nestled in the crook of his arm.
Chapter Two
Author: JCRGIRL
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wincest
Word Count: 3,206
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: The boys begin their lives together, but life throws them an unexpected curveball. Finally settling into their new home, they decide to visit Bobby.
Author Notes: Sequel to Just Breathe and set approximately 6 weeks after Good Good Night with references to that timestamp. As always unbeta-ed.
Dean teetered precariously on the kitchen chair, tapping the nail into the newly painted drywall. He crouched down to pick up the picture leaning against the chair legs and with some slight grumbling shifted it until the wire on the back caught the nail head. Stepping down, he walked backward to eyeball the level of the frame.
Low on the left.
He nudged the left corner up and wiped his palms together, satisfied with a job well done. That was the last thing that needed to be hung. Granted they didn’t have much in the way of decorations yet, but still this part was done. He smiled up at the picture, taken by Sam of the beach behind their cottage at sunset. Sam had it developed in black and white and enlarged for over the mantle of their new home and Dean had to agree it was a good idea.
“Dean?” Sam’s muffled voice drifted from the kitchen.
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean walked around the corner and snorted a laugh.
Sam was bent over at the waist, head and shoulders completely engulfed in a large box labeled ‘KITCHEN’ on the side, newspaper piled on the floor around the outside.
“Have you seen the pots and pans the girls from Bunnie’s bought us? I thought they were in this box.” Sam’s ass shifted side to side as he continued to dig through the contents of the box he was half buried in. Unable to help himself, Dean stepped forward, molded his legs to the back of his brothers, and ran his palms over Sam’s ass.
“No, but I’ve seen something else.” Dean smoothed large circles over the denim covered globes.
“Dean, come on. If I’m gonna get dinner on the table some time tonight, I need pots and pans,” Sam whined, pulling his upper body out of the cardboard and newspaper. Groaning at the feel of Dean’s hands on him, he leaned back into the solid frame of his brother.
“I can think of something else you can put on the table.” Dean spun Sam around, fingers automatically reaching up to tangle in silky hair, bringing soft lips to his own.
Sam pulled back and quirked an eyebrow at his brother. “Really? That’s the best line you’ve got?”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that my lines are grade A material, able to drop panti-, uh, boxer briefs in a matter of seconds.” Dean pressed their mouths together again. His hands made a lazy path down Sam’s back to cup his ass as he backed him up toward the dining room table.
“Nice save, stud. You’re just lucky I’m an easy lay,” Sam smiled against Dean’s plush lips, sitting on the table top when it pressed into the back of his legs.
“Yep, I’m a lucky stud.” Dean leaned over, nibbling along Sam’s jaw, forcing Sam to moan as he lay flat.
Yeah, they could order Chinese later.
“Hey, pass me some of that chicken,” Dean pointed with his fork. Sam slid the white cardboard box of sweet and sour chicken across the floor, a few spilling from the open top when the container came to an abrupt stop against Dean’s knee. They were sitting on the kitchen floor, hemmed in by boxes, Styrofoam peanuts and newspaper, the detritus associated with moving.
“You sure you want to go to Bobby’s next week?” Dean surveyed the space, mentally listing the chores that still needed to be done.
“Yeah, it’s not like this stuff won’t be here when we get back.” Through the open archway, Sam could see the dining room table covered with miscellaneous items that they hadn’t decided where to put yet. “We haven’t seen Bobby since…well, in a long time and he did invite us. I think he kinda’ misses us a little even though he’d probably eat his hat before admitting it. Besides, I wouldn’t mind a little vacation before school begins and with you starting work in two weeks, I don’t know when we’ll have another opportunity.”
“Because living in a house on the beach for the better part of the year was such a hardship. Not at all what most people think about when they picture going on vacation.” Dean dunked a piece of chicken in the red, syrupy sweet and sour sauce and popped it in his mouth with a smirk.
“You know what I meant, asshole.” Sam threw a fortune cookie at his brother’s head.
Dean picked up the carton of Lo Mein and dug his fork into the depths, pushing aside noodles and vegetables in search of the beef that always seemed to gravitate to the bottom. He looked up to see Sam chewing thoughtfully, eyes continually roving over every square inch of their home visible from his position.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Sam turned, smiling at his brother. “It’s just going to take some time to get used to.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “This is our home. Like, your name is on the deed, I can unpack my things, we don’t have to up and leave next week, home. This is where we live. Just seems surreal, you know?”
“I know. I went into the store this morning to get milk and the lady behind the counter greeted me…by name.”
Sam huffed a laugh. “Don’t laugh, man,” Dean chuckled, “I almost ‘christo’ed her out of habit.”
“Trust me, I understand. Same thing happened to me at the bank yesterday. ‘Hello, Mr. Remington’,” he mimicked in a falsetto voice, “I had to stop myself from running out the door.”
Dean nodded his head, “You gonna’ be happy here, Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam’s smile was soft and tender. “You?”
Dean thought for a moment.
The town was small, population 2, 177 - correction 2,179 now, with one main road in and out, and close enough to South Bend to commute. The people were friendly and oddly more open-minded regarding Sam and Dean’s relationship - the gay one, their new identities concealed the incestuous aspect - for a rural Midwestern town. Sam believed it was the close proximity to a college town which exposed people to a variety of cultures and lifestyles, Dean believed in not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
They’d stayed in the only motel in the area, out by the interstate some 10 miles away, for the first three weeks while they searched for a house. Dean had already accepted a job at a fire station in South Bend - thanks in large part to a hacker friend of Bobby’s that was able to change the name on his State of Florida credentials from Dean Remington to his new alias, Dean Browning - but wasn’t scheduled to start until after the fourth of July to give them time to house hunt and set up housekeeping.
They found an affordable home quicker than either expected and while waiting for it to close, became regulars at the local stores and sole diner in town. When they pulled the Jeep and Impala into the driveway the day before, both laden with a surprisingly large number of boxes brought from Florida, - when had they accumulated so much stuff? - neighbors started dropping by with cakes and covered dishes welcoming them to the town. Introductions were unnecessary, everyone seemed to know them and they already seemed to know everybody. It was strange, but in a nice way.
“Yeah, Sammy. I know I will be.” He squeezed the cellophane covering his fortune cookie until the internal pressure caused one end to pop. He pulled the sugary treat out and broke it open to reveal his fate. “Your life will soon change in unexpected ways,” he read.
“In bed,” Sam added automatically.
“What do you know, Sammy. Sounds like you’re going to start getting kinky between the sheets,” Dean drawled, waggling his eyebrows and narrowly dodging the napkin Sam aimed at his head.
The Impala rumbled under the metal scaffolding arched over the entrance to Bobby’s place, rusted letters spelling out Singer Auto Salvage the only identifier of the business at the end of the dusty driveway. A large Rottweiler bounded down from the hood of an old Chevy truck parked near the front porch of the aging house. Extending the chain around its neck as far as it would go, the dog’s stub tail wagged back and forth in excitement as the black car rolled to a stop.
The passenger side door opened with a creak and the excited dog pulled against the restraining chain hard enough to force it up on its back legs. Feet and ankles appeared beneath the open door and the animal jumped, twisting in the air, with a beseeching whine.
“Rumsfeld, you remember me, huh?” Sam laughed at the happy dog’s antics, kneeling down to scratch behind its ears.
Dean got out and stretched, smiling at his brother affectionately playing with his childhood friend. Bobby had gotten the dog when Sam was 10 and the two had been inseparable whenever the Winchesters visited the salvage yard. Shaking his head, Dean opened the back door to pull out their duffle bags.
The hinges on the house’s front door squeaked and Sam looked up to see the familiar face of their family friend standing on the front porch. With his attention distracted, Rumsfeld took advantage and used his power and weight to knock the young man to the ground. Leaning over the supine form, the dog enthusiastically began licking over Sam’s face.
“Stop! Stop, Rumsfeld. Get down. Come on.” Sam was barely able to get the words out between laughs, hearing echoes coming from the direction of the Impala.
“Rumsfeld, enough!” Bobby’s rough voice ordered, not raised but firm.
The dog’s head snapped up at its master’s command, stepping away to sit on the ground near Sam’s knees. Still laughing, Sam hoisted himself up and brushed the dust from his jeans. “I swear, Bobby, you’re the only one that dog listens to. “ Sam wiped his hands together, sweat dampened dirt and dog hair gritting into the crevices of skin.
“Not the only one,” the older man muttered. “Well, you idgits gonna stay out in the yard or are you gonna come in.”
“We’re coming,” Dean answered, stepping up beside Sam. As Bobby turned to head back indoors, Dean leaned over and whispered in Sam’s ear, “If you want me to kiss you again today, you better wash the dog slobber off your face first.”
They had been there for three days, spending it much as they did when they were children with Dean out in Bobby’s auto shop, grease up to his elbows, and Sam in Bobby’s library, dust up his nose and Rumsfeld at his feet. At night, Sam would cook something or another -Bobby couldn’t help but think around a bite of chili that he needed to invite them more often - then they would pull out a battered deck of cards and the cheap whiskey. It was comfortable, it was companionable, it was family.
Each night the three men drug their half-drunk selves up the stairs, Bobby retiring to his bed and passing out before he could overhear the tell-tale sounds of two twin bed frames being pushed together in the next room.
The morning of the fourth day was similar to the previous ones, the boys got up and pulled the beds apart, careful to make as little noise as possible, - Is this really necessary, Sam? He’s old, Dean. I don’t think his heart could take this kind of shock - before starting their morning hygiene routines and heading down to breakfast. They were most of the way through a stack of pancakes when Bobby’s house line started to ring. Looking at the clock to check the time, the older man grumbled and rose from his chair to answer the phone.
“Hello, Singer Auto Salvage,” Bobby gruffed, obviously displeased with the early hour of the call. Dean and Sam could hear a frantic voice through the receiver, speaking fast and furious in a tone that sounded like a mix between manic and authoritative.
Someone in charge about to lose control, Dean thought.
“Hold on. We’ll be right there.” Bobby slammed down the phone. Instinctively, both boys stood, exchanging questioning gazes at the worry and panic evident in the crinkle edged blue eyes before them.
Dean went to the hook by the back door and picked up the keys to the Impala. “Bobby, what’s going on? Is someone in trouble?”
He didn’t get an answer, only the scraping of the chair that Bobby ran into on the way out the back door.
Dust swirled up behind the back tires of the Impala, Dean coaxing as much speed from his baby as he dared on the gravelly road. “Direction, Bobby?”
“Head to the gate,” Bobby’s terse reply came from the back seat.
Turning the corner that brought the main entrance in sight, Dean planted both feet on the brake to stop the forward momentum of the car. Just this side of the perimeter fence sat a red muscle car, nose facing the main highway, deep grooves in the dirt indicating that the car had pulled in and whipped around. The gate, that in all the years the Winchester boys had been coming to this property had always been open, was pulled shut, a flurry of movement visible through the metal posts. Squinting, Sam could make out five people moving, four figures circling around the fifth, and two on the ground motionless. Unconsciously, he leaned forward in his seat, closer to the windshield, trying to get a clearer view.
“Is that…,” he trailed off then turned, wide-eyed, to the man in the backseat. “Bobby, is that Casey?”
Dean pulled his own gaze away from the spectacle in front of him, eyes going to his brother before landing on their adopted uncle. “Bobby, is he right?”
“Less talk, more action,” Bobby growled, wrenching open the back door and taking off in the direction of the fight.
Following closely on Bobby’s heels, the brothers saw another man drop to the ground as Casey withdrew an oddly shaped silver sword from his torso. Red light flashed behind the man’s eyes, he opened his mouth on a scream only to release more of the light from the orifice before he went lifeless. Casey turned tight circles, breathlessly panting, trying to keep her remaining adversaries in sight.
“Come now, little warrior. Give it to us and we’ll let you live,” one of them said. An evil smile marred what would otherwise be the handsome face of a college aged boy.
Chest heaving in a vain attempt to pull more oxygen into her lungs, Casey’s eyes quickly darted toward the closed gate and the rag-tag calvary coming to her rescue. A macabre smile split her face, lips and teeth coated in blood from a split upper lip, as she took off running toward the fence. She reached the metal barricade at the same time Bobby and the Winchesters did and started to scale it.
“Sam, exorcism now,” Bobby yelled, pulling on the girl’s upper arms to help her over.
Latin flowed smoothly from Sam’s lips, words memorized long ago and as easily recalled as the Pledge of Allegiance. Dean watched as the three remaining men stopped in their pursuit of the girl, bodies thrashing involuntarily as black smoke slithered from their mouths and noses. As the last word filled the air, the hosts fell limply to the ground.
“Casey. Casey, stop! You’re hurt. Let me look at you.” Dean and Sam turned to see Bobby desperately trying to hold Casey to the ground. Blood darkened both of his hands as she squirmed slickly in his grasp.
Casey leveled a gaze at him, fingers clasping his restraining forearms tightly. “Bobby,” She gasped, breaths still coming in labored pants. “Car to the house. Important. Keep safe. Now. ” She pushed him in the direction of her Judge, eyes pleading.
Bobby nodded at her reluctantly. Walking past the younger men he growled, “Get her to the house anyway you can. Hog tie her if you have to.”
They moved in unison to the girl still slumped on the ground by the fence post, jumping at the sound of Bobby slamming the car door. Nearing her, they saw her lips moving, forming words rendered inaudible over the roar of the Judge’s engine between gulps of air, and her finger drawing symbols on the metal post. Kneeling next to her, the brothers watched her finger dip back into the wound at her side, collecting more blood to finish the sigil she was making.
Pushing up the side of her tanktop, Sam sucked in a breath at the deep cut down her flank. “Casey, we have to get you to the house. Patch you up.”
Casey weakly batted his hand away, gathered more blood on her fingers and began a circular pattern.
“This is ridiculous. Come on,” Dean moved his arms under her back and legs to pick her up.
“Wait,” she mumbled, her breathing slowing and gaining some semblance of a normal rhythm, as she darkened the lines of what appeared to be a complicated diamond. “Finished,” she exhaled, going slack against Dean’s chest, the sword she’d used earlier falling from her lax hand.
“Grab that, Sam. Let’s get out of here.” Dean hefted Casey up and carried her back to the Impala where he placed her in the back seat. Sam slipped in beside her, hands moving over her still form, searching for other injuries.
“Dean, hurry. She’s losing a lot of blood.”
Without waiting to be asked again, Dean started the car and sped back toward Bobby’s house. Before the tires completely skidded to a halt, Sam scooped the girl up and was out of the car. He bounded up the stairs and through the front door, his brother a step behind. Dean brushed past him to clear the mountain of books off the couch so Sam could lay her down, his shirt stained red with her blood. Bobby entered the room, a red tackle box in his hands.
“Sam, everything you need is in there,” Bobby pointed at the container. “Dean, can I, uh, talk to you for a minute?”
Dean began to protest but something about Bobby’s tone made him think better of it. Patting Sam on the shoulder, he stood and followed the older man into the hallway.
Sam found the items he needed and with shaky hands threaded the needle. He thanked whatever higher powers he could think of that Casey had passed out and pushed the needle through the skin. Twenty small stitches later, he wiped the sweat from his brow and taped gauze over the newly closed wound. He felt more than heard his brother return.
“She going to be okay?” Dean’s voice was low and soft; the way he spoke when he thought Sam was asleep.
“Yeah,” Sam replied over his shoulder, knuckles kneading his tired eyes.
“Good, because she’s got some serious explaining to do.”
Sam heard a soft coo and spun around. Dean was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a small, blanketed bundle nestled in the crook of his arm.
Chapter Two