Title: Pandora's Box

Author: Moonshayde
Season: Three
Category: A/A, Angst, Drama, Horror
Spoilers: Through Dream a Little Dream of Me
Summary: After Sam opens a mysterious box, he and Dean find themselves battling the same bogey their father defeated sixteen years ago. As they fight alongside an unlikely ally to safeguard the town, Dean struggles to tie up loose ends in his life while Sam continues to search for a way to save his brother's soul.
Word Count: 31,931

Rating: PG-13

 

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke and co. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author. This is for entertainment purposes only; no financial profit has been gained from this story. This story is not mean to infringe upon the rights of the above-mentioned establishments.

 

Chapter 1

 

"Come on, man. That's the fifth place you've shot down."

 

Sam glared at Dean. "Dude, no Burger King. I'm not going through that again."

 

Dean mumbled something under his breath, but it was too muffled for Sam to understand. "Fine, what about that taco place?"

 

"And deal with your refried beans?" Sam flipped one of the glossy pages of the magazine in his lap. "No."

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean muttering again. "All right, then what do you want?"

 

Sam paused, taking a moment to strum his fingers on the magazine while he thought. Outside, a light rain had started to fall. Normally, the sound of gently falling rain provided him some comfort, but each drop that pinged off the hood of the Impala, the ground, and the local signs set him on edge.

 

"Earth to Sam."

 

Sam turned his head, noting Dean kept sneaking quick worried glances in his direction. Sam let out an aggravated sigh. He was tired of Dean looking at him like that. He should be worried about more pressing matters.

 

"Look, I'm just not hungry," Sam said, turning back to the magazine.

 

"Well, too bad. We're eating." Dean glanced down at the dashboard before hitting the gas. "So, pick something already."

 

Sam rolled his eyes and looked out the window. Through the rain, he could see the city limits ahead. He frowned at the name on the sign. "Have we been here before?"

 

"You're changing the subject."

 

"All right, whatever, Dean." He flipped another page. "Chinese."

 

"I can't eat Chinese while I'm driving. And we're not stopping to chow down. We already wasted a whole day cataloguing dad's stuff at that new place. We can't waste any more time."

 

"Well, it was important, Dean. Bela broke in once. I don't need to remind you that she has the Colt. We don't need her finding the new storage unit we set up."

 

"Damn straight," Dean muttered. "Which is why we have to find that bitch and get the Colt back."

 

"I know." Sam shrugged.  "So, if you're so hungry, you pick a place."

 

Dean started mumbling to himself again. Sam kept quiet, watching as he finally got aggravated enough to pull off to the side of the road next to a small roadside diner. Dean opened the driver's side door with a creaking groan, and slammed it hard enough to make a point. He gave Sam a hard look before he stormed off to the diner.

 

Sam wasn't blind. Dean had been strung out since they'd encountered Jeremy in the dream state. Sam wanted to believe it was just about losing the Colt, but he knew better. He knew something had to have happened when they were dream walking. Dean just wasn't talking.

 

Whatever had happened in the dream state, at least Dean seemed more engaged in finding a way to save himself. At this point, Sam would take whatever he could.

 

Sam glanced out the window. When he was sure that Dean was in the diner, he shut the magazine and started rummaging through his bag on the passenger side floor. It didn't take him long to find the small box he'd shoved inside.

 

The box was silver, highlighted with several embellishments. Sam didn't recognize some of the ornamentation, but he knew that a few of the symbols were definitely astrological, possibly lunar, and undoubtedly used in magical rites. Just what kind of rites? That was what Sam hoped the box would tell him.

 

He knew he shouldn't have swiped it from his dad's old personal belongings. After the incident with the cursed rabbit's foot, Sam would have to be stupid to mess around with the magical objects and old family heirlooms his father thought to keep locked up in storage.

 

Yet, here he was with a strange box sitting in his lap, almost yearning to be opened. Sam couldn't really explain the pull he felt toward the box, how his fingers itched to hold it, how he longed to break the lock and peek inside. He kept trying to remind himself of the tale of Pandora's Box, and with all the weirdness in their lives, it wouldn't be a stretch to be literally holding such an evil object.

 

In his hands, he held something that could either destroy the world or could help Dean.

 

Even now, he wasn't sure why he thought this box was so important in saving Dean. It just was.

 

It could be the symbols. He thought the middle symbol was a pentacle of the moon. From what he remembered, moon pentacles could protect the soul, or assist in travel. Since Dean could use some help in both of those areas right now, whatever was hidden inside had to help.

 

That's what Sam kept telling himself.

 

He breathed out, glancing once more at the diner. He could see Dean leaning over the counter, flirting with a young girl. Sam knew it was now or never.

 

He slipped out his lock pick and jimmied the lock. Slowly, the box creaked open revealing an inside lined with soft violet felt.  Sam found a small piece of paper with awkward and stilted handwriting scribbled across it, and two small silver medallions engraved with two circles inside a square that were carved into two larger circles, enhanced by Latin and some religious symbols.

 

Sam swore he had seen these somewhere before.

 

He reached into the box and flipped one of the talismans over. Another symbol was etched in the back. This one had a serpent engraved in the shape of a circle, devouring it's own tail. Sam was positive he'd seen this symbol too, but he couldn't place the memory. He realized it could have been anywhere. His head was about to explode with all the occult knowledge he'd accumulated over the years.

 

Sam held onto the talisman and reached for the small piece of paper. There was a spell or a blessing – something – written entirely in Latin on the yellowed paper.  Sam had no problem with reading Latin, but deciphering the print was becoming increasingly difficult, to the point he realized he was mumbling some of the words aloud. He squinted at the print; it appeared purposefully coded, as if someone had taken great pains to be cryptic about the text.

 

"What the hell is this?"

 

Sam stiffened and clutched the talisman harder. "Dean."

 

Dean opened the driver's side door and tossed a greasy bag in the back. His gaze immediately focused on the box in Sam's lap. "Is that Dad's?" Dean's face grew darker. "You're stealing Dad's stuff?"

 

"It's not what you think."

 

"The hell it isn't." Dean slammed the door. "That thing could be cursed!"

 

"Dean, it's not cursed." Sam tossed the parchment back into the box. He glanced down at the talisman in his hand one more time, pausing to rub a spot of dirt off the surface.

 

He felt a jolt.

 

"Sam?"

 

"Uh…" Sam shook his hand, feeling the tingling creeping up his arm. Without a second thought, he tossed the talisman back in the box, but it was too late. His muscles were already beginning to spasm.

 

"Sam?" He heard Dean's voice shaking. "Crap. Gimme that."

 

Dean lunged at him. Sam felt a rush as Dean's hand clamped down on his arm. The energy shot through his body, like lightning seeking a rod, and for a brief second, Sam saw Dean's neck snap back as if struck. Before Sam could fully understand what was happening, he felt a hot whiteness fade his vision. The last thing he heard was Dean grunt and a loud thud beside him.

 

*     *     *     *

 

When Sam woke, the rain had cleared and the gray afternoon was quickly giving way to cloudless evening. He found himself slumped against the door, staring into the bare woodland that lined the open highway, and didn't catch himself until his eyes started to burn. Sam shook off the feeling and closed his eyes, wondering why his body felt like dead weight.

 

Then he caught sight of the closed box that had fallen between his leg and the passenger side door.

 

Sam's face fell.

 

"Dean?" He flinched, hearing his voice crack. "Dean?"

 

Sam winced at the dull pain in his limbs and fought against the fatigue, forcing himself to sit up. He still felt as if he could fall asleep at any second, like all the life had been zapped out of him, but he wasn't about to give into the feeling.

 

"Dean?" Sam turned his head. What he saw made him go cold.

 

Dean was white as a ghost. He had slumped over on top of the steering wheel, his head tilted in an awkward and painful direction. Sam couldn't even tell if he was breathing.

 

He should have never grabbed that stupid box.

 

"Dean." Sam pushed past the heavy pain and shook Dean's shoulder. "Come on, man. Don't do this." He gave him another desperate shake. "Dean!"

 

Dean made a small choking sound. Sam encouraged him by shaking him again, this time more forcefully. Finally, his eyelids started to flutter.

 

"Come on, Dean." Sam helped push Dean back into the driver's seat and eased him against the headrest. He never protested. When Sam noticed his eyes were starting to roll to the back of his head, he gave Dean another good shake. "Stay with me, okay?"

 

Dean coughed and tried to move his head. "I feel hammered." He swallowed hard. "What the hell happened?"

 

"You don't remember?"

 

"I don't know." He winced as he struggled to wipe his face. "I was hungry and—" He suddenly stopped, turned to Sam, and narrowed his eyes.

 

Sam eased back onto the passenger side. "You remember."

 

"I told you not to touch any of Dad's stuff. We don't know what's hexed. You should know better than that." He hissed as he rubbed his neck. "God, everything kills. This must be what it feels like to get hit by a truck."

 

"Look, Dean. It was a mistake, okay? Let's just pack up, find a place to crash for the night, and figure out what's going on."

 

Dean glared at him, but didn't say anything more about the box. He glanced back to the back seat and wagged his fingers. "My food better not be cold."

 

Sam reached back and grabbed the bag before chucking it at Dean. He greedily accepted it, wasting no time ripping through the bag to get to his burger. He took a giant sized bite and moaned with contentment.

 

Sam just shook his head.

 

"Here." Dean tossed him a wrapped sandwich.

 

"I told you I wasn't hungry."

 

"Yeah, well…" Dean's voice trailed off and he frowned.

 

"What?" Sam asked.

 

"Where the hell's the diner?"

 

Sam snapped his attention to the diner. Or where the diner should have been. Instead, there was nothing but open grass and a few aging trees dotting the spot where the diner should have been standing.

 

There was no rational explanation for it.

 

Sam jumped when he heard the driver side door slam. Outside, Dean hobbled alongside the Impala, leaning on it for support. After tossing his sandwich aside, Sam exited the Impala, and like Dean, grabbed the side of the car for support as a dizzy spell hit him. When his vision righted itself, he stared at the empty lot.

 

"It's not there," Dean said simply. "Hell, it doesn't look like it's ever been there."

 

Sam shifted his weight. "That's not possible."

 

Dean stared at him.

 

"Maybe we were teleported somewhere," Sam offered.

 

"Teleported? Sam, do you see Captain Kirk or any hot aliens chicks around here?" Dean winced and leaned forward, crossing his arms alongside the hood of the Impala. "What were you trying to do? Just what was in that box?"

 

Sam sighed. He didn't really want to go into this with Dean right now.

 

"Sam."

 

"I thought maybe it could get you out of your deal."

 

"You thought a little box would get me out of my deal with the demon?" Dean let out a short laugh. "You got to be kidding me."

 

"Dean, there's a pentacle on the front. Now pentacles of the moon can be used in spell work involving soul protection and travel."

 

"And they also can be used to open doors that shouldn't be opened!"

 

"I didn't open anything!"

 

"You opened that box!"

 

Sam shook his head. "You just have to trust me on this one."

 

Dean wrinkled his face with disgust and frustration. "Please don't tell me this is some psychic thing again."

"No, it's not. I can't really explain it."

 

"That's a huge help."

 

"I'm not joking, Dean. But your time is running out. We can't just sit around and hope an answer will fall into our laps. We have to take some chances."

 

"That's just fantastic. So let's go ahead and open every single thing out there. Why don't we open one of Hell's Gates while we're at it?" Dean gave him a hard glare. "You know stuff like this doesn't ever end well."

 

"Making diners disappear?" Sam asked in a huff. "Because that's real evil, Dean."

 

"What about the people inside?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"Exactly."

 

Dean pushed himself off the car and opened the door, throwing himself into the seat. He held his head in silence until Sam followed him into the Impala.

 

"We'll find a way to fix it," Sam said. "Fix everything."

 

Dean didn't say anything and instead started up the engine. The two of them remained in an uneasy silence while the Impala headed down the highway toward the next town. As they approached the outskirts of the town, Sam held onto the hope that his instincts were right and he hadn't started a chain of events that would spell their doom.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Dean pulled the Impala into park by a strip of small shops. He let out a heavy sigh as it rattled to a stop. Townsfolk crisscrossed through the streets and the sidewalks, buzzing around like flies as they whizzed off to wherever they were supposed to go. It looked like just about any other small town they'd visited throughout their lives except for the massive fluorescent explosion.

 

"God, I hate this town."

 

Sam chuckled beside him. "We just got here."

 

"Yeah, well I still hate it." He watched as a teenager in a bright pink top with green shorts walked by.  "It's like the town time forgot."

 

"I can't argue that one," Sam said, leaning over to look out the window. Dean saw him frown. "We've been here before, haven't we?"

 

"Yeah, it's the case dad worked with the bogeyman snatching all those kids." He shook his head. He could never say bogeyman with a straight face.

 

"With those hunters."

 

"One of the few times dad didn't work alone." Dean sat back and rubbed his mouth. He didn't like this town. He'd never liked this town. "Let's just drive through."

 

"Dean, you look like death warmed over. Let's grab a cup of coffee and figure out our next move."

 

"Our next move?" Dean glared at him. "Our next move is to find Bela and the Colt."

 

"Yes, I know. I heard you the first time. But come on. Let's stop for five minutes and get our strength back."

 

"No."

 

He heard Sam sigh. "You're not still sore about what happened here? Dean, that was sixteen years ago."

 

Dean didn't care. From what little he remembered, this town held a lot of bad memories for him, and he wasn't too keen on revisiting them. He just wanted to put this place behind them, dump that stupid box in the trunk, and figure out where Bela and the Colt were hiding.

 

"Hopping in for a few minutes isn't going to matter either way," Sam told him. "Would you rather pass out on the road and crash the car?"

 

Dean scowled. "Dude, I won't crash my car."

 

Sam just looked at him. Dean swore if Sam gave him that pitiful look one more time…

 

"This town is full of weirdoes," Dean said. "Do you even remember this place?"

 

"Barely," Sam muttered. "And don't pretend like you do. We were sick with the flu for most of this trip."

 

"I remember enough." Dean motioned to center of town with a wave of his hand. "I mean, what kind of idiot robs a store for a buck seventy-five?"

 

"That doesn't matter, Dean."

 

"Of course it matters. You just want some time to mess around with that box again."

 

"I just want to figure out what happened so we can move on." Sam reached over and pointed to a small family restaurant across the street. "Come on, five minutes."

 

Dean sighed. He still felt like this was a monumental waste of time. The more time they were on the road, the better the chance they would find Bela. And that meant they would find the Colt.

 

None of that would happen in Creeksboro, Kentucky.

 

He glanced over to the restaurant and to Sam's pleading face. Dean just shook his head.

 

"Fine." Dean opened the door and stepped into the street. "But I'm telling ya, Sam, if that box turns me into a giant slug or some freakin' monkey with wings, I swear the first thing I'll do is bite your sorry ass."

 

*     *     *     *

 

The restaurant was empty, save for a few tourist families and some lone stragglers slumped along the bar stools that lined the counter. Dean walked over to the counter and eased himself onto one of the stools, his attention immediately falling to a middle-aged man sagging over an open bottle.

 

"A little early for happy hour," Dean said to him with a laugh.

 

The man just slumped lower.

 

Dean cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "Okay…"

 

"What do you want?"

 

Dean turned to the sound of the cashier's voice. He was a burly no-nonsense guy who had a mug that not even a mother could love. His deep frown and beady eyes didn't just make Dean uncomfortable, but stopped him cold. He'd been given looks like that more times than he could remember. He didn't need anyone to tell him he wasn't wanted in this restaurant.

 

And from the confused look on Sam's face, Dean got the feeling it wasn't exclusively on him.

 

"Two coffees," Dean said.

 

"And a newspaper," Sam added.

 

The cashier grabbed a coffee pot and slammed the coffee cups and paper in front of them. As he poured them a cup each, he kept his cold stare centered on Dean.

 

"Whoa, sure can't beat the service in this town," Dean muttered. When the cashier didn't move, Dean shrugged. "Right. I forgot you folks don't like out of towners."

 

"We just don't like smart mouths."

 

"Mike, let it go." The man hunched over next to Dean glanced up from his bottle to stare at them with glassy, red-rimmed eyes. "It's not their fault. You can't blame every stranger that comes walking through that door."

 

Dean wagged a finger at the cashier and ignored the look Sam was giving him. "He's got a point."

 

"What exactly happened?" Sam asked.

 

"They took them," the man next to them said. "They keep taking them, and we can't stop them."

 

"They?" Sam and Dean said together.

 

"Some child predator," Mike grumbled. "The damn cops haven't been able to find anything."

 

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. They were both thinking it, but it was Sam that beat him to the punch.

 

"This, um, this predator," Sam said, leaning closer to the cashier. "Does he take kids anywhere between five and fifteen?"

 

"At night they just vanish," Dean continued, "closet wide open with black soot on the doorknob?"

 

Both the cashier and customer stopped. "How did you know that?" Mike asked.

 

"My partner and I have been working a similar case in Ohio." Dean leaned back and smiled, blocking out Sam's angry glare. "We heard about the goings on round here and thought we'd check into it."

 

The customer's eyes widened. "Cops?"

 

"Detectives."

 

Sam sighed. "Right."

 

"You got a theory?" Mike asked. "More than one person or something?"

 

"That's classified," Dean said. He grabbed his cup and motioned to Sam to pay the cashier. "But once we get the clear, we'll be sure to let you know what's going on."

 

Dean started for an empty booth, chuckling as he heard Sam grumble behind him. He slid onto the cushion and glanced out the window, waiting for Sam to join him. From his seat, he could see the Impala parked by the curb, just slightly obscured from view by a large moving truck and a bunch of trees. He just hoped Sam's magic box hadn't damaged her.

 

Sam tossed the receipt at him. "Okay, what the hell was that about?"

 

Dean grinned as Sam slid into the seat across from him. "That gets them off our backs for a while."

 

"For a while?"

 

"Yeah." Dean paused and looked out the window, his gaze falling to a family of four lounging by a small corner park. "You heard what that guy Mike said. This is definitely a bogeyman."

 

"I know what it is." Sam slapped the newspaper on the table. "Detectives?"

 

Dean frowned. "Yeah. Why? Did you wanna try for something else?"

 

"No, I don't want to try something else," Sam said with a sigh. "Dean, we don't have time for this."

 

"It's a case, Sam."

 

"Not for us."

 

"What?" Dean's frown deepened. He couldn't believe Sam was pulling a one-eighty on him. "Not fifteen minutes ago you were all whiny about stopping."

 

"That was for coffee."

 

"A bogeyman here? Now?" Dean paused, lowering his voice as he heard movement in the booth behind them. "It's not right. These things don't hit the same town twice. We have to check it out. For Dad."

 

"What about Bela?" Sam asked.

 

"It can wait. This is Dad's work."

 

"Yeah, and obviously Dad didn't finish the job."

 

"There had to be a good reason. Maybe it's a different bogey, a revenge thing."

 

"A different one hitting the same place exactly sixteen years later? You said it yourself. They never hit the same town twice." Sam shook his head. "I'll tell you the good reason. Us. Dad gets sloppy with us."

 

"Doesn't matter. I think we owe it to these people to finish the job."

 

Sam glared at him, but said nothing. Dean knew he'd scored a victory. He might not have a way with words like Sammy had, but he'd learned a few tricks over the years to get his brother to listen to him. It might not always work, but Dean took his small victories when he could.

 

"Good," Dean said with a satisfied smack to the table. "Let's go find a place to crash and start working up who we'll talk to first."

 

He drank the last of his coffee and headed for the door. The good thing about a job like this was that knew he could always rely on his dad's journal. There had to be some notes about the bogeyman they'd hunted back in the nineties.

 

Dean stepped outside and stopped short. The Impala was parked right in front of him.

 

"What the hell."

 

He was positive he'd parked the car across the street. Dean glanced up, but with the cars zooming past, he didn't see anything. He scratched his head and returned his attention to the Impala.

 

"What?" he heard Sam ask.

 

Dean glanced over his shoulder, not surprised to find Sam lost in the newspaper. Dean turned back to the Impala. Maybe that jolt did more than knock him out.

 

No, he wasn't imagining things.

 

Dean shook his head. "I so did not park the Impala here."

 

"Maybe she just wanted to be closer to you." Sam glanced up and smiled sweetly.

 

"Yeah, that's hilarious." Dean rubbed his chin. "I swear if that friggin' box of yours did something to my car…" He stopped and frowned. "Oh, hell. What if it's like Christine?"

 

"Excuse me?"

 

Dean ignored Sam and approached the driver's side, peeking through the window. "What the hell!"

 

There was crap all over the back seat. He saw a bunch of books piled up on the passenger side, and some papers scattered on the floor and on the seats themselves. He swore he even saw some toys.

 

"Dean."

 

"Is that silly putty?" Dean leaned a little closer. "Son of a bitch!"

 

He was going to pound the bastard that ransacked his car and put their crap inside. Not that it made any sense, but Dean didn't care. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Not feeling a bit calmer, he stormed to the back of the car to catch the license plate.

 

"Dean!"

 

Dean jerked, surprised at the firm tone in his brother's voice. Sam's fingers dug so hard into his arm that he swore they would leave a permanent mark.

 

"Sammy, what the –"

 

Sam thrust the newspaper in front of his face. "We have to go. We have to go now."

 

Dean grabbed the paper and followed Sam's jabby finger to the date on the front page. It read January 25^th, 1992.

 

His eyes widened. It had to be some gag newspaper or something.

 

"Something I can do for you boys?"

 

Both Sam and Dean froze. Slowly, they lifted their heads to the man standing at the front of the Impala.

 

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. "Dad?"

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Sam couldn't move, couldn't speak. A thousand emotions flooded him all at once, conflicting thoughts of anger and love, of pride and sorrow, a surge that he couldn't neatly divide and categorize through the storm raging in his mind. He found himself mute, staring at the discerning figure of his dead father – a man who happened to be very much alive.

 

"You boys wanna tell me what you're doing?"

 

John eyed them closely, his gaze flickering between Sam and Dean. Sam knew that he was sizing them up, getting a good read on them. They had to come up with something quick.

 

When he turned to Dean, Sam quickly realized his brother would be no help. Dean's face was ashen, his eyes wide, and his whole body rigid with shock. Sam would never fully understand why John had such an effect on him, but he didn't have time to consider it right now.

 

He cleared his throat. "Uh, we…" His voice trailed off as he noticed John's gaze lock onto the amulet dangling around Dean's neck. Sam quickly shoved it under Dean's shirt and stepped in front of him. "We're detectives."

 

"Detectives?" John rubbed his chin, only to stop to give them a pointed look. "Can I see some ID?"

 

Sam swallowed the lump that had started to form in his throat and quickly went for his jacket. He nudged the uncharacteristically quiet Dean, urging him to do the same. Dean kept staring until finally he started to show some signs of life and absently patted his jacket. Sam was still trying to form some contingency plan when he heard chuckling.

 

John smiled. "I didn't think so."

 

"We-we left them in the car," Dean managed to say.

 

Sam glared at Dean.

 

"You can drop the act," John said. "I know who you are."

 

Sam and Dean exchanged a worried look. He didn't want to call John's bluff, but he didn't know what other lie he could pull out of his hat. If this were real, if this weren't some crazy dream, then he and Dean had to be careful. They had to watch their every move, their every word.

 

Not that it mattered now, he realized a second too late. Dean was already talking.

 

"You do?" Dean asked.

 

John nodded. "Yeah, I do. I overheard you boys talking earlier. You say your dad's a hunter?"

 

"Oh," Sam said as he struggled to keep the shock out of his voice. "Our dad. Yeah."

 

"He's a hunter," Dean said with a nod. When Sam shot him another glare, he winced and turned his head.

 

"Maybe I've run into him."

 

"Yes, sir." Dean shook his head. "No…sir."

 

"I don't think you have," Sam added quickly, praying Dean would shut up. "He tends to work alone."

 

"He does, does he?" John seemed to ponder the story, but kept a wary eye on them both. "You know that hunting isn't a joke. This is serious business."

 

 "Yes, sir," Dean said.

 

"Good," John said. "Now why don't you pack up and head on out?"

 

"Look, maybe you don't get it, but we have a lot of experience, and we're good at taking care of ourselves. So why don't you —" Sam clamped down, figuratively biting his tongue. He wasn't about to get into an argument with his dad, especially not here or now. It was bad enough that Sam could see the complete mistrust and suspicion in John's eyes. They knew that John was hard enough to deal with when he was in a good mood. The fact that he wasn't buying their story or their competence was going to make it impossible.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

He felt a punch to his arm. "Sam!" Dean hissed under his breath.

 

John frowned and stared at Dean. "What did you just say?"

 

"Sam. As in Joseph Samuel." Sam reached out his hand and forced a smile. "People just call me Joe."

 

John eyed his extended arm, pausing to study them once more before he shook it. "Name's Jack."

 

Sam nodded, smiling all the while. So, they were both playing the same game. And by the glint in his father's eye, he knew they both knew it.

 

"That's Frank," Sam said, motioning behind him. "We heard there was a possible hunt around here and came to check it out."

 

"Yeah," John said, and let out a long sigh. "I've heard some rumblings. What kind of intel do you have on this thing?"

 

"Probably the same as you," Sam said with a shrug. "The creature takes kids between five and fifteen, always at night, always through the closet."

 

John nodded. "Those are the typical signs of a bogeyman."

 

Sam knew they were. He knew that their dad would know it, too. John would never start a hunt without having some background research done. The only problem was Sam didn't know just how much information he had. It was obvious that some sort of time transference had happened. As crazy as that sounded, Sam knew he had to tiptoe around this conversation as carefully as possible. Any slip could alter history and screw up the future, their present. Sam was beginning to think grabbing that box had been a big mistake.

 

"What about you?" Sam asked, pushing his thoughts aside. "What do you know?"

 

"I'm working on it."

 

Sam felt the corners of his mouth twitch. John had no idea where the bogeyman was hiding.

 

"Dad!"

 

Sam frowned at the sound of the high-pitched voice. He cocked his head and peered around John, speechless as he saw a little boy darting out of the diner followed by a slightly older one. Sam fought the urge to clutch his stomach; he felt like his body had dropped in a freefall.

 

He dared not look back at Dean.

 

The younger versions of themselves jogged up to John's side, their curious expressions glued unwittingly to their older selves. The younger Dean didn't even bother to mask his disdain.

 

"Who're you?"

 

Sam didn't know what to say. He towered over both himself and Dean like a giant. All his childhood memories were skewed. Suddenly Dean seemed a lot, lot shorter. But before he had a chance to formulate any kind of response, John herded their younger selves away from the Impala and away from them.

 

"Dean, what did I say? Now take your brother and go inside."

 

His angry frown only deepened. "Dad, it wasn't—"

 

"I said now."

 

Dean grumbled something under his breath and punched Sam in the arm, earning him a battered "ow." Sam watched himself shuffle after Dean, only stopping once to sneak a peek back at them. Then, they were gone.

 

"Aren't you being a little harsh?" Dean asked.

 

Sam jerked his head, turning to his brother. There was something raw in his eyes, pained, but it faded quickly, leaving an unsteadiness that Sam knew he had seen before, a sense of discomfort he recognized from after their fight with Jeremy.

 

"Excuse me?" John asked again. "Are you telling me how to raise my kids?"

 

"Okay." Sam let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, we didn't mean to bother you." He patted Dean's chest and started to steer him away. "We'll just be heading out now."

 

John's face didn't break. "I think it would be best if you boys left town."

 

"So would we," Sam said under his breath. As soon as they could figure out how.

 

Sam didn't say another word as he guided a still ashen Dean away from the car. Even as they crossed the street, he knew that John was watching them, mentally keeping tabs on where they went. He also knew there was a good chance that he would grab their younger counterparts, pack up the car, and follow them. The last thing Sam needed was for John to find the Impala, their Impala.

 

The two of them hopped onto the sidewalk and started down the main street, away from where they had originally parked.

 

Dean frowned. "Dude, the car is that way."

 

"Forget about the car." He shoved Dean into an alley between a bakery and a dry cleaning service. "What was that all about?"

 

"What was what about?"

 

"That whole thing with Dad?"

 

Dean shrugged. "It was nothin'."

 

"Nothing?"

 

"Man, I dunno." Dean wiped his face and looked down as he leaned against the brick wall of one of the buildings. "This is seriously messed up."

 

Sam nodded. "I know." He looked out into the street, watching as the Impala slowly drove by. He turned back to Dean. "Look, we have to get out of here."

 

"Tell me about it," Dean muttered. "Maybe if you hadn't touched the Magic Box…"

 

Sam sighed. He wasn't going to get into this with Dean right now. "Let's just go back to the car and take it from there."

 

Dean gave a half-shrug and a half-nod, but started out of the alley. Sam followed him, cautiously glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. He didn't see the other Impala nearby, but he didn't want to take any more chances. He could only hope that whatever damage they might have done, time would straighten it out. His main priority was discovering how to undo what they had done, and figure it out before it was too late.

 

*    *    *    *

 

Sam stared at the silver box in his lap. He'd been holding it in silence for the past fifteen minutes, struggling to wrap his mind around the surreal meeting they'd just experienced. Dean sat beside him, completely and oddly still, just staring out of the driver's side of the Impala into the street.

 

Their dad. They'd just come face to face with their dad. Sam didn't know how to process all the feelings and images that kept overwhelming his mind. He couldn't even believe this was happening. But with all the insanity in their lives, he knew that it was crazier to believe it wasn't real.

 

And now, somehow, they were in the past.

 

Sam wasn't a physicist, but he knew there were theories on time travel out there. Those theories were rooted in the realm of pseudo-science. This he knew was completely magical.

 

However, he knew there was something both magic and science could agree upon – meddling with the past would have consequences. He and Dean did not belong here.

 

"Dean…"

 

"You turned my car into a freakin' Delorian."

 

Dean was angry. Sam could hear it in his voice. But it wasn't just anger. Dean refused to look at Sam, not even a quick glance or a turn of the head. There was something else eating away at him, something Sam wasn't sure he could identify. He only knew it had been lingering around Dean for the past few days, building and growing, and soon he knew it would burst.

 

"I think we should lay low until we can figure out how to reverse this."

 

Dean nodded and gripped the steering wheel. Sam was positive he was clutching it so hard to keep from punching him. "So, what? Hole up in a hotel?" Dean asked.

 

"We just stay out of Dad's hair until we figure out how to get back."

 

"Perfect. Meanwhile, Bela's in the future with the Colt, and by the time we find her, we'll be in our forties." Dean paused. "Well, I guess you'll be. One of the perks of dying young."

 

Sam shook his head. "Let's just find a motel."

 

As Dean went to start the car, Sam reached into his pocket for his money clip. He wanted to make sure they budgeted right, since he had no idea how long they would be stuck in this town or the year 1992, for that matter. With a sigh, he pulled out the clip and started to flip through the bills. He froze.

 

"What?" Dean asked.

 

"Crap."

 

"What crap?"

 

Sam turned to Dean. "We can't use any of this money."

 

Dean frowned. "Why the hell –" Dean's face went blank. "Crap."

 

"Yeah, it hasn't been minted yet." Sam jammed the money back into his pocket. "How are we going to get a room?"

 

Dean went for his stash of credit cards and other illegal paraphernalia. Sam held onto the box and watched as Dean searched through years' worth of junk, but he started to think this was just a waste of time.

 

"I don't think you're going to find anything old enough," he said.

 

"Then shut up and help me."

 

Sam reached over to help sort through the cards that Dean had spread onto the leather seats. Just as he was leaning over to examine a card, he felt the box slip from his lap and hit the floor of the Impala with a thud.

 

Both of them froze.

 

"You did not just drop the voodoo box in my car," Dean said.

 

"I think I did."

 

Dean blurted out a string of nonsense that Sam didn't even try to figure out. Instead, he shook it off and glanced at the passenger side floor mat of the car. He could see the talismans, the instructions, and even some of the soft felt that had come undone.

 

Sam grimaced as he reached down to pick up the spilled contents. The last thing they needed was for him to set off the talisman again only to dump them further back in time.

 

"Be careful!" Dean shouted. "I don't want to end up in Jurassic Park."

 

"I'm just putting it back in the box." Sam started to pick up the items and drop them into the metal container when he frowned, noticing something sticking out from behind the torn felt. As he finished scooping up the contents, he brought the box to his lap and peeled away the rest of the felt.

 

From the corners of his eyes, he could see Dean's eyes widen. "Hey!"

 

Sam blocked Dean's hand with his arm. "Wait," he said. Sam ripped the felt and grabbed the wad of bills from within the box. Sam did a quick check. Minted in 1991. He held them up and waved them at Dean.

 

"That's awesome." Dean leaned over toward the box. "I want a Philly cheesesteak."

 

Sam stared at him. "Dude, what are you doing?"

 

"It's like in Bill and Ted's when they just ask for something and –" Dean rolled his eyes. "Nevermind, you uncultured freak."

 

Sam didn't have time for Dean's incoherent nonsense. He had too many other ideas buzzing through his head. "Do you realize what this means?"

 

"It means no free grub."

 

"Dean, stop thinking with your stomach for two seconds. This means that whatever is in this box was meant to be here." He tapped the top for emphasis. "Why would there be money hiding in the side of the lining? Why would we find it just when we needed it?"

 

"You think we put it there?"

 

Sam nodded. "I thought maybe this was a big mistake. Now I think we're supposed to be here."

 

"Sam, that's just messed up."

 

"But think about it. The money was placed in here for a reason. Maybe when we find a way out of this we leave ourselves the money. Or someone does."

 

"Okay, then," Dean said. "What are we supposed to do?"

 

Sam glanced down at the box and then to the cards and paper slips beside him. "I don't know yet. But we have to be very careful. We have to make sure that don't change or interfere with anything until we know exactly what is going on."

 

"So find a motel. Lay low. And do what the box tells us." Dean sighed. "I'm taking orders from Thing."

 

"Dean…

 

He scowled. "What now?"

 

Sam sifted through some of the cards and pulled out the receipt from earlier that afternoon. "Your receipt."

 

"What about it?"

 

"It's for a dollar and seventy-five cents."

 

"You're kidding me."

 

Sam smiled, recalling their earlier conversation. "Guess you're that idiot."

 

"Aw, man." Dean shook his head once, mumbled something Sam couldn't hear, and turned to glare at the box that sat innocently on Sam's lap. "I really hate this town."

 

"The place was robbed for exactly a dollar and seventy-five cents," Sam told him. "No more, no less."

 

"Yeah, got it." With a sigh, Dean swung the Impala door open. "I'll case the back while you find us a room. I'll call you after I'm done." He paused, turning back to Sam. "I don't want my baby anywhere near this place when this thing goes down."

 

"No."

 

Dean stared at him. "No?"

 

"No phones. We won't get a signal."

 

"Dammit." Dean wiped his face. "All right. Come back around midnight. That should be plenty of time." He sighed again. "I can't believe I'm about to make the lamest heist in history."

 

Sam shrugged. "It could be worse."

 

"Yeah? How?"

 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but stopped and just shook his head. "Okay, maybe not."

 

Dean glared at him as he shut the door. "Remember. Midnight."

 

Sam nodded as Dean tossed him the keys. "Got it."

 

He watched Dean disappear into one of the alleys between the main street buildings. Once he was sure no one was watching them, he slid over to the driver's side and started up the Impala. Now all Sam had to do was find the right motel.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Dean shut the back door to the diner with his gloved hands. He'd spent a good hour sorting through their damn change to find a lousy dollar and seventy-five cents' worth of coffee money while trying to be as quiet as possible. It didn't help that he knew the family that owned the diner were asleep upstairs. All he could say was thank God they hadn't shipped off their money to the bank before he'd gotten there.

 

After a quick survey of the alley, Dean crept toward the street. He knew there was a little niche next to the park right across from the diner where he figured he could wait until Sam showed. He wanted to make sure he put enough distance between himself and this place as quickly as possible. Small town police never had enough to do, and he wasn't about to be their night of fun.

 

Dean checked his watch. 11:50. Sam better come get him soon before he started freezing his ass off.

 

He was just about to dart across the street when he saw a flicker of light above him. Dean stopped and focused, frowning as he caught two shadows – one small and the other warped - fumbling in the weak light. Then with a snap, they vanished.

 

Every muscle in his body tensed. He so had not just seen what he thought he saw.

 

Quietly, Dean started back down the alley, alert and quick on his feet as he headed toward the apartment window above the diner. When he sniffed the air, he could smell something dank and moldy, like old hair caught in a sink drain.

 

Dammit, the thing was here.

 

As he rounded the corner, he scanned the sides of the building, the alleyway itself, and the garbage bin that rested to his right. He didn't see anything – not a shadow or the bogeyman's lanky form. But that didn't mean he'd left.

 

Above him, a long fire escape climbed upward stopping by the apartment window. Dean paused, studying the stairwell as he considered his next move. He hadn't brought any of his gear with him, but he'd be damned if he'd let an opportunity slide. Without a second thought, Dean grabbed the rails and started up the fire escape.

 

When he reached the top, he crouched low and peeked through the window. The room was dark, but he could still make out a few items: the unmade bed, the dresser and nightstand, and a closet door slightly ajar.

 

Dean shook his head. He was too late. The poor kid probably had never seen it coming. The stench in the alleyway must have been the pedo bastard's lingering scent.

 

That wasn't about to stop Dean.

 

Quietly, he lifted the windowsill and slipped inside. He kept his steps slow and deliberate, careful not to step on any toys that might be lying around the room. The last thing he needed was to get caught and land in jail. Claiming he was a demon hunter from the future would land him in the loony bin faster than Britney Spears losing her panties. And while Sam could be slick with the tongue, he doubted that Stanford education would do them squat this time around, considering technically he hadn't even gone yet.

 

He crept over to the closet door and inspected the handle. Sure enough, there was black soot clinging to the metal doorknob. He dug into his pockets, grabbed a bag, and withdrew his knife. With the blade, he scraped a few flaky pieces of residue into his bag. While he and Sam weren't officially working this job, he figured it couldn't hurt to grab some residue. At this rate, they could be trapped here forever.

 

Dean sealed the bag, secured his knife, and slipped through the window, making sure to close it after he exited. Quietly, he started back down the fire escape. When he reached the bottom, he turned his head and glanced back at the apartment for one last look.

 

He gasped as he was knocked back by the collar of his jacket.

 

Before he had a chance to right himself, Dean was thrown against the wall of the building. He grunted as he pushed off the brick, striking his assailant with a punch to the stomach. Dean went to throw another, but the figure dodged and went for his throat. Again, Dean slammed against the wall, harder this time, and gasped as he struggled to breathe. He was about to kick out when a bright light flooded his vision and blinded him.

 

Dean blinked, cursing under his breath as the brightness sent a current of pain shooting through his head. The shock sent him off balance, but he fought to stand straight, only to nearly tumble with surprise when the pressure around his neck vanished. He collapsed against the wall, but not before drawing his .45.

 

He wasn't about to get snuffed by a freak in an alley. Not now. As he kept his aim steady, Dean forced his vision to clear. He jerked and dropped his arm. The fuzzy figure faded in and out, but was unmistakably his father.

 

"Da—" Dean caught himself and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing down the panic welling inside. Finally, he breathed out and cleared his throat. "What was that?"

 

"Enchanted mirror," John said, waving it in front of Dean. "Shine it in the face of a bogeyman and you can see its true face."

 

Ignoring the lingering spots that danced in front of him, Dean shoved the gun into his jeans and nodded once as he processed the information. Then he stopped and frowned, staring at John. "You thought I was a bogeyman?"

 

"You or the other one." John pocketed the mirror. "I had to be sure."

 

Dean blinked. If he and Sam were starting to pass as bogeymen now, then they should really start to rethink how they hunted. After a moment, he blinked again, realizing just where his dad was going with this train of thought. "You think it's posing as people?"

 

"They have limited ability, yeah." John paused, that discerning gaze of his chewing through Dean. "You should do your research."

 

Dean felt his cheeks flare at the rebuke. He knew about bogies. Both he and Sam had studied that journal front to back and then some. He knew how they grabbed kids and how they moved through the shadows. He knew they were near damn impossible to track. Dean might not remember everything, but he knew a lot about them. Yet when he looked at the disapproving face of his dad, he just couldn't bring himself to say it.

 

"This'll help mask our energy so the bogey can't tail us." John tossed a marble-sized ball onto the fire escape.

 

The ball rolled onto the metal frame and hit the wall with a nearly inaudible pop.  Then, it burst into a gentle puff, releasing a soft, floral scent that made Dean's nose itch. As he resisted the urge to scratch it, he marveled at how something so normal could overpower the rancid smell of the bogeyman. Then again, he never would have thought a bunch of stinky potpourri would have blocked a nest of vampires.

 

"What're you doing out here?" John asked abruptly. "I thought you were leaving town."

 

"We had some things to take care of." Dean sniffed and wiped his nose. He glanced upward. "I saw the thing in the upper apartment."

 

"Did you get a good look?"

 

"Better than that." Dean reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bag, tossing it to John. "I managed a sample."

 

John caught the bag and examined it. A spark of nostalgia warmed Dean, and he found the tension in his shoulders wane. It was standard procedure: John would lay out the plan and Dean would take an inventory of the site. After research and recon was complete, they'd move in to nail the sucker.

 

But when John brought his attention back to Dean, there was dark suspicion in his eyes, and he gave Dean an almost quizzical, confused look, one that could easily be missed under his controlled exterior if you didn't know the man.

 

Dean's shoulders sagged as the warmth evaporated. He had seen John give that look to wary strangers many times.

 

"I thought you'd want the lead on this one," Dean said quietly.

 

"I work alone," John said.

 

Dean felt his throat tighten, but he nodded and tried to ignore the ache. He didn't know what he'd been thinking. He needed to find Sam and just get the hell out of there.

 

"But if you boys are working this case, I can't stop you." John wiped his mouth and glanced up at the apartment. "And I'm running out of time."

 

Dean stiffened. "What? Really?"

 

He was about to ask John what plan he had mapped out for this hunt, when he heard a piercing scream. Both John and Dean froze as the apartment light flickered on.

 

"Crap," Dean muttered.

 

"We gotta go," John said.

 

John started to back into the shadows before breaking into a steady run. Dean found himself following John deeper into the alley, even though a little voice in the back of his mind – one that distinctly sounded like Sam - warned him not to get too close. Dean knew the dangers. He still couldn't even believe this was happening. But in the end, he stayed with his dad, following him to the very end.

 

They both broke out of the alley onto another street. The two of them slowed to stop, pausing a minute to catch their breath, before easing into a relaxed walk. Neither said a word, and Dean didn't push the issue. He was content enough just to be near his father again. He wished he could hold onto the moment longer, to make their time together last forever. He pushed away all the conflicting thoughts he had, all the anger that kept wanting to bubble to the surface, and just walked with John, admiring his worn but determined face.

 

He never deserved to die. None of them deserved to die.

 

In the distance, Dean heard the wails of police sirens as they closed in on the area. He and John picked up their pace.

 

"This way," John said.

 

Up ahead, Dean saw his dad's Chevy Impala parked by the side of an old mill. Dean knew they looked far from inconspicuous - two men dressed in dark clothes walking in the middle of the night – but he hoped that they could slip by unnoticed until they could get away from the scene of the crime. 

 

John opened the driver's door and hopped into the car; the Impala hummed to life with her unmistakable purr. Dean stared at the car and hesitated.

 

"Get in," John told him.

 

As the police sirens wailed louder, Dean grabbed the handle, opened the door, and hopped inside. John tore away from the mill and started down the street, leaving the diner, the apartment, and the heart of the town behind.

 

*     *     *     *

 

Dean remained quiet as John drove away from the scene of the bogeyman's latest kidnapping. In the distance, he could still hear the police, and imagined the chaos as the officers and innocent bystanders tried to make sense of yet another child's mysterious disappearance. Dean seriously hated this thing right now.

 

John was the first to speak. "It won't show again for another day."

 

Dean nodded. He didn't doubt his dad's knowledge on this thing. He knew that John would be defeating the bogeyman in just a few days, so now they just had to wait and destroy the thing once it showed its ugly face.

 

"I checked the sewers," John said, continuing, "and some rundown abandoned buildings - the usual haunts. This thing isn't in ttown."

 

"So, what?" Dean asked. "You think it's wearing people's faces long enough to get out of Dodge and get to its den?"

 

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking."

 

That could be a problem, Dean thought. He knew that bogies could travel through shadow, disappearing and reappearing at will. But if the creep was posing as people in between, then it could be hiding out anywhere near the town.

 

At least Dean was confident they'd kill the bastard.

 

The car fell into another awkward silence. Dean fought the temptation to play with the stereo, trying to remind himself this wasn't his car, at least not yet. Instead, he started to hum under his breath, hoping the distraction was enough to keep the restlessness he felt from John's piercing sideways glances at bay.

 

It didn't.

 

"You sure I don't know your dad? You look familiar."

 

"No, sir."

 

John shot him another wary glance. "Where's your brother?"

 

Dean's eyes widened. He pushed back the sleeve of his jacket and fumbled to right his watch. He swore.

 

It was 12:15 am.

 

"Drop me off here," Dean blurted out, pointing to the side of the road.

 

John glared at him. "Excuse me?"

 

"Just drop me off." When John continued to drive without any indication of stopping, Dean sighed. "Look, my brother was supposed to pick me up."

 

"That's a sloppy plan." John shook his head and pulled over to the side of the road. "You boys should have a contingency plan. You go in smart, or you don't go in at all. Or else one of these days one of you'll get killed."

 

Dean swallowed hard and gave a quick nod. "I'll be careful. I promise."

 

He jumped out of the car, unable to look his father in the eye any longer, and bolted down the street. Right now, his main objective was to get to Sam and hope that he hadn't driven their weapon-loaded car right in the middle of a cop-filled hotspot.

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

"Oh, crap."

 

Sam slowed the Impala as he neared the diner. Police cruisers from the neighboring town and the local sheriff barricaded the road, while dozens of people surrounded the diner and its adjacent alley. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickled.

 

His thoughts immediately went to Dean. From his vantage point, he didn't see any of the cops escorting a cuffed man to the cruisers, and he didn't see any sign of struggle or a shoot out. The action could have gone down inside.

 

Sam shifted nervously in his seat. As he drove closer to the diner, he turned the car down a side street. If Dean hadn't been caught in whatever happened, he might be hiding out in the neighborhood. Sam hoped he could spot him without becoming an unwanted target himself.

 

He sighed. Cell phones would be really useful right now.

 

After a quick scan of the park and the surrounding buildings, Sam took another run around the next few blocks. He started to get worried. He knew that he couldn't keep circling the neighborhood without tipping someone off that he didn't belong. At the same time, he didn't want to think Dean had been arrested or worse.

 

Then, he saw him. Dean was booking it down the main street, his jacket flapping behind him as he ran. Sam guessed he was heading toward the vicinity of where the diner heist had gone down. With a turn of the wheel, Sam brought the Impala right onto the main road and drove straight toward Dean, meeting him head-on. If that didn't get his attention, nothing would.

 

Dean skidded to a stop, nearly losing his balance, before he darted to the side and jumped into the street. Sam slowed the car down to a point where Dean could grab the door and hop inside. As soon as Dean shut the door, Sam peeled out of the downtown area and headed for the motel he'd found at the edge of town.

 

When they eased into a comfortable ride and Dean caught his breath, Sam decided to finally broach the subject. "Did you get it?"

 

"I'm fine," Dean said. "Thanks for asking."

 

Sam rolled his eyes. "What happened?"

 

"I left the diner and saw the bogey in action. I went sniffing around but it'd already disappeared." He leaned over to flip the radio on, but Sam quickly turned it off. Dean snorted. "What gives?"

"Did they see you? The cops?"

 

Dean shook his head. "We got out of there before the cops came."

 

"We?"

 

"I got a ride from Dad."

 

Sam jerked his head. "What?"

 

Dean shrugged. "Nothing happened."

 

Sam clutched the steering wheel and shot Dean a fierce look. He didn't even know what or how to react to his brother's revelation. A mental image of time unraveling into mass chaos entered his mind all because he hadn't been there to make sure Dean didn't make some critical misstep with their past.

 

Finally, he pushed the image aside and focused on damage control. "You didn't blow our cover, did you?"

 

He saw Dean scowl. "Dude, give me some credit. He still thinks we're Joe or Frank or whatever generic name you picked." He paused. "And just who the hell are we?"

 

Sam kept his gaze focused on the road ahead. "The Hardy Boys," he said under his breath.

 

"We're posing as the – Oh that's nice. That's great." Dean glared at him. "Could you pick something any more lame?"

 

"No one will notice."

 

"I just better be the cool one."

 

Sam forced a smile and kept driving. He turned onto one of the side streets and checked the rearview mirror a couple of times to make sure they weren't being followed. From what he could tell, they seemed to be in the clear, but knowing they may have skirted disaster this time didn't make him feel any less anxious.

 

"We can't just be interacting with everyone and everything," Sam said. "We could impact the future. We have to lay low."

 

"Look, you said yourself that you think we're supposed to be here. What if we're supposed to be helping Dad?"

 

Sam sighed. It's not like he hadn't thought of that possibility himself. He knew that the chances of this all being a coincidence were low. They show up at a time when their dad worked with two strange hunters? Sam figured anyone could do the math on that one.

 

"We don't even know how often we're supposed to be in touch with Dad," Sam explained. "I only ever remember those hunters showing up a handful of times."

 

"Well, our memories are crap," Dean muttered. "If you hadn't gone and caught the flu and ruined it for us both, maybe we could've remembered better."

 

"That wasn't my fault," Sam said in defense. "But that's not important right now. This is exactly my point. We don't really know how much we should interact, how much we shouldn't. We don't know with who or what or even if our memories should be trusted. Dean, we just can't risk it."

 

"Risk what? By doing a little huntin' and helping Dad? We're in; we're out. By then you should have figured out how to get us back." Dean shrugged. "No harm done."

 

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You're up to something."

 

"Nah, you're just being paranoid."

 

"I know you, Dean." Sam searched his face, looking for any trace of what Dean could be thinking. Dean squirmed, but it was too late. His face betrayed him. Sam eyes widened. "No."

 

"We could end this now."

 

"You're not that stupid."

 

"Don't tell me you weren't thinking it."

 

"No."

 

"Think about it." Dean's eyes flashed with intensity, the same kind of spark Sam had long grown accustomed to whenever he became bent on some crazy plan. "We tell Dad and everything's fixed. No deals, no death. We could be ready for Yellow Eyes and none of this woulda ever happened."

 

"Something else could happen. Dean, this isn't going to fix anything. There's no guarantee. Dad could still die. I could die." He swallowed hard and stared into the darkness ahead. "You could still sell your soul. Nothing's set in stone."

 

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean scoffed beside him. "Coming from you? The one always whining, oh my destiny, oh poor me, destiny this and destiny that?"

 

"And you're the one that never wants to interfere with anything. What's the difference this time? Because of Dad?" As he turned onto the next street, he snuck a sidelong glance at his brother. "Dean, nothing we do is going to make our lives any better. You can't keep trying to chase some ideal that doesn't exist."

 

Dean didn't look at him. "What do you know? You don't know what I want."

 

"I know you well enough."

 

Dean muttered angrily and turned away, effectively ending the conversation. Sam was too cross and annoyed to persist. Neither one of them said anything else that night. When they reached the motel, Dean hopped out and slammed the door, storming immediately to their room. With a sigh, Sam turned off the engine, grabbed the charm box, and quietly followed him inside. He intended to pore over the materials as soon as possible and hoped that Dean's impulsive nature hadn't tossed a whole new set of problems at them.

 

 

*      *     *     *

 

The next morning, Sam woke up well before dawn to work on the charm box. Even though he barely had had three hours sleep, he wanted to work on figuring out the secrets of the box right away, rested or unrested. Dean's time was whittling away and he wasn't about to waste any more of that time on a case their dad was going to solve anyway.

 

Sam settled down in front of the motel's desk and slipped on his gloves as he examined the exterior of the silver box. By now, he recognized the embellishments and ornamentation were definitely lunar, and absolutely magical, with the middle engraving a pentacle of the moon. At least now he knew it definitely symbolized a form of travel locked inside the box.

 

Time travel had been the last form he had expected. Even so, Sam still felt strongly that this box was key in saving Dean. The rational side of his mind tried to explain to him it was nonsense, wishful thinking, but there was this small twinge deep in his gut that told him the box was critical. He wanted to believe in it. He wanted to believe more than anything.

 

Sam reached toward the box on the desk and paused long enough to shoot a wary glance at Dean. His brother was still asleep, sprawled across his bed, completely lost to the world, at least for appearances sake. Sam would take the moments of peace while he could.

 

Quietly, he opened the box and peeked inside. Everything remained where he'd last put them. He pressed his fingers against the side of the violet felt, checking once more to see if there were any additional secret pockets or items he might have missed. While the money was a pleasant and unexpected surprise, Sam wanted to make sure there were no other, nastier trinkets awaiting them.

 

When he was confident that the box was clean, Sam reached into the box, withdrew the talismans, and placed them on the table. This time he purposefully left the note inside the box to avoid the temptation of trying to decipher the spell. The last thing he needed was to activate the talismans again, without Dean or the Impala, and end up some place entirely different. While he wasn't even sure that could happen, Sam didn't want to take the chance.

 

And somehow, he knew that note was vital to the entire process. It popped in his memory, but the memory faded before he could hold onto it.

 

He turned his attention to the silver talismans. He knew the front engravings, with the Latin and magical symbols, were part of the charm of the talisman itself, likely linked to the lunar symbol on the front of the box. Unfortunately, all that told him was that the talismans were used in a travel incantation, but nothing more.

 

He flipped them over.

 

The symbols etched on the back had a serpent engraved in the shape of a circle, devouring it's own tail. When Sam had first looked at this symbol, he'd been positive he'd seen it before, but he couldn't place the memory. Even now, it escaped him.

 

All the years of occult knowledge swam through Sam's mind, but he still came up empty. He was glad Dean was asleep. He would have expected Sam to know it off the top of his head. While Sam was proud of the fact he could recall so much information easily, he wasn't in the mood for Dean's ribbing. Dean really had no idea how much Sam wanted this to work.

 

With a sigh, he grabbed his dad's journal and flipped through it, hoping to find some notation of the symbol. Sam wasn't sure how long he searched, flipping page after page, but finally he found a sketch that looked eerily similar to the talismans on the desk.

 

"Ouroboros," Sam whispered. The symbol of cyclicality and infinity. It made perfect sense.

 

If only the talisman could show him how to jump forward in time to where they had last been.

 

Sam frowned, tapping his entwined index fingers to his lips. He must be missing something.

 

He heard the rustling of sheets from the bed beside him. Sam glanced up to find a sandy-eyed Dean propped up on the mattress, squinting at him.

 

"Dude, how long you been doing that?"

 

Sam looked over his shoulder. To his surprise, sunlight streamed through the blinds of the motel window. Sam glanced down at his watch. He hadn't realized what time it was.

 

"You heard of sleep?" Dean mumbled.

 

"Sleep is for the weak."

 

"Sleep is..." Dean's voice trailed off as his face frowned with thought. Finally, he just slipped off the bed, grabbed his jeans and pulled them on before he walked away. "You're…weak," he mumbled over his shoulder.

 

Sam chuckled and shook his head. Dean stumbled past him to the bathroom, leading Sam to believe maybe he wasn't fully awake yet. He went back to studying the talismans as Dean turned on the faucet.

 

He didn't understand the significance of two separate yet identical talismans. He didn't understand why they had landed in this particular place and time. There had to be a reason for the travel to be so precise.

 

Sam heard the faucet snap shut. He glanced up to find Dean wiping his face, ready and prepared to leave.

 

Sam frowned. "Where are you going?"

 

"I'm gonna grab some coffee. You want something?"

 

"After what happened last night, maybe you should lay low for a while," Sam said.

 

Dean rolled his eyes and tossed the towel back into the bathroom. "I was careful."

 

"That's not what I meant."

 

"You mean Dad?" Dean asked. "You think I'm gonna tail him."

 

"Dean, I'm not stupid. I know you want to see him."

 

Dean didn't reply, but his face remained hard and dark.

 

Sam sat back in his chair and tried to soften his face. "I miss him, too. I do. But we can't keep seeing him. We don't know what kind of impact it will have."

 

"Dude," Dean muttered, wiping his face. "Lay off the Doc Brown stuff. It's not you."

 

Sam glared at him. He wasn't about to get caught in Dean's deflecting game. "You know, Dean, no matter what you try to do, it could backfire or make things worse," he said. "There's a theory out there that time will realign itself to make sure things happen the way they are meant to happen."

 

"Well, maybe we're here to fix things so they do happen the way they should."

 

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. "We don't know that."

 

"We were here."

 

"I know."

 

"Then what the hell? What are you afraid of?"

 

Sam's face darkened. Dean couldn't understand. He wouldn't be able to understand. Sam had a distinct sense of déjà vu, a sense that they had done this over and over. The feeling was pure, thoughtful and deep, without panic or an impeding sense of doom. It was like they belonged in this pattern. He felt there was a power here that allowed a never-ending flow of repetition, but within the rightful course of history. Like a circle.

 

Like the ouroboros.

 

It was a feeling Dean would never understand. Sam knew if he told him, Dean would pull back, would look at him like he was a freak. He would diminish whatever they were here to do.

 

Sam was sure of it.

 

He stared at the talismans.

 

Beside him, he heard Dean mutter and let out a loud sigh. "What about the box?" he asked.

 

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

 

"What about the box, Sammy?"

 

Sam pulled off the gloves and slapped them on the table. "I haven't figured it out yet."

 

"So, the Magic Bus into Oz only had a one-way ticket."

 

"I doubt it." He snuck a glance at Dean through the corner of his eye. "Though, it's hard to concentrate when I'm interrupted every five seconds."

 

"No need to get all huffy about it." Dean moved out of his line of sight, heading to the door. "You keep working at it, Sherlock. I'm starving." He heard Dean grab his keys and open the door.

 

"Just don't…don't go find Dad," Sam said without turning to face him. "Please."

 

There was a long pause behind him. "He won't be hunting much today. Dad said the bogeyman won't show for another day."

 

Sam looked over his shoulder to Dean. "And?"

 

"And what?"

 

"Why?"

 

"I dunno. Dad said it won't show, so it won't show. I don't need to know why."

 

Sam set his jaw. Sometimes he didn't think his brother would ever change.

 

By the look in Dean's eyes, he knew what was Sam was thinking, but shrugged it off. Dean shut the door behind him, leaving Sam alone to figure out the workings of the box. Maybe at least he could have some peace and quiet so he could concentrate, but there were still some nagging doubts pressing him over letting Dean leave.

 

He just needed to focus and not let his anxiety get the better of him.

 

He sighed and reached for his gloves. Sam was just about to start to study the talismans in more detail when he heard the door fly open and slam shut.

 

Concerned, Sam turned around and stared at Dean. His eyes were wide, his face pale.

 

"What?"

 

"I just saw…us."

 

Sam rose to his feet. "What? Dad is staying here? At this motel?"

 

Dean took a heavy step toward Sam. "What? You two share a brain or something?"

 

He hadn't known John was staying at this motel. Sam had purposefully found a motel at the outskirts of town so they could stay away from the action. He hadn't anticipated their dad would use the same reasoning.

 

"You know, you two are more alike then you'd ever wanna admit." He shook his head and grabbed his keys again.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"To get some grub and move the car," Dean said. "You think Dad's not going to put two and two together when he sees us driving around in her?" He gave Sam a pointed look. "Happy?"

 

Sam nodded for Dean to go. He didn't want to remind Dean that Dad might have already figured the whole thing out, but at least he was comforted in the fact that Dean seemed to have dropped the idea to reveal themselves to John. Now if he could convince him to lay low until they had a better idea of what their purpose might be, they should make it through without damaging time too much.

 

He stood by the door and watched Dean peel out of the parking lot. He sighed. So much for keeping a low profile.

 

Sam waited by the doorway, leaning against the frame to allow the cool air to invigorate his senses. He cherished the peaceful moment for what it was worth, permitting himself to let his mind go and enjoy the early morning. He almost felt as if time was standing still here, as if they could stay here indefinitely and hide from the looming catastrophe that awaited Dean in the future.

 

He knew that they couldn't run from it. He knew that time kept ticking. He knew that if he didn't try harder, he would lose Dean.

 

That didn't mean he couldn't dream. And today, he dreamed the answer to all their troubles was just beyond his fingertips, waiting to be discovered.

 

*     *     *     *

 

Several minutes had passed before Sam decided to leave the cold morning air and venture back into the room. He wanted to squeeze in as much study time as possible before Dean came back.

 

He started into the room when he something flashed just beyond his vision. Sam stopped and leaned back out of the door.

 

On the opposite side of the stretch of motel rooms, on a wing that formed the "L" of the building, Sam caught sight of a little boy peeking out of a window. He seemed to capture a mix of boredom and curiosity.

 

Their eyes met.

 

It was him.

 

Sam swallowed hard as he stared at his younger self, watching as Dean quickly drew the curtain, effectively cutting the contact. He could see their shadows beyond the curtain, moving fiercely, small hands flying. He and Dean were probably arguing, likely fighting.

 

Despite himself, he smiled remembering those days when life seemed easier, simpler. Those were the days when his biggest fears were finding worms in his pasta or whatever

other tricks Dean had chosen for the week. Those were the days that even though he feared for his dad's life and the monsters he fought, he had been comforted by Dean's assurance that Dad would always come home.

 

Now he was caught in the middle of a demon war, his father gone, and his brother doomed.

 

The smile faded and Sam rubbed his arms, finally feeling just how cold and bitter the morning had become. He turned to enter his room when he suddenly stopped short.

 

John was standing behind him.

 

"It's not what it looks like," Sam said.

 

"What does it look like?" John asked.

 

"That my partner and I are stalking you and your children."

 

He nodded. "That's about right."

 

Sam let out a nervous chuckle. "We picked a motel out of the way. We're not staying in town long."

 

John cocked his head, his scrutinizing gaze burning through Sam. Then, he gave a short nod. "That's a good strategy. It's one I use when I'm just passing through."

 

"Yeah, I'd almost forgotten."

 

He frowned. "What?"

 

Sam felt his face warm. "That…hunters tend to use that strategy in case a hunt goes bad."

 

John's intense gaze never broke. "I thought you and your partner-brother were working the bogey case? You're skipping town already?"

 

Sam forced a weak smile. He and Dean were going to need to have a chat on what their cover story was if they were going to be stuck here for a while. However, he wasn't going to beat around the bush with this one. Sam could tell his father knew there was more going on than they wanted to admit.

 

"To be honest, I didn't want to take this case," he said. "I'd rather be working a different one."

 

"Yeah. Sometimes you just fall into them."

 

Sam frowned. "There's a another one you'd rather be working."

 

John gave a solemn nod. "Yeah, there is."

 

The pain in John's eyes, in his voice, was enough to make Sam stop cold. John was still trying to figure out what happened in Lawrence, Kansas all those years ago.

 

Sam could tell him. He could easily let a bit of information slide that would nudge John in the right direction. He had the power to change so much.

 

Which was precisely the reason why Sam knew he couldn't get too close. The temptation was too strong.

 

"This other thing you're working on, it's important isn't it?" John asked.

 

Sam nodded. "It's everything."

 

They both fell silent. Sam knew neither of them had to speak. There was an understanding between them, silent but profound, that not only spoke volumes here and now, but across the years. Maybe Dean was right. Maybe the two of them were more alike then they ever wanted to admit. Maybe even now over a year after John's death.

 

"My boys," John finally said, pointing to the distant motel room. "I didn't want this for them. I'm sure your dad didn't want it either."

 

Sam shifted his weight, trying to keep his composure cool. "I don't know what you mean."

 

"You're a smart one, I can tell. Don't play dumb," John said. " Our conversation the other day. I overheard you in the diner. Your father, the hunter? Sixteen years ago. That'd make you around my boys' age."

 

Sam felt his throat run dry.

 

"Bogies don't hit the same town twice." His eyes darkened. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

 

Sam set his jaw, trying to bite back the burn in his face. He knew no matter what he said John wouldn't believe him. His father could easily see through the lies; the truth was not an option. Silence was the only thing he could afford now.

 

John just shook his head. "If you and your friend want to work this case, that's fine. Just stay away from my family."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

John started back toward the motel room. As Sam watched him go, he knew now more than ever that he had to figure out how to reverse the effects of the talismans. But there was something he had to know first.

 

"Tell me something."

 

John stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Yeah."

 

"You told my partner that the bogey wouldn't show for another day. Why?"

 

"You want to know?"

 

Sam nodded.

 

"The bogey only harvests every other day. Once it's sure the harvest was successful, it strikes again."

 

Sam frowned. "Harvest?"

 

John glared at him. "Didn't you do your research?"

 

"We didn't know that part," Sam said quietly.

 

He sighed. "It's past twelve hours since they've been taken. After that..." John shook his head. "The children can't be saved. They've already been changed."

 

Sam's eyes widened. John gave him a short nod, a knowing look, before he started back toward his room.

 

Changed. The bogeymen weren't just kidnapping children for fun. They were taking the children to spawn their own DNA.

 

For reasons Sam didn't entirely understand, that information changed everything. His mind set with determination, he turned back to the motel room and shut the door.

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

When Dean returned, he found Sam seated in front of his bed, a half dozen papers across the sheets. Dean was positive he saw maps, charts, old newspapers, and Dad's journal.

 

He stood in the doorway, coffees in hand, and stared for a moment. "Huh," he finally said.

 

"Oh, you're back." Sam hopped to his feet to oversee his work. "I've been mapping a pattern of the places the bogeyman struck, and I've noticed that each child who has been kidnapped lived right off the main street that runs through town."

 

Dean eyed him closely. "Oh yeah?"

 

Sam reached over and grabbed a cup from Dean's hand and turned back to the maps. "It must be waiting right outside of the city."

 

"Yeah, Dad figured that out." Slowly, he moved toward the bed. He tilted his head to double-check the calculations, and dammit, it looked like Sam was right on the money.

 

He felt Sam's eyes on him. "What?"

 

"I thought you'd be more excited," Sam said.

 

"It's fabulous. You're a regular bogey tracker."

 

"So…"

 

"Why all of a sudden are you digging this case?"

 

Sam looked away, stopping to pick at the edge of one of the papers. "It's just important."

 

Dean let out a heavy sigh. Please let it not be psychic crap, he thought to himself.

 

With a shake of his head, Dean leaned over the bed and picked up their dad's journal with his free hand. Sam had it opened to the entry on bogeymen. From what he could tell, there wasn't a whole lot of information to go on – just the standard lore. Kids, closets, soot: nothing new.

 

Dean tossed the journal on the bed and stepped back to ease himself into an extra chair. "Shoot," he told Sam.

 

"Well, you know the lore. Bogeymen mainly aim for children and only hunt adults to feed off their body heat. With the kids, they sneak into naughty children's rooms and kidnap them. Most people think it's just a scare tactic to make kids behave."

 

"Poor bastards don't know it's true until it's too late," Dean mumbled into the cup.

 

"Right. But it's worse."

 

"Worse?" His head bobbed. "How is it worse?"

 

"Dean, these kids aren't just being dragged off somewhere. They're being changed," Sam said. "That is how the bogeymen reproduce."

 

Dean stared at him. That had to be one of the most twisted things he'd ever heard, and he'd heard a lot. Just imagining the slimy bogey dragging off innocent kids and turning them made him angry. No choice. No will. And then, poof, their humanity was gone.

 

He wiped his face. "That explains why they can pass as human for a while. I wonder what our window is."

 

"Twelve hours."

 

Dean looked up at him and frowned. "Where'd you find that out? That wasn't in Dad's journal."

 

Sam didn't reply. He didn't need to; Dean could see right through him. In Sam's defiant eyes, he saw all he needed to know.

 

"Oh, you didn't." Dean slammed the cup down. "Dammit, double standard, Sam?"

 

"He bumped into me," Sam explained. "I didn't plan it. So why don't you get your facts straight before you go accusing me."

 

"It's not like I planned bumping into Dad last night, either."

 

Sam shrugged. "So, we're even."

 

"Is that why you're so interested? Because of Dad?" He cocked his head and made a face. "That doesn't sound familiar."

 

"Okay, Dean. I get it. And no, it doesn't have to do with Dad." Sam let out a deep breath. "I just think it's important."

 

"Oh this is some of that freak psychic crap."

 

"Stop calling it that," Sam snapped.

 

That was perfect. Just when Sam was starting to be normal again, they would have to deal with demonic psychic powers. He had hoped that would have been gone once and for all.

 

"It's not," Sam told him. "It's not that at all. I just can't explain it yet."

 

Dean frowned and leaned forward, an idea striking him. "Are you remembering something from when we were here last time?"

 

"Maybe. I'm having massive déjà vu."

 

"How come I'm not?"

 

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "But you have to just trust me on this. If you don't, I think something terrible is going to happen."

 

"Time come undone? Catastrophic paradox?"

 

"Something like that."

 

Dean tried to pull up any old memories. They were spotty at best. He remembered their dad working a case on a bogeyman and firmly telling them to keep the closets secure. He thought he remembered their dad slipping in and out every other day, coming home in the wee hours looking exhausted and discouraged. He remembered some flashes of memory of the two hunters that helped on the case. Then, he and Sam got sick while their dad killed the bogey, and they left town.

 

He tapped at his own coffee cup as he watched Sam finish his. He wasn't too keen on all this déjà vu stuff, just like he'd about had it with all the sneaking around. While he appreciated the need to keep the time line in tact, or whatever physics crap dictated they be careful, he wanted to cut straight to the heart of the matter and take a direct approach. He didn't exactly have time to waste on sneaking around.

 

And with the news about the kids in the mix…

 

"Maybe we should just tell Dad," he said.

 

Sam tossed the empty cup in the trash and let out an exasperated sigh. "Dean, we went over this."

 

"Dad deals with weirdo stuff all the time. We tell him we're from the future." He shrugged. "Worked for Marty."

 

Sam glared at him.

 

He fished through his pockets, threw a couple of Twinkies on the table, and held up a small folded piece of paper. "I can just slip it in his pocket when he's not looking and—"

 

Sam marched over and grabbed the note from his hands. Before Dean had a chance to snatch it back, Sam had already stormed into the bathroom, lit a match, and placed the note over the flame. Dean jumped to his feet and ran after Sam, but it was too late. He watched the paper smolder into ashes in the sink.

 

"Dude!"

 

"You can't tell Dad! It's bad enough that he's already suspicious."

 

"Well, what do you expect with us sneaking around all the time?" Dean asked.

 

"Look, I told you," Sam said. "We have to be careful."

 

"Well, if you'd figure out the damn box, we could go home and avoid this mess."

 

"It's not like you've been a very big help."

 

Dean glared at him. "Fine. Sure, I'll just go downtown and pick up a flux capacitor."

 

"Dude, enough with the Back to the Future references." Sam eyed him closely, his eyes darkening. "And now you're so eager to leave? What about the case?"

 

Dean didn't want to talk about the how and why. He didn't want to tell Sam how much it was killing him. He didn't want to admit that every moment they stayed here, the harder it was for him to concentrate.

 

He looked to the ground. "I'm just saying, Sammy. First you want us to hole up in a motel room and get home. Then suddenly you're all over the case and wanting to stay. That's enough to tell me something's up, and whatever it is, it can't be good."

 

"I told you. We need to be here. Just a little bit longer. Trust me, Dean. It's important that we keep—" Sam's voice cut off and his eyes widened.

 

The panic alarm in Dean immediately went off. "What?" he asked, frowning. He took a step towards Sam. "What's the matter?"

 

"You're in your car."

 

Dean spun around. Through the opening in the window, Dean saw himself sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, rummaging through the glove compartment.

 

"Son of a bitch!" No friggin' way was he going to let him steal from himself.

 

Dean marched over to the door and swung it open, determined to get to his baby before Sam came up with some lame excuse to stop him.

 

He froze.

 

Little Sammy stared up at him.

 

Dammit.

 

*     *     *     *

 

The little version of Sam was exactly how Dean remembered him: scrawny, but steady on his feet, a little fearful, but determined. He stared up at Sam and Dean, his resolute face unwavering.

 

Dean stared back.

 

"I'm Sam," the younger version of his brother said.

 

"I'm…Frank," Dean said, hoping his voice didn't sound too unsure. He motioned over his shoulder. "That's Joe."

 

Little Sam frowned. "The Hardy Boys?"

 

Dean's face went blank. So much for no one noticing.

 

"I guess we're kinda like them," Dean said with a smile. "There's no doubt I'm the cool one."

 

Little Sam snorted.

 

The smile faded from Dean's face. This time he looked over his shoulder and shot Sam a hard glare. Sam gave him a sheepish smile and shrugged.

 

He was so picking the names next time.

 

When he turned back to the younger Sam, he noticed the kid was quietly searching the room.

 

"You're the hunters working with my dad," Little Sam said more than asked.

 

Dean exchanged an uneasy look with Sam. He just knew that Sam was probably ready to explode underneath his cool exterior and mutter some non-interference nonsense. Though, part of Dean hoped Sam was freaked out by coming face to face with himself. He seemed to be taking this whole time travel business a little too well for Dean's liking.

 

"Yeah, we're working a case," Dean said. "What're you doing here?"

 

The younger Sam shrugged. He looked to Sam's bed before his gaze found Dean again. "Hey, my dad has a jacket just like that."

 

Dean tore off the leather jacket and slung it over his chair. He glanced back at his Sam and gave him a pointed look. "Jump in anytime."

 

Sam shifted his weight and took a step forward to engage himself while Dean darted out of the room to head to his car. From behind him he heard Sam talking, but Dean blocked it out to concentrate on what his younger self was doing.

 

He slid against the side of the Impala and rested his arms on the passenger side window. Inside, he saw himself flipping through his cassette tapes.

 

"Hey," Dean said. "No snurching the Zeppelin."

 

His younger self froze and for a brief second had that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. Dean frowned. If this is what he looked like whenever he got caught red-handed, then no wonder everyone always knew when he was lying. How embarrassing.

 

"I was just looking," the kid mumbled.

 

"Yeah right." Dean opened the door. "Out."

 

His younger self let out a heavy sigh and jumped out of the car onto the walkway. Dean shut the door behind him.

 

And stared.

 

He totally didn't know what to do. Staring at your skinny little ass self had to be the weirdest thing ever.

 

"What're you doing out here?" Dean asked.

 

Little Dean shrugged. "I was bored."

 

"You should be inside with the door locked, looking after your brother."

 

"God, you sound like my dad," he said with disgust. "I don't need to be told. I know what my job is."

 

Dean had nothing to say to that.  With a sigh, he rubbed his mouth and tried to think of another approach.

 

"Shouldn't you be waiting for your dad?" he asked, this time making sure he kept his tone softer.

 

Little Dean shrugged. "He'll be gone all day. He won't even notice."

 

The words stung Dean harder than he thought they would. He recoiled slightly, disturbed by the timber in his younger voice. After a moment, he coughed and turned away, feeling the sudden need to check the oil in his car.

 

"You should listen to your dad," Dean muttered as he popped the hood. "He's only doing what's best for you."

 

"He said to stay with Sammy." His younger self nudged his head toward the motel room. "I'm with Sammy."

 

Little wiseass, Dean thought to himself. He stuck his head under the hood and started randomly checking parts of the engine. Maybe if he ignored himself long enough, he'd just go away.

 

"My dad has a car just like this."

 

"Yeah, it's amazing. What a coincidence."

 

Dean stiffened when he realized the other him was leaning in closer. "So you're really a hunter?"

 

He skirted away and checked the windshield wiper fluid. "Yeah. It's part of the family business."

 

"You must meet a lot of chicks."

 

Despite himself, Dean let out a chuckle. He glanced over to himself and smiled. "Flash 'em those pearly whites and they just can't say no."

 

His younger self scowled. "I'm good with girls. I don't need advice."

 

Dean had to keep from rolling his eyes. He seriously hoped he didn't always come off this way.

 

"Well, here's a tip for you. Not advice, but just something between you and me." He patted the grill of the Impala, his grin widening. "The chicks really dig the car. And flattery. That'll get you everywhere."

 

His younger self shrugged the advice off, but Dean could see the acceptance in his eyes. That's when Dean realized he was having a conversation with himself, which was just wrong on so many freaky psychological levels.

 

"So, have you killed lots of things?" he heard himself ask suddenly.

 

"Yeah."

 

"So's my dad." Little Dean beamed. "He's the best."

 

Dean swallowed hard and gave a curt nod. "Yeah, there's no one else like him."

 

"You've heard of him before?"

 

Dean gave a sad smile. "You bet."

 

"One day, I'm going to show him how great I am. He'll see. He'll be proud."

 

"He'll be real proud," Dean whispered.

 

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, squeezing back the pain that threatened to well to the surface. He didn't have time for this kind of crap. What was done was done.

 

Dean exhaled and straightened himself. He shook his head, clearing it, as he shut the hood. He walked to the trunk and opened it, grabbing a cover for the car. "Wanna help me?"

 

Younger Dean frowned. "Why? It's a nice day."

 

"Gotta take care of my baby."

 

Dean grabbed the cover and swept it across the top of the Impala. His younger self helped fasten the ends. Once the cover was secure over the Impala, Dean took a step back to examine their work. No way did it hide the fact there was a classic car sitting underneath it, but at least it wasn't as obvious as before. They didn't need John taking a good long look at their car only to find it really was his car. That would unlock all kinds of crazy.

 

Not that having a heart-to-heart with yourself wasn't crazy enough. He glanced over to his younger self who in turn looked at him with a bright smile and shining eyes.

 

Dean shuddered. Hopefully, Sam had managed to convince himself to go back to the motel room since Dean doubted he'd be able to ditch himself any time soon.

 

 

*     *     *     *

 

 

"Uh, you shouldn't really be here," Sam said.

 

His younger self blew off the comment and walked into the room. Already, Sam could see that he was soaking in the scenery, cataloguing everything in his mind. Sam never knew if it was his natural inclination towards order, or if it was borne out of the need to understand a world his father and brother had kept closed to him.

 

His younger self stopped at the bed and leaned over the maps. "Are you tracking the monster?"

 

"We're trying."

 

He nodded and sat at the edge of the bed, looking over the different materials Sam had been studying. Then, his gaze fell to one item in particular – Dad's journal.

 

Sam intercepted the journal before his other self could, but the damage was already done. The younger Sam stared at him and the journal, waiting for an explanation.

 

"It's private," Sam explained.

 

"It looks just like my dad's." His eyes flashed with a twinge of darkness. "Did you steal it?"

 

"No, no it's just..." Sam looked down at the brown leather bound journal and sighed. "We carry around a book with information so we always have it handy."

 

"Do all hunters have them?"

 

"I guess," Sam said. It wasn't an answer he really knew. He assumed all hunters had to carry something with them. Not everyone could have a library like Bobby.

 

His younger self let out an aggravated sigh as he slumped his shoulders. While he fingered the newspapers and documents on the bed, Sam took the opportunity to toss their dad's journal in Dean's duffle and peek out the window.

 

The hood of the Impala obscured Dean's head, but Sam could tell by the way he was tilted that he was talking. So was the younger Dean.

 

He sighed. He just hoped Dean wasn't spilling too much information.

 

As he tried to quell his own anxiety, Sam returned his attention to his younger self. His body went numb.

 

The box was wide open. By its side sat Little Sam, propped up between the bed and the desk, clutching one of the talismans in his small hand.

 

Sam reacted immediately. He charged across the room in two long strides, snapped on one of the gloves from the table, and tore the talisman from the other him's hand. Without a second thought, he dumped it into the box and slammed it shut.

 

His younger self fell silent and inched back. Sam didn't miss the look of terror in his young face, even in its brevity.

 

"I'm sorry," Sam said as he slumped into his chair. "I just – it could be dangerous. Are you okay? No tingling?"

 

The younger Sam scowled. "No. What was it?"

 

"It's nothing."

 

He let out a heavy sigh. "No one tells me anything."

 

Sam fell silent. As he studied himself, he felt as if he was looking into a mirror. He knew that look, the look of pain, of anger, of feeling isolated and cut off. Sam had spent a good part of his life in the dark, and somehow despite the risks, he realized he just couldn't help perpetuate that never-ending cycle of seclusion.

 

"You found out about all of this recently, didn't you?"

 

The younger Sam frowned. "How did you know?"

 

"I can tell. I think we're a lot alike." When his younger self's frown deepened, Sam continued. "I was left in the dark for a long time, and when I found out I didn't know what to do. I just wanted us to be normal."

 

The younger Sam nodded, but there seemed to be a new appreciation in his face, even some relief despite the concern mirrored in his eyes. "My dad fights monsters," he said quietly. "One day, the monsters might get him. They might get Dean and me."

 

Sam gave a nod, trying not to think of all he'd lost and all he would be losing. "I know. That's why you have to keep an eye on them. At least for now."

 

He nodded again. "I know."

 

Sam exhaled. He couldn't believe what he was about to do. He glanced over to the box and with a sigh, he dragged it across the table and pulled the chair in. His younger self, understanding what was about to happen, crowded in closer and leaned over, spying inside the velvet interior.

 

"We're not sure how it works, but we know there is magic involved," he explained. "My partner and I have been trying to figure it out, but that was before we found out about the bogeyman in town."

 

It wasn't a full truth, but it was enough to satisfy himself in more ways than one.

 

"I'm not sure what it does exactly," Sam said. "But I think it might be able to help someone I know."

 

"But the bogeyman has to come first?" he asked.

 

"Yes." Sam closed the box. "That's why we want to help your dad."

 

The younger Sam nodded and finally gave him a smile. "Thanks."

 

Sam couldn't help but smile to himself as he pushed the box back against the wall. All he wanted when he was younger was for someone to treat him like an adult, like a person, and not some ghost waiting on the outside, peering into a world that was everywhere yet unreachable.

 

He had just wanted some honesty.

 

Sam heard the door creak behind him. When he turned his head, he watched Dean walk inside followed by his much shorter counterpart. The exasperated look on his face told Sam everything.

 

Sam just shook his head in response.

 

Dean slapped his hands against his side in frustration. "Okay, you two should go—"

 

"All right! Twinkies!" Dean's younger self walked over to the table by the window and leaned over the junk food.

 

Sam turned to Dean and raised his eyebrows.

 

"My breakfast," Dean muttered. He sighed and nodded for the younger to take one. "You want one?" he asked Sam's young counterpart.

 

The younger Sam shook his head. Sam and Dean watched him patter off to meet his brother and settle down at the table.

 

"This is beyond weird," Dean said as he came to stand beside Sam.

 

"Tell me about it," Sam mumbled. He crossed his arms, suddenly feeling a little unnerved at how the younger Dean kept looking at the older Dean. "You know, maybe you had more than one role model growing up."

 

"Shut up."

 

Sam smiled and looked back at the table. They were watching themselves, sixteen years younger, pick on each other. It was a comforting and oddly wrong feeling all wrapped into one, like pulling out a forgotten memory and turning it inside out, so that the participant became the observer while still living in the moment. Sam wondered if an out-of-body experience was something like that.

 

"We have to get rid of them," Sam said quietly.

 

"Yeah, sure. I'll just punch them out and take them back to their room. Sure Dad would love that."

 

Sam glared at him. "We keep running into ourselves and Dad more and more and I don't think it's a good idea."

 

"Well what the hell are we supposed to do? It's not our fault—what?"

 

Sam stopped listening to Dean and stared at the doorway. Standing between the frame appeared a very angry John Winchester.

 

Dean let out a nervous laugh. "This looks bad."

 

"We can explain this," Sam added.

 

But John wasn't speaking to them. His attention kept diverting to their younger selves seated at the table. Based on the blank looks on their faces, they knew they were in trouble.

 

"I thought I told you to stay in the motel room."

 

"We wanted to come see your friends," Little Sam said.

 

"Go to the room," John said. "Now."

 

The young Sam and Dean scrambled away from the table and slipped out the door. Sam caught them giving one last wistful stare through the window before they started running toward the motel room down the strip.

 

That left Sam and Dean to face their irate father.

 

"I warned you to stay away from my boys."

 

"They came to us," Dean said.

 

Sam shook his head, warning Dean not to go there.

 

"You poke around my car. You show up at one of the bogey's kidnappings. You follow me to my motel, and now you're with my kids." John took a menacing step forward. "I don't want you near us."

 

"Look, we don't want anything to do with your children," Sam said. "We're just here working a job."

 

"I don't care if you're hunters. Family's family. I want you gone tomorrow or I'm calling the cops."

 

Through the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean shift his weight nervously. "Yes, sir," he muttered.

 

But Sam couldn't take the threat lightly. Dean might be off his game, but they still had a job to do. They still had a reason for being here. Sam couldn't let go of the fact that they had appeared in a spot that they had been to sixteen years ago. Something had cemented them to this time and place. They couldn't leave. Not yet.

 

"And what are you going to say?" Sam stepped in front of Dean and stared John in the eyes. "How are you going to explain why your children aren't in school right now? Or how you leave them alone during the day?"

 

"Sam!" Dean hissed under his breath.

 

John's eyes darkened. "Are you threatening me?"

 

"I'm just leveling the field," he said evenly. "We're here. You're here. We don't have to like each other, but we all want the same thing in the end. We want that bogeyman dead."

 

Sam wasn't sure if he had gotten through to John or not, but he thought he saw a slight softening in his eyes. "I want you to stay away," he said, pointing his finger. "Just stay away from my family."

 

John backed out the room and started down the walkway. Sam and Dean stood in silence as they watched him disappearing into the room at the end of the motel. Once he was gone, Sam felt a hard slap to his shoulder.

 

"Oh that was fantastic," Dean muttered. "Good job at the low profile thing."

 

"It will give us some space," Sam said. At least he hoped it would. Sam needed some time to think and consider what he might be missing in this giant puzzle. He had a feeling that if he couldn't pull the threads of the mystery of the box and the bogeyman together, then something terrible was going to happen. And with time wasting away, he couldn't afford to wait.

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

That night Dean stayed by the window. Every few minutes he would lean over the table and push back the curtain to peek outside. He couldn't really see anything aside from a shadow or two as they passed across the shrouded window in John's room. He knew that the younger versions of themselves had to still be getting chewed out by their dad.

 

He also knew he was driving his Sam crazy.

 

"Dude, will you relax?"

 

Dean lifted the curtain again. "I am relaxed."

 

"You've been sitting there most of the day," Sam said. He turned sideways in his chair, away from the desk, to stare at Dean. "Do you know how creepy that looks?"

 

"No creepier than you playing with that box all day."

 

Sam shook his head. "Well, at least I'm being productive."

 

"I'm productive," he said with a frown.

 

"No, you're sulking," Sam said.

 

"Am not."

 

Sam let out an aggravated sigh and turned back to the box. Dean knew he was alternating between deciphering the Latin on the paper and studying the talismans. And while he knew that Sam was being careful, Dean was still nervous that in the blink of an eye, he might go poof and even up in the middle of the Civil War. The box had some serious mojo, and for all the hunts they'd been on, Dean still felt uneasy around something that could hold that much power.

 

Plus, he had to admit Sam's obsessive fascination with it didn't help none. He didn't have a clue why Sam would be so convinced that a stupid puzzle box was the key to saving him.

 

But he didn't have time to think about that right now. He pulled back the curtain and tried to steal another glimpse of their dad.

 

He figured his dad would do one of three things. One, he would wait until he and Sam left somewhere and would break into their room and search the joint. If they never left the room, then he'd quietly observe from afar, just waiting for his opportunity to strike. Finally, if only one of them left the motel room, then he'd tail that person, waiting to get them alone and spring to attack.

 

Since the third option would inevitably happen, he was banking on John to choose that one.

 

That meant he was going to be stuck with Sam in a small motel room for the night.

 

God help him.

 

Dean spent the next couple of hours poring over the paperwork Sam had accumulated on the case. All afternoon he had picked at Sam's work, going over the places the bogey had hit and possible locations for where it was hiding. But no matter how hard he focused on the paperwork, he just couldn't concentrate. He still couldn't concentrate.

 

Instead, he just kept seeing the image of his younger self munching on a Twinkie while the younger Sam babbled on about something. The image made him feel warm, and he longed to go back to those days when all he had to do was whatever his dad told him and his biggest concern was to make sure Sam was okay. While that had never changed, the stakes were higher now, more complicated, and with his time running out, he couldn't afford these distractions.

 

"Dean."

 

Dean leaned back in his seat and turned his head, finding Sam watching him. "What?"

 

"You're staring."

 

"I am?"

 

"Yeah." Sam's face puckered with concern. "Are you okay?"

 

Dean gazed at the map in front of him. The biggest places outside of town were some old farm ruins and a mineshaft, both of which he knew his dad would have already checked. The thing had to be close by, but he couldn't think of any other dank dark place the bogey could hide.

 

"Dean."

 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," he muttered. "I'm just trying to make sense of this." He sighed. "Did we look sick to you? Like the flu or something?"

 

Sam shook his head. "No, I was wondering about that. Maybe we get sick later."

 

"Yeah." Whatever it was, Dean didn't like it.

 

"Why don't you go take a drive and see what you can find?" Sam asked.

 

"Can't. Dad's watching us." He rubbed his eyes. "Besides, aren't you the one that keeps blasting me for going out?"

 

"Yeah, but it's hard to get work done when you keep muttering to yourself." Sam paused. "Dad's watching us?"

 

Dean didn't look up from the map, but tapped the window glass to make his point. "After your little outburst, no way is he taking his eyes off us. He's waiting for one of us to leave."

 

Sam collapsed into the back of his chair. "That complicates things."

 

"Ya think?" He scrubbed his face and sighed. "This thing is going to hit again tomorrow if we don't figure out where it's hiding."

 

"Why don't you work on it in the morning?" Sam offered. "You look beat."

 

"I'm not beat." Dean forced himself to sit up a little straighter. He knew the answer was right here staring him in the face. He just couldn't see it. Dean thought he was doing pretty well on this case considering he wasn't cheating like Sam was with his déjà vu vibes.

 

He heard Sam start to protest behind him, but Dean did his best to block it out. He grabbed his dad's journal and opened it up to the page on bogeymen and resolved to find some answers before the night was done.

 

 

*     *     *     *

 

Dean had fallen asleep hours ago. Sam let him stay sprawled out over the maps and documents, not in the mood to bother him or get into an argument. He just hoped Dean didn't drool too much and ruin all of his hard work.

 

He sighed as he glanced back at Dean. He knew this whole case was taxing him. His brother didn't seem to realize that it hurt Sam too, but for whatever reason everything seemed to strike Dean faster and harder. Sam had learned long ago that Dean could function and get the job done despite the raw emotion their job brought, yet he was having serious doubts about that ability this time around. Seeing Dad was too much. It just was too much for either of them to handle for very long.

 

That was why Sam felt so torn. On the one hand, he knew that he needed to unlock the puzzle around the charm box, but on the other hand, he still felt this inescapable pressure to remain here in the past just a little longer or else the consequences would be disastrous.

 

He didn't know how he knew this. In fact, he was starting to doubt it was déjà vu and worried that Dean was right: his powers were creeping back in again.

 

Sam shook his head. That answer didn't feel right. It was something else. Something was happening that he just hadn't discovered yet.

 

So, it was back to the drawing board.

 

Sam reached into the charm box and withdrew the small piece of paper with the awkward and stilted handwriting scribbled across it. He had already deciphered half of the scribbles, though some of the writing was so severe he was unsure if he would ever unlock it. He squinted at the print; he still felt it appeared purposefully coded, as if someone had made it their mission to make this hard on him.

 

So far, he knew that the Latin was a spell to activate the talisman. He knew that even before he started translating the messy handwriting. At least now, he was certain.

 

The spell centered on travel and the passage through impossible places. In this case, Sam assumed that meant time.

 

The reverse side had most of the same writing with only a few words changed. It remained as coded and messy as the original side.

 

Sam sighed. He was starting to lose patience. He didn't understand why the note had been created to be so cryptic. If they were meant to be here, why make it so difficult to read? It almost seemed like whoever had penned the spell had taken great pains to make the notations as messy and indecipherable as possible. Frustrated, Sam held the paper up to the light to see if he could find a new perspective.

 

And that was when he saw it. Near the top of the sheet, he noticed a faded logo, so light on the sixteen-year-old paper that it was barely visible. Sam couldn't believe he'd missed it.

 

He blinked. That was the motel's logo.

 

Sam had written the spell.

 

Feeling a spark of energy hit him, Sam jumped to his feet and grabbed the pad of paper beside Dean's head. His brother didn't stir, which was fine with Sam, and kept catching up on the sleep he'd missed the past few days.

 

Sam, on the other hand, reeling with the anticipation of a new discovery, felt energized and refreshed. He flattened the crumpled note on the desk and started mimicking everything he saw onto the notepad. He found himself laughing, finally realizing it was his own handwriting that he had tried to distort. He didn't know why he would do that to himself, but he knew there had to be a valid reason. Maybe it was just another sign they needed to stay in the past longer.

 

Whatever the reason, Sam knew that now that he recognized his own handwriting through the deliberate coding, he could figure out and find the patterns he created. He was one step closer to solving this puzzle and giving them the opportunity to go back home.

 

He knew he was one step closer to helping Dean.

 

Satisfied, Sam held up the paper to the light once more.

 

And that was when he found the second hidden mark.

 

On the bottom of the paper, scratched and etched into the fibers, faded and light but without ink, read one simple sentence, a sentence that zapped all the hope from him, replacing the optimism with a growing fear.

 

Don't let him go.

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

"Dad's gone."

 

Sam jerked, nearly falling out of his seat. When he turned, he was surprised to find Dean standing by the window, fully awake, with the only traces of sleep on his face a small ink smudge on his left cheek. He shrugged on his leather jacket and was already heading for the door.

 

Sam held his head. He must have nodded off. "What's going on?" he asked.

 

"Well, between your little naps, I noticed that the Impala was gone," Dean said. "I checked out the joint. They've pretty much cleaned out. But here's the thing." He held up his bunched hand and opened the palm. A black cord snaked down, a distinctive amulet hanging at the very end. "Looks like they forgot something."

 

Sam's eyes widened. That couldn't be good. "Did you ever lose that as a kid?"

 

"I dunno. Once?" Dean flicked his wrist and caught the amulet in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. "I never lost it after that."

 

"Maybe this is the time."

 

Sam hoped it was the time. He tried not to contemplate minor splits in the timeline compounding onto each other until it buckled under its own weight.

 

"I tell ya one thing. If I ever see me again, I'm going to friggin' punch me in the face."

 

Sam ignored the snide remark and tried to stay positive. "Dad will come back for it. You should probably put it back in the room."

 

"And let some cleaning lady snag it? I don't think so." He patted his pocket. "It's staying with me. Besides, didn't you hear me? The room is empty. Dad's not coming back."

 

Sam didn't want to hear this. None of this seemed to fit the right pattern. John needed to be here to kill the bogeyman. Dean was never without his amulet. Their dad had to come back.

 

He looked down to the yellowed and worn paper. He had written this spell, or rather copied it. He understood now that as soon as he finished copying it, they would be ready to go. He also knew that time had not yet come.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Then he saw Dean's face darken in a way that Sam knew there was much more brewing in his mind than he wanted to admit. Sam felt himself stiffen in response.

 

"Wait, are you trying to say Dad split town in the middle of a case?"

 

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

 

"Dean, he wouldn't do that."

 

"No, normally not unless something big came up," Dean said. "Or, say, maybe someone threatening to call the cops."

 

"Yeah, okay. I get that you're angry, but I had to say it." Sam frowned when he saw Dean grab his keys. "Where are you going?"

 

"I'm gonna see if I can find them." Dean said as he jimmied the handle and opened the door. "You can stay here and play with your toys you love so much. I need to get this amulet back."

 

Sam glanced at the paper again, his finger hovering over the scratched etchings.

 

Don't let him go.

 

"No, wait!" Sam jumped to his feet and grabbed Dean by the arm.  "You can't go."

 

"I can't go? Last night you wanted to get rid of me."

 

"No, trust me." Sam pressed the door shut with his palm. "You have to stay. You can't leave."

 

Dean tilted his head, and Sam felt the scrutiny of his disapproving gaze. "What the hell's going on?"

 

"Call it a hunch."

 

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've about had it with your hunches. Good hunch? Bad hunch? Little more info?"

 

"I don't know. I just don't think you should leave."

 

Dean threw his keys on the table and slumped into the chair. "And what the hell are we supposed to do?"

 

"Just wait."

 

*     *     *     *

 

Dean was friggin' tired of waiting.

 

The sun had set hours ago and Sam still insisted they didn't move. Dean knew it had something to do with that damn box, but he'd about had it taking orders from the thing.

 

By now, John could be halfway across the country while they just sat there twiddling their thumbs. Not to mention that the bogey was due to strike again that night. They couldn't just sit around and let it happen.

 

Whether their dad had taken off or not, there still was a job to do.

 

"Screw this." He slammed his hand on the desk and grabbed a map. He had to go.

 

"No, Dean."

 

Dean rose to his feet and walked to the desk where Sam was sitting. "Any time now, some poor family is going to lose their kid. Whatever hunch or feeling or vibe you're getting has to wait."

 

"Dean, the note specifically said for you not to leave."

 

"In that?" Dean asked, waving his hand to the crumpled paper. "The weird time box doesn't want me to leave the room? You know how crazy that sounds, right?"

 

Sam's face tightened. "I know because I wrote it."

 

"Come again?"

 

"The note. It's my handwriting."

 

Dean stared at him. This was perfect. He honestly didn't know how this whole excursion into the Twilight Zone could get any better.

 

"Let me get this straight," Dean said. "You swipe one of Dad's locked boxes, start having massive déjà vu, and then end up writing the damn spell that trapped us in the past to begin with?"

 

"Copy, actually."

 

"Oh, right. My mistake."

 

"Look, Dean, I know it sounds weird. I know it sounds crazy. But you have to trust me on this." Sam urged him to stand closer. He held up the yellowed paper to the light and drew his finger to the bottom where the brief message had been scratched into the paper. "You see it?"

 

"I see it," Dean muttered. "Don't see my name."

 

"The message is clear enough."

 

"As clear as my horoscope." Dean sighed. "That could mean anyone. Hell, that message could be for the maintenance man."

 

"Sure, Dean. We went back in time to warn the maintenance man."

 

Dean scowled. Sam was a regular comedian.

 

He walked back to the table and started sorting through the local maps that covered the areas right outside of town. He figured he could hit the ruins first. He wasn't too keen on searching the mines, but that would be as good as any place for a bogey to hide. Dean still felt that John would have already searched those places, but since Sam's big mouth had sent him off, it wasn't like Dean could ask him.

 

"What are you doing?" he heard Sam ask from behind him.

 

"I don't care about your note." He reached over and grabbed his duffle bag. "I'm going to hunt this thing."

 

"Dean, don't do this."

 

"I gotta go, Sam," Dean said as he opened his bag and started sorting through it. "You know that."

 

"I know how to get us back home."

 

Dean froze. He pushed the duffle aside and turned around, his eyes dark. "What?"

 

Sam glanced back to the desk. "I figured it out. As soon as I'm done copying the spell, we can go."

 

Dean was not hearing this. "You're telling me this now?"

 

"Once I knew it was my own handwriting, I realized that the writing on the front of the paper was a spell associated with the talisman I held in the car," Sam said. "The backside is the spell for the second talisman."

 

"Why did it send us here?"

 

"I don't know that part yet."

 

"And you don't know if it will send us back to the right time."

 

"No."

 

Dean rubbed his face. This was nuts.

 

"I know one thing, Dean. Out of all the times and places we could have been sent, we were sent here. That has to mean something."

 

Dean shook his head. He wasn't going to buy into that whole destiny crap. They were here because at some point, Sam didn't have enough sense to leave well enough alone.

 

He surveyed the maps and sighed. Dean couldn't believe he was doing this. "What're we supposed to do?"

 

"I'm not sure." Sam joined him by the maps and the duffle. "The déjà vu doesn't work like the visions did."

 

"That's helpful."

 

At least with Sam's visions, they had always been something concrete, even if creepy. Dean didn't like the idea of going in blind. Working off Sam's feelings wasn't going to cut it. They needed something more.

 

They needed Dad.

 

"We have to find him," Dean said. "We have to find Dad. He's supposed to be here. He's the one that is supposed to handle the case."

 

"I know." He heard Sam sigh. "I thought he'd come back."

 

Thinking something would happen just wasn't enough. This whole time Sam was so distraught about changing the timeline, and now it looked like it might happen. Dean didn't really want to think about the repercussions. He was just tired of sitting around and doing squat.

 

They should have just told their dad. They should have told him everything.

 

Dean started stuffing the maps into his duffle as he spoke over his shoulder. "I think we just go to the city limits, find this thing, and after we kill it, track down Dad. When we find him, then we can use your time box to go home."

 

Sam shifted his weight nervously. "Dean…"

"You have a better idea?"

 

He sighed. "No."

 

"All right. Then help me pack this stuff and we'll hit the road. I'll—"

 

Both Sam and Dean fell silent as they heard the distinctive roar of the Impala in the parking lot.  After a moment, they saw the snap of the headlights as they flickered off, and the patter of footsteps on the walkway.

 

Dean stared at Sam. The shock in his face started to melt into smug satisfaction.

 

"Not a word," Dean warned.

 

As Sam chuckled, Dean worked on finishing packing their stuff. He was sure Sam was about to go for the handle of the door to look outside, when they both heard a light rapping on the door.

 

Dean frowned.

 

He didn't have a chance to say anything before Sam opened the door. They both fell silent as John Winchester stood in the entrance, waiting for them to let him inside.

 

"We need to talk," John said.

 

*     *     *     *

 

Sam hesitated by the door. The dead seriousness in John's face spoke volumes. Whatever John had to share, it was extremely important, significant enough for him to bypass all the tension and conflict they'd suffered over the past few days. That's why Sam knew this was it. This was the moment.

 

"I knew you'd come back," Dean said, urging John to enter with a wave of his hand. "I knew you just wouldn't leave."

 

Sam shot him a hard look, but Dean ignored him.

 

John walked into the room and shut the door behind him. His gaze fell to the half packed duffle bag and the haphazardly thrown maps and papers over the bed and table. Sam thought he was going to comment on it, but instead he glanced at Dean and then focused on Sam.

 

"What can we help you with?" Sam asked. He kept some of his attention on Dean, hoping he'd tune the enthusiasm down a notch.

 

"I've done my homework on you two."

 

"Oh?" Dean let out a nervous laugh. "What did you find out about such handsome devils?"

 

"Nothing. No one's ever heard of you. There's nothing on anyone using your aliases or anyone that matches your description."

 

Sam kept his gaze steady, trying not to let his nerves show. He had wondered when John would turn to his hunter contacts. He had just hoped it would have been long after he and Dean had left.

 

One glance back at Dean showed Sam that he was visibly flustered. They had to take control of this conversation before it got out of hand.

 

"We're good at covering our tracks," Sam said.

 

"And we tend to work alone," Dean offered.

 

"It doesn't add up," John said. "When I say no one knows you, I mean no one. Then you show up here in the middle of a hunt knowing more than possible, but less than you should."

 

Dean chuckled. "We're just that good."

 

Sam shook his head, urging Dean to be quiet.

 

"Look, I've known since the diner you aren't who you say you are. You're brothers on a hunt. You talk about your dad on a similar hunt in the same town sixteen years back when we all know bogies don't strike twice." He rubbed his chin and his eyes gleamed with intensity. "I just need to know why you're so interested in my family."

 

Sam and Dean exchanged a nervous look. This conversation was not going down the way either one of them had hoped it would.

 

"I think it's time we told him the truth," Dean said.

 

Sam nodded. As much as it killed him, he knew that John wouldn't stop until he had a reasonable explanation. Sam was prepared now to give him one.

 

"We were working a case and just passing through when we heard about the bogeyman job," Sam told John. "We never planned on jumping into this case, not until we found out that you were the one running it." He paused, glancing back at Dean with a silent question, asking him to let him do all the talking. He exhaled and continued. "We set you up, John."

 

John's face darkened.

 

"What?" Dean asked behind him. "We did?"

 

Sam ignored him and remained focused on John. "We created that story back in the diner to get your attention. We knew you would be here."

 

"Okay," John said between gritted teeth. "I'm listening."

 

"Don't you listen to him," Dean warned. "He studies law. They lie for sport."

 

John's gaze darted between the two of them. Sam realized it was a ploy to distract him, and he tensed, noting that John was reaching behind his back. One wrong move and this trip would end in a way that could be disastrous.

 

"Please, let me explain," Sam said.

 

"Oh, you've done enough explaining," Dean muttered. "I'm never letting you do all the talking again."

 

But John wasn't paying attention to Dean. His gaze was dead centered on Sam, the lines on his face deepening with the anger, the fear, and the concern he was obviously feeling. "What are you?"

 

"What?" Dean asked, exasperated. "No, no. We aren't a what. We're people. Normal, regular people." He paused and cocked his head, as if he was reconsidering his words. "Well, aside from crazy pants here."

 

"Just hear me out," Sam said calmly. "We came to town because we want you to finish the job. There are a lot of families hurting here. All those kids are missing. I think you know a thing or two about how the loss of a loved one to something supernatural can change your life."

 

John relaxed his shoulders and his grip on his hidden gun seemed to loosen. Based on the spark of pain Sam saw shimmer in his eyes, he knew he had gotten through to his dad and touched him on a level that would reframe the case. He wasn't sure why John had left in such a hurry, but he hoped this would be enough to make him stay.

 

Finally, John sighed and let out a soft chuckle. Sam and Dean chuckled with him, going along for the ride. Sam hoped the moment was enough to keep them on the same page.

 

"I got to give you credit," John said. "You had me going there for a while. I've heard some whoppers in my lifetime…" His smile hardened into a cold glare. "You boys are the worst liars I've ever met."

 

Sam felt his fingers turn to ice. "We didn't—"

 

"Half-truths," John said. He gave him a knowing smile. "You think I can't tell the difference? I have two boys of my own. I can tell when they're lying."

 

Sam should have known that John would be able to see right through him. He wasn't exactly lying, but John wouldn't back down until he had something more concrete. They just couldn't give him what he wanted.

 

"I've had enough games," John said. "I want a direct answer."

 

Once again, Sam shot a warning glare back at Dean. John couldn't know who they were. They couldn't reveal themselves.

 

Dean swallowed hard. "The magic box told us to help you."

 

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. Perfect.

 

He didn't need to look at his father to see the disbelief on his face. He could envision his hard eyes, his worn features, his growing discontent as he wavered, walking the fine line between frustration and skepticism.

 

He opened his eyes. John didn't look amused.

 

Sam and Dean stepped aside to reveal the box on the desk. When John took a curious step forward to investigate, Sam slipped between the desk and his father, holding his hands in a protective manner.

 

"It has powerful magic that we haven't completely figured out," Sam said. While it wasn't a complete lie, he hoped it would finally be enough for John. "We've been very careful to keep it isolated from anyone."

 

"It kinda guided us here to you," Dean said with a laugh. "Sounds nuts."

 

"We wanted to tell you, but yeah." Sam cleared his throat. "We didn't want to come off insane."

 

John nodded. "You could have done a better job." He nudged his chin toward the box. "Charms aren't something to mess around with. You should keep that in storage."

 

"Yes, sir," they both said.

 

"It still doesn't explain why no one's heard of you." John sighed. There was an odd flicker in his eyes, one that Sam found unreadable. "But my boys like you well enough."

 

"Is that why you came back?" Dean asked, sounding mildly disappointed.

 

John chuckled. "No, my eldest left behind something of his. They're checking the motel for it now. And I wanted to ask a favor."

 

Dean held out his hand and let the amulet drop and dangle between his fingers. He arched an eyebrow and smiled at John.

 

John raised his head and gave him an impatient look. "You searched my room."

 

Dean tossed the amulet to John who caught it easily. "Tell Dean not to lose it again, or I'll come back and kick his ass myself."

 

Sam had already moved passed the amulet, curious about what kind of favor John would ask them, especially given the fact he didn't even trust them. "You said something about a favor?"

 

"That other case I was talking about? I got a lead," John said to Sam. "I have to take it."

 

Sam didn't know what to say. John must have found a lead on what happened to their mom and was willing to leave in order to chase it. He couldn't say he blamed him. Three years ago, if Sam had found a lead on Jess, he would have taken it. If right now they received the impossible answer on how to save Dean, Sam would abandon the job for him.

 

He understood completely. "You want us to finish the job for you."

 

"Other case? What?" Dean gaze darted to Sam then back to John. "Are you two holding out on me?"

 

"You know I have to go," John said.

 

"I know," Sam said quietly. It was John's everything.

 

John needed this break just as Sam needed to believe in the box. Yet, he had this nagging doubt, this persistent discomfort that something was wrong. He couldn't pinpoint what the wrongness was, but it was there and it was growing.

 

Don't let him go. Was that meant for John? For Dean? For himself? He started to have doubts.

 

He glanced over at Dean and frowned. Any of the jovial attitude Dean had just moments ago had been replaced with a biting anger. His face was tight, hard, darkened with the explosive power of a fury that was ready to burst at the seams. He wasn't sure where the anger came from, but it wasn't like Dean. Not at this level. And certainly not towards their father.

 

Dean was on the verge of exploding.

 

"Hey," Sam said under his breath. "You--?"

 

"So, what?" Dean asked, taking a step forward. "You're just going to leave? Like that?"

 

"You two can handle it," John said.

 

"I drop everything for you. Do everything you ever asked and you do this?"

 

A wave of confusion passed over John's face; Sam tensed. He grabbed onto Dean's arm to stop him, but Dean shook him off.

 

"So, you're just going to abandon all those missing kids? Let their families suffer?" He set his jaw. "And I thought you were a hero."

 

"Those kids can't be saved now," John said, his voice firm. "After twelve hours, the venom the bogey injects into their bodies can't be reversed. And it's worse for the older kids. We can't help them."

 

"We can try. Hell, it's always about trying. We don't try, and we are just as bad as those bastards out there."

 

"Let it go," Sam said quietly.

 

"No. No, I won't. I'm tired of it. But you know what? Go ahead. Be selfish." Dean stared John directly in the eyes. "We'll finish the job."

 

Dean didn't even allow John to come back. He stormed off toward the bed and worked to finish packing up his bag.

 

John looked at Sam. "Why so personal?"

 

Sam just shook his head and headed toward Dean. Whatever he was going through, he needed to stop now. They didn't have time for it.

 

He leaned over Dean, trying to make eye contact as he shoveled stuff into his bag. "Dude, I don't know where all your issues with Dad are coming from, but you got to get over it. You've been like a yo-yo the entire time we've been here."

 

"I don't like being jerked around."

 

"Dean, no one is jerking you around."

 

Dean stopped and glared at him. "No? Dad skipping town. The two of you shooting the breeze." He zipped the bag. "Anything else—"

 

Overhead, the lights flickered. Sam and Dean froze, falling silent to listen and watch for any other sign. A nervous John was already heading for the door when a child's scream ripped through the air.

 

Sam felt air trap in his throat. It was him. The younger him.

 

John tore out of the motel room and down the walkway, Sam and Dean right behind him. They charged toward John's room without stopping, knowing that every second counted.

 

There was a flash of light inside. Another scream.

 

Silence.

 

John swung the door open and bolted inside.  Sam and Dean followed him and flipped on a second light switch for a better view.

 

The motel room was torn with signs of evident struggle. The lamps had toppled, the sheets ripped, the furniture broken. Sam's gaze settled on the far corner. His throat went dry. On the open closest door was the distinctive handprint covered in soot.

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

Sam helped Dean spread the map onto the table. With a quick thrust, Dean secured it with his knife.

 

"Okay," Sam said, resisting the urge to glance at his watch. The three of them huddled over the table. "We know that the pattern of kidnappings are right off the main road. This is the first one to happen this close to the edge of town, but it still fits the direct pattern."

 

"Which means the creep is already out of the city," Dean muttered.

 

"I should have been with them," John said. He wiped his face and let out a threaded sigh. "I shouldn't have left them alone."

 

Sam felt the ache of watching his grieving father strike him in the gut. He searched his father's face, offering him a sympathetic look, hoping that maybe they could help ease the pain. "How much time do they have?" Sam asked softly.

 

John exhaled and braced himself on the table. "The little ones have the full twelve hours. The older ones have four, maybe six hours if they're lucky."

 

"Older?" Dean asked. "What do you mean by older?"

 

"The teenagers. It might be hormones or something. I don't know. They change faster."

 

Dean's face blanched white.

 

"Seriously? We only have a few hours?" Sam asked.

 

John gave a solemn nod. "I gotta go get my boys."

 

He started for the door, but Sam jumped to stop him. "Wait," he said. "We need to make sure, then. We need to think this through."

 

Sam moved back to the map and pointed to the forested area at the fringe of town. "Now, there are some ruins here and an old mineshaft. These things hide out in rotting or ruined places. We need to narrow it down."

 

"That'll take all night." Dean collapsed onto the bed and rested his head on the frame. "We don't have that kind of time."

 

Sam's gaze lingered on his exhausted brother for a moment before he forced himself to return to the map. "Are there any other places? Do you know what bogies generally prefer?"

 

"I already checked 'em both," John said. "It's all too obvious they aren't there."

 

Sam frowned. "Why is it too obvious?"

 

"Because I already checked it out and there was no one there."

 

"Maybe you missed something."

 

John glared at Sam. "I didn't miss a thing."

 

"Well, I'm saying maybe you did. You're not infall-"

 

"Guys!" Dean heaved himself off the bed, reached over, and ripped the map off the table. "Enough. Come on."

 

"Your brother's right," John said. "We'll sort this out on the way. We're just wasting time now."

 

Sam balled his fists. He wasn't going to fall into this pattern again. Not now, not when every second counted. Their younger selves didn't have time to spare. They needed to minimize mistakes. At this point, none of them had an idea where the bogeyman was.

 

John was already heading out the door with Dean in tow. As they stepped out into the chilly January air, Sam paused, watching as Dean headed straight for the covered Impala. He waved for Sam to help him.

 

Sam didn't agree with him, but he didn't have time to argue. With one arching swoop, the two of them lifted the cover, revealing the Impala under the moonless night.

 

John stopped.

 

"Hey, look at that," Dean said. "We have the same taste. Amazing."

 

Dean strolled over to the trunk and unlocked it. After he tossed the cover inside, he propped up the false bottom with his shotgun and started surveying his arsenal.

 

"Refresh my memory," Dean said. "What kills these things?"

 

"Iron rounds," John said. He frowned, looking into the trunk. "That's quite the arsenal you have there."

 

"Might not be neatly ordered and perfect, but it gets the job done." Dean held up a box of iron rounds.

 

Sam accepted them and loaded his clip with the rounds. With a click, he snapped the clip in place. When he was done, he reached for another box and started loading his shotgun. Then he passed it to Dean.

 

"We'll ride together," John said. "It'll be faster."

 

"We should take your car," Dean said. He tossed the box back into the trunk and locked it. "It's probably better equipped than my baby."

 

"I wasn't going to have it any other way," John said. With that, he jogged off toward the identical Impala parked just a few spaces away.

 

Sam walked over to the side of the Impala where Dean was leaning against the side, loading his shotgun. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight impatiently. "Are you all right?"

 

"I didn't feel like driving."

 

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm asking." He searched Dean's face, still unnerved how pale he looked. "Dean, if you're the one that got us sick…"

 

"Was this part of the plan?" Dean asked suddenly.

 

Sam grimaced. "I don't know."

 

"I don't remember anything. It's all blank." He coughed and looked up at Sam. "No feelings? Psychic starbursts?"

 

"What? Dean, that makes no sense. Are you sure you're all right?"

 

"I just want it to be over, Sammy," he said wearily. "Why don't you go secure our time box, and we'll get going." He locked and loaded the shotgun. "Then we can raise a little hell."

 

 

*     *     *     *

 

The Impala shot through the south end of the town. A deadwood forest loomed ahead, dark and thick, obscuring any hint of the old mining shaft or farmhouse that once populated the landscape.

 

John turned the Impala onto a bumpy dirt road. It was hard to see in the darkness, with only the glare of the Impala's headlights and the spotty stars above shedding light into the forest. Sam, riding shotgun, kept peering out into the blackness, searching for any sign that could help them. He still wasn't sure how they were going to find this bogey.

 

Sam glanced down at his watch. They had three hours left to safely find Dean and himself.

 

He glanced back at Dean. He remained silent.

 

Feeling his frustration grow, Sam squirmed uncomfortably in the passenger's seat and readjusted the map. He clicked on his flashlight.

 

The old farmhouse ruins were closest to the city's edge with the mineshaft deeper into the woodland. There was no way they could search both in fewer than three hours.

 

"Don't worry about the ruins or the mines," John said. "We're heading elsewhere."

 

Sam slammed down the map. "You knew and you didn't tell us?"

 

"We were wasting time. There was no time to argue about it."

 

"You could have just told us." Sam folded the map and tossed it aside. Unbelievable. John's own children were in danger and he was still being pigheaded. "Where are we going?" Sam asked firmly.

 

"I noticed it in the motel. The mines used to be salt mines. The overflow from the mines killed the woods around the old site." He shook his head and maneuvered around an overgrown root. "I should have seen it before."

 

Sam agreed it made perfect sense. The salt would have damaged the area of the forest adjacent to the mines. All the rotting wood would be the ideal place for the bogey to set up shop.

 

He looked at his watch. Two and a half hours.

 

They could do this. They had time. Sam swallowed hard and forced himself to stay calm. He needed a mild distraction.

 

"What made you decide to trust us?" he asked.

 

"I'm not sure if I do," John admitted. "But I've never seen my boys take to strangers so well before, and there's just something about you…" He sighed and snuck a discerning glance at Sam. "I don't like it, but I've learned to trust my instincts."

 

Sam frowned. "Then all those threats and questions back at the motel?"

 

He smiled. "I just wanted to see if I could get you to talk." He arched his eyebrows. "It worked."

 

Sam leaned back, not sure what to say. He thought he heard a soft chuckle come from Dean in the back seat, but he didn't want to see the satisfaction in his brother's eyes.

 

They hit a bump in the road; Dean groaned.

 

John checked his mirror, but kept driving. The road was becoming narrow and overgrown, dead wood jutting out on either side of the dirt path. John had to swerve a couple of times to avoid damaging the Impala and rendering them carless, but despite the few close calls, they managed to stay on course.

 

Sam didn't miss that John was driving faster and faster.

 

"Back at the motel," John said suddenly. "Through all the lies, just what was true?"

 

Sam knew his dad wasn't a talker. The fact that he was reaching out could only mean he needed a distraction just like Sam needed one. While his stomach churned at the thought, he was surprised he felt closer to his dad than he had in a long time.

 

"Well, our dad did hunt a bogey sixteen years ago," Sam said. "It happened in a town exactly like this."

 

"That's some hell of a coincidence."

 

"I like to think it has some meaning," Sam said with a smile.

 

John nodded. "Yeah." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "And him?"

 

"That's my older brother. He gets a bit overzealous at times. I like to think it's because he's mad he didn't get the tall genes in the family."

 

John chuckled, but it didn't last long. "He looks a bit green. Is he going to get sick on this hunt? If so, he'd be better off sitting this one out."

 

Sam looked back at Dean. He was slumped in his seat, staring at the shotgun in his lap. Sam wasn't sure if he was deep in thought, running over possible scenarios, or if he was just plain tired. His coloring didn't encourage Sam.

 

Sam cleared his throat to get Dean's attention. Dean held up one hand and gave him a thumbs-up.

 

"I'm so not a backseat driver," Dean said with a weak smile.

 

Sam would take Dean's senseless humor as a sign he was well enough to fight. Though, he wasn't all that convinced.

 

"And that box led you here?" John asked.

 

"Yeah," Sam said, his attention still on Dean. "We knew we had to help you on this hunt somehow. We just didn't know when, why, or how."

 

John grunted and nodded, but didn't say anything more about it.

 

The Impala tore through a small clearing. Up ahead, Sam saw the traces of one of the mineshafts used back in the salt excavations. John took a sharp right.

 

The dirt road disappeared. They entered a desolate and gloomy part of the woodland. The lush green that they had first encountered when entering the forest gave way to deep browns and faded grays, all shrouded in a dense fog. All around them there was the heavy pressure of death. Sam could feel it even from within the safety of the Impala.

 

He glanced at his watch. Two hours.

 

The Impala came to a halt beside a rather grim looking tree. It had died long ago, just a husk of a trunk with its sober limbs barely able to hold itself. Sam shuddered and opened the door.

 

John jumped out of the Impala. "We'll cover more ground if we split up."

 

"I say we stay together," Sam said. "We aren't any good to each other dead."

 

Dean slammed the door shut. "Compromise, guys!"

 

Both looked to Dean. His weary face didn't mask the impatience growing in his eyes.

 

"All right," John agreed. "We stay together, but fan out and sweep the forest inch by inch."

 

Dean nodded and leaned against the Impala. "Got it."

 

"What are we looking for?" Sam asked.

 

"The bogey won't be far from its pods," John said. "You'll know it a mile a way by its stench. Two shots to the chest should take care of it. And take these." John handed Sam and Dean each a small ball. "It'll help mask you, but it won't protect you if they lock on to you. Salt is useless. Focus on shooting the things."

 

Dean's face fell. "Things?"

 

"The other kids will have been turned by now," John said, his voice grim. "Let's go."

 

Sam exchanged a worried glance with Dean. He knew what his brother was thinking; he wasn't comfortable with the idea that they could be facing a bunch of children. But Sam knew they didn't have much choice. If John was right, those kids had stopped being children long ago.

 

He raised his gun and locked it into place. It was time.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

Dean kept his shotgun armed and ready as he slowly stalked through the woods. All around him, the forest felt cold and dead, fused with a stillness that chilled him to the core. He felt like with every breath he took, he consumed a little piece of that deadness, and bit-by-bit the stale air froze a part of him, permeating his body like a sheet of ice, until there was nothing left but the waning warmth of a fire gone cold.

 

He shivered and kept walking.

 

The fog rolled into the woods, slow but steady, making it difficult for him to see despite his flashlight. Dean knew that Sam had started searching the grounds somewhere to his right while John was to his left. He also knew that time was a-wastin' and they only had about an hour and a half left to find their rebellious little selves.

 

He couldn't help but feel bitter. If their dad hadn't left, they wouldn't be in this situation. If they'd been up front with him, all of this could have been avoided.

 

He took another step forward; the dead wood snapped under his boots.

 

The silence killed him. No crickets. No frogs. No owls. Just a nothingness as heavy as the fog that curled around his ankles.

 

He knew the bogey and its demented "kids" had to be trolling around here somewhere. Every so often, he thought he saw one, a flash or a flicker from the very corner of his eye, of something just lurking, waiting, watching and hungry, hidden just out of view.

 

The bogies were watching him. They were watching all of them.

 

Dean felt the hair on his neck rise as he stalked deeper into the woods. Ahead, there was a twinned tree, huge and massive, its roots snarled into giant cumbersome knots. Despite the fog, he could tell it was old and dying, but there was a light warmth wafting off it. He couldn't help but be drawn toward it, his cold limbs aching for revival.

 

Quietly, he stepped one foot over the other, avoiding the dead, dry wood, and sunk into the mossy underbelly that remained unaffected on the ground. The soft padding cushioned his steps as he neared the tree, the heat, and after just a few strides, he found himself at the base.

 

He frowned. Nestled in the middle of the double tree was a large bulbous pod, the color somewhere between green and brown. It was a leathery cocoon with grooves and wrinkles that escalated toward its huge central lips and was centered with roots that bore deep into the heart of the tree as well as ones that snaked down into the ground.

 

He took a step closer.

 

His first thought was that either he or Sam could be in there. Dean didn't even want to think of what poison was being pumped into the pod through the roots. He didn't want to think about that at all.

 

Feeling the anger rise inside, he unsheathed his knife and hacked at the top of the pod, slicing through the top veins that attached the pod to the tree. Deep purple fluids started spurting out of the runaway chords and were tainted with stink so foul it made him think of a rancid toilet. He gagged, but went for the bottom veins anyway, intent on lifting this thing from its little nest.

 

When he was done, Dean heaved the pod onto the ground, surprised to feel how warm it felt to the touch. He pressed his cold hand against the lip.

 

There was a person in there. He could feel their heartbeat.

 

Without another thought, Dean took his knife and fit it between the lips, grunting as he tried to pry the pod open. When he realized it wasn't going to budge, he carefully started to saw at the fibrous material, careful not to stab too deep in case he impaled some poor soul.

 

Finally, the pod started to break, spewing spaghetti threads not unlike milkweed into his face. Dean spit out the nasty cocoon fibers and reached his hands into the soft squishy inside.

 

"Aw, this is nasty," he muttered. He felt like he was kneading raw hamburger.

 

With a grunt, he pulled. There was a popping sound and he rolled back, blinking with confusion as he watched the pod pop and fizz before his eyes. In his arms, there was a small child, a girl, her face pale and cold, but still with some heat puffing off her motionless body.

 

"Hey!" he called. "Over here!"

 

He rolled the girl on her back and checked her vitals. She looked like she was no more than seven. At least, she was alive. She just didn't happen to be little Sammy or himself.

 

There was a crunching behind him, but Dean relaxed onto his haunches, recognizing the footsteps of his oversized brother. Sam breathed out and leaned forward. Dean thought he looked as shocked as he felt.

 

"Is she dead?" Sam asked.

 

"No, but I thought this bogey thing only hit one house at a time?" Dean wiped away some of the gunk off the girl's face. "I seriously doubt our younger selves were sneaking in seven year olds."

 

Sam looked like he was about to attempt some lame comeback, but he stopped, his hand slowly grabbing the shotgun resting on his thigh. Dean tensed too, hearing the short, guttural breaths of something standing behind them.

 

Both whipped around at the same time, shotguns raised, only to watch the bogey jerk twice as two shots exploded in its chest. The tall lanky thing convulsed and crumpled to the ground, leaving the shadowy form of John Winchester in its wake.

 

John jogged over to them and looked down at the limp body of the bogey. He toed it once with the tip of his boot.

 

"Was that the bogeyman?" Sam asked.

 

He shook his head. "One of its spawn."

 

Dean scooted over to look at the creature. It sure as hell didn't look like a kid to him. Tall, thin, with long straggly hair, but pasty-faced with a sheen of green, the monster looked like it had been stalking the woods for a good fifty years. He grimaced. The purple blood kept bubbling out of its chest like a fountain, and dripping out of its fanged mouth.

 

And the smell. Rancid toilet again with sink drain. To think that had once been just a kid…

 

Dean covered his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He'd seen enough.

 

"The bogey must have gone out for more," John said. "On their last night of harvesting, they're known to collect multiple kids."

 

"Great, so that means we got tons of these kids growing off trees?" Dean asked through his muffled mouth.

 

John gave a short nod as he surveyed the forest. "Could be. Just be careful. These hatched ones will be attracted to your heat signature."

 

Dean sighed. That just made things even better.

 

After John disappeared into the fog again, Dean reached over and propped the sleeping child against the tree. He felt bad for needing to leave her there, but he and Sam had bigger fish to fry.

 

He glanced down at his watch. One hour.

 

The panic in Sam's face grew. They both knew they were running out of time.

 

"I'll go left; you go right," Dean said.

 

Sam nodded and hopped over a stray branch, vanishing into the fog, while Dean hooked left. Around him, the woods blurred into streaks of browns and grays as he raced through the forest. He panted, pushing his weary body harder and faster. By now, finding himself didn't matter. He knew that the young Sam had a greater chance of surviving this mess based on how much time they had left, and he wasn't going to stop until he found him.

 

Every second. Every breath. Every twist and turn, stumble or misstep – they cost him precious time, time that was whittling away. He had to find the young Sam. He couldn't let it end this way. He wouldn't let it.

 

He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes.

 

Dammit. "Sam! Sammy!" He stopped and searched the landscape. "Sam!!"

 

He tried to pinpoint any kind of pocket of heat, like he had with the little girl. He realized it shouldn't be hard, given how frosty the January night had become. But all that answered him was the echo of his own voice, hard and hoarse from the stale air.

 

Dean stopped and listened. They couldn't be far. The younger Sam couldn't be far.

 

In the distance he heard a grunt and the distinctive one-two clink of a knife. One thud later, he heard Sam – his Sam – calling out into the night.

 

"I found another one!"

 

Then two shots rang out. A thud. A hiss.

 

Dean stiffened. "Sam!"

 

"I'm all right!"

 

That's all Dean needed to know. He hooked another left and flew through the forest, every few seconds pausing to touch a tree and search for any warmth this dead wasteland could offer.

 

Then he felt it, warm and sweet.

 

Dean bolted toward the heat source, blocking out the double fire coming from behind him. He heard more hissing, a howl, and the triumphant yell between his brother and father. And then yet another swift thrash of a faraway knife.

 

In front of him was another small pod, this one lopsided and slightly broken. There was movement from inside, a soft and desperate pleading, as small hands pressed against the thick, leathery, but slightly translucent skin.

 

"Sammy?"

 

Another muffled and strangled cry.

 

It was Sam.

 

Dean slashed the knife across the top vein and hacked through the bottom before he pulled the pod from the dead tree. Carefully, he prodded the lips open and dug inside, feeling around for his younger brother.

 

Through the pasty ooze, he managed to drag him out. Little Sam's body had gone limp in the process, bringing Dean's fright to the forefront.

 

He had not just lost his brother in some bizarre time twist.

 

"Sam. Sammy." He tapped his face and pulled away some of the milky threads. "Come on, Sam."

 

Behind him, once again, he not only heard the approaching footsteps of Sam, but also his dad. The two skidded to a halt beside him and looked down.

 

"Sam," John said, his voice cracking.

 

Dean quickly switched off and gave the small body to John to oversee. Soundlessly, John took the small form and hugged him to his chest, whispering and urging him to snap out of his stupor.

 

The knot that had begun to form in Dean's throat only grew. Sam remained by his side, and though his face was a deadly shade of pale, Dean could see Sam was still searching, still scaling the forest for any sign of the younger Dean.

 

"Dean!" Sam started to yell. "Dean!"

 

There was no response from the forest.

 

Finally, Little Sam started to cough and spit up a glob of the gooey pod's innards. John let out a sigh of relief and hugged him close. "Oh, Sammy."

 

Dean gave a small, pained smile. He might feel like crap, but he knew he'd done good. Sam was safe, both of them. Hell, Sam and his dad even managed some bonding time in between. That was more than he could ever ask for.

 

He glanced down at his watch. Fifteen minutes.

 

When Dean looked up, he found Sam staring at him, his wild desperate eyes searching his face. The desperation quickly turned to shock and panic as his gaze fell to Dean's right hand.

 

"What happened to your hand?"

 

Dean frowned and looked down. The skin on the surface had started to peel away and flake, like he'd scraped it, but instead of a raw biting redness there was a scaly green sheen that smelled of bad eggs.

 

Dean's voice caught in his throat. He breathed hard as his eyes widened. "Sammy, something's wrong with me."

 

Sam caught him as he started to stumble and helped lower him to the ground. Inside, Dean felt all kinds of weird, like the coldness he'd felt earlier was growing to the point where there was nothing left, and as if something was churning in the pit of his stomach, something deep and dark and spoiled to the core.

 

"Dean!" Sam shouted into the forest. "Dean!"

 

Dean let out a threaded breath and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. He paused to glance down at his gun, knowing what he had to do if they didn't find him in time.

 

He knew Sam knew it, too.

 

"We're never gonna find me in fifteen minutes."

 

"Watch me."

 

*     *     *     *

 

Sam charged over to John and the younger Sam who were now standing on their feet. "We need to find Dean," Sam said, pacing. He turned around and glared into the forest. "Dean!"

 

John was already surveying the woodland, his eyes panicked and uncontrolled in a way Sam had never remembered before. Little Sam looked dazed and shocked.

 

"Dean!" John yelled. "Dean!"

 

Sam started pacing again and kept shooting nervous glances in Dean's general direction. He was looking worse and worse and if they didn't find his younger self in – Sam checked his watch – eleven minutes, then he was going to lose his brother.

 

He wasn't just going to lose Dean. He was going to lose his memories of him, of everything they had shared together.

 

Sam wasn't going to allow that to happen.

 

Sam reached over and grabbed his younger self and made direct eye contact. "I need you to remember. I need you to remember where they took Dean."

 

"I don't know," Little Sam whispered.

 

John was circling now, scanning the trees and the dead underbrush. Sam knew they all were hoping that the bogey had stashed Little Sam and Dean close together, unable to consider the consequences if it hadn't. John's voice rang out loud and uneven as he called for his oldest son, but Sam knew he kept a distrustful eye on him as well as an uneasy glance in Dean's direction.

 

Sam scanned the nearby brush. It was hard to see anything through the fog, and even when he tried to still his breathing and focus into the dark, he found he could barely see or hear anything.

 

Sam hastily looked at his watch. God, seven minutes.

 

"You have to remember," he told himself. "I know you're scared, and you want to forget everything. But this is important. You need to remember just for now."

 

Little Sam bit his lip and shook his head.

 

Sam felt his panic spike. "You're going to lose your brother. I'm going to lose my brother."

 

Little Sam shook from the desperation in Sam's tone and the urgency in his grasp, but nodded anyway. As his face pinched in deep thought, Sam stared into his eyes, trying to draw anything out of his younger self, from even himself, as to where Dean could be.

 

Then, like a flood, images and snapshots flashed through his mind. There were trees. Brushes. The cold January air. Screams and pleading. Fists, tugging, and dead silence.

 

Sam whipped his neck and stared at an overgrown tree in the distance nearly obscured by the rolling fog.

 

It was Dean. Dean was there.

 

Sam sprinted across the forest to the tree. There, high above him, nestled between one of the larger branches and the trunk, he found a quivering pod. Without delay, Sam drew his knife and cut a couple of chunks out of the old tree for foot and handholds and started to climb. He grabbed onto one of the branches and pulled himself up, reaching outward. After a heavy stretch, Sam yanked himself onto another branch and closed in on the pod.

 

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said. "We're going to get you out."

 

Sam furiously started to saw at the upper veins that attached the pod to the tree. Relief washed over him as he noted John and his younger self standing down below.

 

"Be ready to catch it," Sam called.

 

John nodded.

 

With one final thrust, Sam slashed the veins loose and watched the pod plummet. John caught it easily and began to tear through the sac.

 

Even from high above, Sam could tell the younger Dean was cold and motionless. John tore him out of the pod and held him close, just as he had done with his younger self. Sam couldn't hear what John was saying, but he looked visibly fearful. Little Sam hovered next to him.

 

After taking a deep breath, Sam started to climb down the tree. He jumped the rest of the way, landing beside John.

 

Little Dean looked dead. His face was unnaturally white, a shimmer to the pasty-looking skin. He felt his breath hitch as John pulled back his lip and searched his mouth.

 

"Come on, Dean," John whispered. "Come on."

 

Sam checked his watch. His face fell. It was two minutes after the first cut off time.

 

"It's not too late, right?" Sam asked.

 

John didn't answer. He kept trying to rouse Dean from his slumber.

 

That was when two shots rang out into the night.

 

"Don't let him go," Sam said, remembering the warning on the paper. "Don't let either of them go."

 

With that, Sam bolted into the darkness and tried not to think of who was at the end of those shots.

 

*     *     *     *

 

Dean watched the others vanish into the fog. He tried not to think that this was the last time he'd see them, see Sammy, or anyone for that matter. He sure as hell knew he wasn't going to let himself become one of those things.

 

Dean kept his .45 handy, loaded and ready, in the event it would come to that.

 

As he sat there, knowing the seconds were passing him by, he thought about his last moments. He hadn't expected to go out like this. Not that getting ripped to shreds by Hellhounds was an attractive alternative, but time-traveling paradoxes with monster inducing side effects was kind of low on his to-do list.

 

Sometimes he wished he had done more. Sometimes he didn't. He knew he wished he could have just told John who he was. He wished he could have hugged his dad one more time or told Sammy just how much he cared. He wished he could have said he was sorry.

 

But that kind of thing was awkward and uncomfortable. He wouldn't have done those things even if he wanted to.

 

Though, he did wish he could have had one last beer.

 

Dean winced and doubled over as he fought back the clawing in his gut. Everything about him was cold and empty; he'd give anything to feel warm again. He supposed that was why the bogies craved the warmth so much. They were trapped in a never-ending cycle of icy death.

 

He forced himself up and waited, sitting on his haunches. The fog seemed lighter, or maybe his vision had grown sharper from the changes. He knew his time was up now; he could feel part of himself slip away just like the last of the heat fading from his body. His skin was itching, his stomach hollow, and he could feel the subtle muscle movements in his mouth as his jaw readied itself for the incisors that were budding.

 

Dean looked to his gun.

 

He brought it upward and raised his head. He wasn't going to become some kid-stealing freak. If he was going out, he was going out a hero.

 

Dean leveled the gun to his temple. While it wasn't a chest shot, he knew it would have to do. His finger lingered on the trigger, hesitating, when he froze.

 

Ahead, he saw one of the bogies. The lumbering form shuffled toward him, its green eyes glinting with malice and delight through the gaps in its long, stringy black hair. It didn't have ears, or much of a nose, but the fangs were unmistakable. The thing looked hungry, starved for the warmth as much as he was, but also confused as it cocked its head and studied him.

 

"Well, you must be the queen bee," Dean said, ignoring the roughness to his voice. "Aren't you one ugly bitch."

 

The creature hissed at him and took a step forward. He laughed at it and waved his gun.

 

"That's right. Come on over. We'll have one big ol' family reunion." He coughed. "Come meet the newest addition to the family."

 

The creature charged him. Two quick shots and she was dead.

 

Dean sat in silence as he watched her body convulse on the ground. Purple fluid poured everywhere, staining the ground, his shirt, and even the tree beside him. But he didn't care.

 

He checked his gun. He still had plenty of ammo.

 

"Dean!"

 

Dean glanced up, shocked to find Sam barreling towards him. He groaned, not wanting Sam to see him like this, and definitely not wanting Sam to be here when the deed had to be done.

 

But before Sam even reached him, Dean felt a wave of heat smack him in the chest. It hit him so hard he was flung backwards and struck the ground with a thud. At first he thought he was feeling the intensity of Sam's heat, but he as forced himself to sit, he realized this heat coursed through him like hot blood. His hot blood.

 

"You okay?" Sam said, nearly breathless. He started to check Dean's hands.

 

Dean patted his chest and poked at his teeth. Nothing. He glanced down at his hands. No peeling. No emptiness in his stomach. No coldness aside from the normal January chill.

 

"Huh," he managed to say. He was perfectly fine, as if nothing had happened.

 

Then, the stench hit him. Dean gagged. The bogeyman stunk of rotten, wet wood, bad eggs, and dishwater.

 

"God, that thing reeks."

 

"No, actually, that's you."

 

Dean blinked at him; Sam just offered him a sheepish smile.

 

"We are so never hunting bogies again," Dean muttered.

 

Sam helped him to his feet and the two of them lumbered over to where John sat with his children. Both were awake now, though dazed and disoriented, but they allowed their father to cling to them like he would never let them go.

 

Dean didn't make a comment and neither did Sam. They didn't need to talk about it. They didn't need John to talk about it. Watching their dad just sit there, sobbing lightly, as he clung to his two sons said more than any conversation could have.

 

The image would be burned into Dean's memory for as long as he had one. And one thing was for sure, he wasn't about to ever let it go.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

Dean sat behind the wheel of the Impala, waiting for Sam to finish copying the spell onto the notepad they'd snatched from the motel. Just down the road, he could see John securing their younger selves into the back seat of his Impala.

 

"Just about done there, Yoda? Dad's waiting."

 

"Almost," Sam said.

 

"Not like we're in a hurry or anything."

 

"I said almost," Sam muttered, sending him a deadly glare as he began scratching the warning into the new sheet of paper. "You can't rush perfection."

 

"Perfection my ass." He just shook his head.

 

Dean wanted to get on the open road and put as much distance between himself and this town as possible. After the cops received that helpful anonymous tip concerning the missing children in the woods, Dean didn't think strangers would be slipping in and out of the city limits with much ease. Before things got too hairy, he wanted to be in a different state or two.

 

Or more specifically, back where they belonged.

 

"You know," Sam said, pausing long enough that Dean turned to face him. "We could always stay."

 

"Stay?" Dean laughed. "With the cops on our asses?"

 

"Not here. I mean, here in the past."

 

Dean frowned. "Why the hell would you want to stay in the past?"

 

"Dean, your year is almost up. Maybe this is your way out. If you're not there in the future, the demon can't come to collect your soul."

 

"A year's a year, Sammy. That's assuming demons can't time travel. And last I hear that's welching and no welching on the deal."

 

"We don't know that."

 

"I'm not taking that chance."

 

Sam sighed, "Dean…"

 

"So, I get stuck in the past with your rotting corpse?" Dean scoffed. "Yeah, that's living the dream."

 

"And if we don't find a way, then I get stuck with your rotting corpse."

 

"You said it yourself. We don't belong here."

 

Dean looked ahead, watching John lean over the side of the Impala and talk to their young selves. He thought back to his confrontation with himself due to the dream root – the anger, the grief, the sadness. He thought of everything he'd said about his dad, both true and false. He knew he had to let it go, accept his dad for the person he was.

 

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and raised his head a little higher. "I can't keep living in the past, Sammy. No matter how much I want to, I can't."

 

"I know," Sam said quietly.

 

And Dean wanted to stay. He wanted nothing more for it to just be him, Sammy, and Dad traveling on the open highway, working jobs, running scams, and killing creeps. He wanted it to be the way it used to be.

 

Only he knew it would never be the same. He was a different person now, changed by the battles and the hardships of their ever-complicated lives. So was Sam. So was Dad, wherever he might be. They could never be the way they used to be.

 

But he kept trying. Dean knew that if he ever saw or heard from his dad again, he'd latch on and never let go. That's why he knew they couldn't linger. They had to leave before he spilled everything.

 

"It's done," Sam said. He took out the yellowed paper and shoved it in his pocket before sticking the freshly copied sheet inside. Dean didn't ask why he needed to do something so stupid and repetitive, but then again Sam always was a compulsive freak.

 

Dean sighed. "You ready for this?"

 

Sam nodded. "No."

 

"Yeah, me either. Let's go."

 

The two of them exited the car and started a slow walk to John's Impala. John met them halfway; the three of them stood there – caught in a mini face-off – on the outskirts of town.

 

"We'll be heading east," John said. "I want to still follow that lead."

 

"I hope something turns up," Sam said.

 

"Same for you."

 

Dean frowned and gave them both a once over, curious as to what they were talking about now. Only this time, he let it go.

 

Instead, he turned his attention to their dad's Impala. Inside, his younger self looked completely out of it, resting his head on the side of the interior. As he stared at himself, it dawned on him why he had such few memories of the town while hating it at the same time. He glanced to the left. The younger Sam appeared more aware, energized enough to be fiddling with an action figure, but drained to the point where he could only absently flip through a newspaper.

 

Dean wondered if the buck seventy-five heist was in that paper.

 

"How're they doing?" he decided to ask, pointing to their younger selves.

 

"Still dazed," John said. "I'm gonna tell them they had the flu. I don't want them to remember something like this."

 

Dean looked over to Sam and smiled. At least it now all made sense, even the missing info in their dad's journal. But there was no time for small talk. Dean knew it was time to wrap things up.

 

"We need to ask a favor of you." Sam said.

 

John gave them a curious look. "And what would that be?"

 

"Our magic box." Dean motioned to the box in Sam's hands. "We need a safe place to hide it. Somewhere no one will take it."

 

John eyed them both. "You want me to take it."

 

Sam nodded. "It's very powerful magic. It shouldn't be out where anyone can touch it."

 

"You boys are never gonna tell me what it does," John said knowingly.

 

Dean smiled. "Nope."

 

"I have a place," John said. "I can take it."

 

"Great." Dean clapped his hands together with satisfaction. "Also, can we borrow two hundred dollars?"

 

John stared. "What?"

 

"Two hundred bucks," he repeated. He ran over their expenses in his head and considering the dump they'd stayed in, two hundred seemed about right. "We'll pay you back someday."

 

"He's serious," Sam said.

 

John shook his head and reached into his wallet. "I don't know why I'm doing this." He flipped through and grabbed a handful of bills. "This is hard-earned money."

 

Dean snatched it and smiled before he handed it to Sam.

 

"Thanks," Sam said. He stuffed the money in the fold of the box while a speechless John watched. Sam let out a deep breath. "Okay. I'm ready."

 

Dean nodded. They'd gone over this three times already in the car. Sam had told him there was a particular order they had to follow to make sure the spell was complete. He still didn't understand how the whole thing worked, but Sam and his "feelings" seemed pretty confident on the whole process.

 

Dean cleared his throat. "I guess we should be going."

 

John nodded. "Okay."

 

With a sigh, Dean gave the signal for Sam to do his thing.

 

Sam reached into the box and withdrew the second talisman. He whispered the Latin over it, by heart, and when he was finished he dropped the talisman back into the box. Without hesitation, Dean grabbed it from him, careful not to touch his skin, and locked the box tight.

 

There was no going back now.

 

He handed it to John.

 

Naturally, John was suspicious as he watched Sam's body stiffen from the incantation. His intense gaze struck Dean like a ton of bricks. "Are you boys in some kind of trouble?"

 

Dean shook his head. "No, sir. Just setting things right."

 

John frowned. Dean could tell just by looking at him that he was concerned, that he wanted to know everything, that he even had the desire to help them. They had somehow earned his affection and his trust in a way that Dean knew would be impossible for any other stranger to duplicate. He swallowed hard and stood taller.

 

"You boys did great out there." John cleared his throat and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. If Dean didn't know any better, he thought maybe his dad was misty-eyed. "I know you make your dad proud. I know I am."

 

Dean felt his eyes start to well. The pride and the warmth in John's face overwhelmed him. It felt like he had been asleep, cold and dead, and now he'd finally been roused into the sun.

 

He didn't want to let it go. He never wanted to let go.

 

"We have to go now," Sam said between clenched teeth.

 

Dean felt his lip start to quiver and his voice strained as he tried to talk. "I don't wanna say goodbye."

 

John squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll meet again someday."

 

Dean quickly nodded, trying to end the conversation before he started sobbing like a baby. He gave John one final nod of thanks and turned his back to him, knowing this would be the last time he would ever see his father again. As he headed toward the car, the tears ran freely, soaking his face and the collar of his shirt.

 

He didn't care if Sam saw him. He just couldn't hold it back.

 

Dean didn't say a word when he reached the Impala. Sam's body was already starting to erupt with mild spasms, and he knew if they didn't get this whole time travel process right, Sam could just vanish right then and there.

 

He opened the door of the Impala for Sam. When he was safely inside, he shut the door and ran to the other side.

 

Dean hopped into the driver's seat and glanced over at Sam. The spasms were getting worse. He managed one more lingering look to John. Their father watched them, giving them one final appreciative nod before he in turn started for the Impala.

 

Now was the time.

 

Taking a deep breath, Dean grabbed the steering wheel and with his free hand he reached over and touched Sam.

 

The burning electricity ripped through him and snapped his head back. As he felt his consciousness slipping, Dean saw the world buzz and blink out and thrust them into complete darkness.

 

*     *     *     *

 

The sound of a car honking brought Sam back to his senses. He jerked in his seat and nearly smacked his head on the roof.

 

He breathed out and looked around, trying to clear the fatigue and sleepiness from his head. Outside, the rain was coming down at a steady rate, pinging off the hood of the Impala and the street sign ahead.

 

Beside him, Dean was out cold.

 

"Dean." He gave him an urgent shove. "Dean, wake up."

 

Dean jumped and did smack his head on the roof. "Dammit." He rubbed his head and looked over at Sam. The same sleepiness Sam felt was etched into his brother's glassy eyes.

 

"Dream?" Dean asked.

 

Sam checked the floor for the charm box. Then the backseat. Not finding it anywhere, he gave a shrug. "Not unless we both dreamed the same thing and made the box disappear."

 

"This isn't something left over from the whole Jeremy thing?"

 

"I doubt it," Sam said.

 

Dean leaned back and nodded. To Sam's surprise, he fell silent. Sam gave him the moment, knowing Dean didn't often indulge in open reflection.

 

"You know," he finally said, staring ahead into the rain. "I was thinking."

 

"Don't strain yourself."

 

Dean glared at him. "I'm trying to have a moment here."

 

"Sorry."

 

He turned his attention back to the rain. "I was thinking maybe you're right. Maybe that whole thing was destined or some other Jedi Force mumbo jumbo. Maybe I needed to see Dad again, you know. Just one last time."

 

Sam gazed intently at his brother. "Dean, don't talk like that."

 

"I don't know." Dean let out a nervous chuckle. "I just thought maybe for a second Dad knew who I was. That he really appreciated me. That he knew we'd turned out all right." He paused. "Well, mostly."

 

"He always loved us, Dean."

 

"I know that. I know." He breathed out. Then, the vulnerability was gone and the mask returned, complete with his deflective smile. "You don't think he figured it out, do you?"

 

Sam shook his head. "We came off weird, but he's used to that. He raised you."

 

Dean hit him. "Shad up."

 

Sam just chuckled. When Dean turned to start the car, Sam let his smile fade. He could deal with allowing Dean to believe that the box was a way for him to tie up loose ends and work through the issues he had with their dad. He could pretend that the whole point of their trip was to help battle the bogeyman. But in the end, Sam knew the real reason was to keep the balance in order, to make sure the infinity loop never ended.

 

When his younger self had held that talisman, he had imprinted himself to it, binding his will to the charm. The link could only be restarted by Sam, and it could only work for that time, that place. The loop of the ouroboros would continue – his younger self would grow to be him, bringing the bits of memory with him – with the box – and then it would start all over again. They were meant to be there.

 

He knew that it was a lesson for him. It was a reminder.

 

Sam realized he had been right all long. The box was key in saving Dean, just not in the way he had originally thought.

 

But Dean was still in trouble. The answer to saving Dean from his deal wasn't going to be found in a simple charm box or in the past. The answer was here and now.

 

He'd almost lost Dean today. He wouldn't lose him again.

 

The Impala roared as the engine started. Dean shook his head, wiping his tired eyes, and pulled the car into the road. Sam had a feeling they'd be making a pit stop soon to try to combat the fatigue, but it wouldn't be in Creeksboro.

 

It would never be in Creeksboro again.

 

"Hey, something's bugging me," Dean said as they headed down the highway.

 

"What?" Sam asked.

 

"I don't get it. If you only copied the spell, where the hell did it originally come from? Or the box? Or any of it for that matter?" He shook his head. "And where the hell is it now? Back in storage or what?"

 

"It's just a paradox." Sam patted him on the shoulder. "Try not to think about it."

 

Dean shrugged his shoulders and stepped on the gas. In their rearview mirror, Creeksboro faded until it was just a speck on the horizon.

 

As they drove into the night, their thoughts turned to days long past, and of that one special night sixteen years ago after they had been sick with the flu. The memory became etched in their minds, clear as crystal. They remembered that happy time, embracing the spark of normalcy as their dad sat them down in the ice cream parlor and let them eat to their hearts' content. And as they relished the warmth of that time, so lost in the moment, they missed the knowing smile that only a prideful father who had realized his children's potential could wear.

 

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