Chapter Text
The Croatoan virus hit on a Wednesday.
Within twenty-four hours, the shit was already drying on the fan. Within forty-eight, the world had changed forever.
The infected roamed, viciously infecting others with blood-to-blood contact. Those that miraculously avoided contracting the virus found themselves under siege, from friends, family and strangers alike. ‘Kill or be killed’ became a way of life thrust upon those left behind.
John Winchester lost his wife, but was spared along with his two boys. He packed them into his car with whatever belongings they could quickly grab and they ran.
There was nowhere to go to, of course, so they never stopped running.
When the outbreak started, Dean was four and Sam was six months old. The chaos of those early days had a profound impact on his eldest son and almost overnight, Dean went from being a regular little boy to one who had seen far too much, far too young. On that terrible night, John had pushed Sam into Dean’s arms and implored him to run while he dealt with his inexplicably homicidal wife. He was never certain how much Dean had witnessed of what he’d done to keep them safe before the little boy had followed his father’s instruction and run.
When Dean stopped speaking, John assumed it was a temporary reaction to everything that had happened. When weeks turned into months, then into years, it became the norm. While on a supply run, John broke into a library and stole books on American Sign Language and Dean was given his voice back.
Sam never knew any different: not that his brother had once talked like regular people or that life was completely different before the Croatoan virus decimated the population. Mary’s death made John determined to survive. He trained his boys to fight, imparting everything the Marines had taught him, and then some. Undoubtedly, it was every man for himself out there, but his boys were the exception – they looked out for each other. End of story.
John disappeared when Dean was twenty-six and Sam was twenty-two. Although no one could change the fact that the virus had happened, John always wanted answers or revenge, because of the personal cost to their family. Once he was certain that Sam and Dean could manage without him, he started to disappear for increasing amounts of time, hooking up with like-minded people. They called themselves ‘hunters’- always tracking information, all searching for a cure, or answers or both. There were stories that had gained momentum with time – that the virus was manmade or, more outlandishly, the work of demons.
It wasn’t unusual for John to be gone for several weeks, but when the weeks became a month, and then two, they started to think that something might have happened to him. Sam had clashed regularly with their dad over his obsession, with Dean forced to act as peacemaker. Personally, Sam felt that they should just be grateful that they survived and try to make the best of it, but John was bull-headed – had been long before the virus came along – and kept on with his quest, his son’s wishes be damned.
They’d moved on several times since John had gone on his last hunt, but, as per his instruction, they’d diligently left a trail so he would know where to find them. Even with the passing of time, they both still expected him to burst in at some point, wild-eyed and raving about his latest theory of what had brought the human race to its knees.
Every day that didn’t happen, the likelihood increased that John was dead. Sam oscillated between fear and acceptance – Dean, on the other hand, seemed firmly rooted in denial; their father would return, like he always did.
Regardless of what had happened to him, life went on.
OoOoO
Sam hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays meant the supply run, a routine their dad had started and Dean insisted they keep to, even when the man himself wasn’t present. They always kept a stockpile of essentials, but John took obsessive to pains to remind them there was no such thing as being ‘too prepared’.
You ready to go? Dean asked, his hands forming the signs rapidly when Sam emerged from the bathroom and looked his way. Dean had been itching to go ever since they’d first awoken.
“Yeah.”
Dean’s impatience was down to one thing and one thing alone: they needed to find more fuel for the car. When their father had scooped them up and driven them away from the wreckage that was their family life, he’d done so in a sleek, black 1967 Chevolet Impala. The car had essentially become their home, so keeping it running was a given.
With refineries unmanned and the shelf life of gasoline pitifully short, the amount of available fuel dwindled rapidly. Determine to keep their car running, John had converted it to run on alcohol with the help of a fellow survivor. It had remained functional ever since. Others had done the same, but the constant need to keep searching for fuel meant few survivors ran cars anymore.
Eventually John had bequeathed the car to Dean, who treated it with such reverence it was essentially the fourth member of the Winchester family. To Dean, keeping the car in ethanol was as important as keeping them fed and safe.
Come on then, Dean signed impatiently, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.
Sam rolled his eyes once Dean had turned his back, but he went to retrieve his own weapons. They’d been at this abandoned motel for five days. There had been a few Croats roaming, which they’d quickly taken care of, and they hadn’t seen a soul, infected or otherwise, since then. The Impala was garaged, hidden safely away until they were ready to move on.
You wanna go this way? Dean asked as they headed out of the motel parking lot. Sam glanced around, shielding his eyes against the early morning sun. When they’d first arrived, they’d passed a row of boarded up stores so it seemed the obvious place to head for, when they had no idea what lay in the other direction.
“Sure.”
His eyes were on the road ahead when he saw Dean starting to sign out of his peripheral vision.
What’s up with you?
“Nothing.”
His answer didn’t seem to satisfy his brother, who was still watching him closely, his expression calling bullshit. Sam sighed, momentarily transfixed by the amulet his brother wore bouncing against his chest as he walked.
“I just think we should think about what we’re doing. It’s been two months, Dean.”
No, Dean signed angrily. We keep doing what Dad told us. We can’t just disappear somewhere. He might need our help.
“And he might not. You know Dad; he’s probably chasing some stupid lead about who he can be pissed with. Talk about bearing grudges...”
Fuck you.
They walked in silence. Something about that amused Sam. With a mute brother as his only source of company, it was always silent, but he’d come to realise that there was silence and there was silence, and this was definitely the latter.
This certainly wasn’t a new argument, but it was as pointless as every other time they’d had it. Dean had an unfailing belief in their father’s actions, regardless of the effect it had on them. Sam, on the other hand, saw every wound it caused in graphic detail, particularly to his brother.
Before Sam could work out how to re-open the lines of communication, they’d reached the stores they’d seen when they first arrived in the area. Dean headed for the first one in the row, which appeared to have been a general store. There was evidence that some of the planks used to board up the store had been removed – never a good sign, as it usually meant the store had already been raided and anything of worth taken – but it was always worth a look.
They made short work of the remaining planks over one of the windows and were inside within a minute. After a quick sweep of the place, they were satisfied they weren’t about to be ambushed by Croats or other survivors and set about seeing what they could take.
Ignoring the stench of decay, they moved up and down the aisles. Experience had taught them what to look for – even twenty-two years after the Croatoan virus had brought the world to a standstill, some goods were still worth taking. Anything canned in alcohol or that naturally had a high acidic content could possibly still be edible, so they’d grab that.
In the intervening years, the animal population had flourished, so meat and fish were always in fresh supply for those that could hunt. Naturally their father had trained them well, so they rarely went hungry. However, anything they could salvage from the old days was a welcome bonus.
“Hey, check it out,” Sam called out with a grin. When Dean looked over he waved a couple of Twinkies at him. Dean rolled his eyes. Through the gloom, Sam could just about make out the signs as Dean replied.
Great. They’ll still be around even after the fucking cockroaches have gone.
Sam laughed, relieved that Dean wasn’t still brooding over their earlier disagreement. They resumed their search, loading goods into their bags with practised efficiency, one ear always listening out for Croats. They’d been caught out before so it was a diligence they took seriously.
Sam was investigating some bags of white rice when Dean whistled. He could differentiate between a whistle to indicate an emergency and one simply to get his attention, and this was the latter. When he looked up, Dean was grinning and pointing towards a window at the back of the store. Abandoning the rice, he stood and went to see what Dean had found.
Stacked up outside were boxes covered with a heavy tarp, all housed under a precarious-looking wooden shelter. The location had kept the weather off and even through the grimy window he could make out the words ‘methylated spirits’ on one of the rotting cardboard boxes.
Jackpot, Dean signed and Sam knew his brother would already be doing a mental calculation as to how many bottles they could take with them and how long that would keep the car going for. Sam was good at math, but the mental calculations Dean did and the speed at which he could do them was truly astounding.
Sam was just about to voice a reply when Dean held up a finger, all good humour instantly gone from his expression. At times like this, Sam couldn’t help but think of Dean as a gundog, front leg raised, tail stiff, scenting the air in anticipation of something. Dean was also rarely wrong, so he followed his brother’s lead and raised his gun.
Agonizing seconds passed and Sam was just contemplating asking Dean what was up when he heard a sound from outside. It was a scratching, shuffling sound, slowly getting louder. Suddenly a face appeared in the window they’d gained entry through, a broad grin breaking onto the man’s face when he realised there were other people here.
“Hey, guys,” the man said affably. He looked to be in his fifties, with straggly greying hair and yellowed teeth. “You wanna get the door so I can come in?”
“No,” Sam said flatly. “How about you tell us what it is you’re looking for and we’ll tell you if there’s any in here.”
“Come on,” the man implored. “What’s the harm? Let me in! I’m not gonna hurt you boys.”
Sam didn’t need to look to know that Dean was rolling his eyes.
“Sir, I’m gonna ask you one last time. Tell us what you want or leave.”
The guy suddenly gave an animalistic roar and drove his fists into the remaining planks, splintering wood and hitting the jagged glass that remained around the edges. His knuckles were instantly obliterated, but he drew them back to repeat the action, seemingly oblivious to his injuries. He never got chance to go for that second strike as a bullet hole appeared in his forehead and he disappeared from view, his body making a dull thump as he hit the sidewalk.
Sam sighed as Dean lowered his weapon and shook his head.
Fucking Croats, Dean signed. Come on, let’s get what we came for.
They didn’t really talk again until they were back at the motel. A couple of weeks back they’d found some bottles of whiskey at an old farmhouse they’d explored. Dean, clearly buoyed from finding a decent supply of fuel for the car, poured them a tumbler each and they sat and toasted a successful supply run.
Sam was studying the amber liquid when Dean waved to get his attention.
What’s up?
“Nothing.”
It was that Croat, wasn’t it? Why’d you always try to talk to them?
Dean had put his drink down so that he could sign more fluently. His hands were poised, ready to respond to whatever Sam would say next. Sam shrugged.
“There’s always a chance that they could be a survivor, Dean.”
So? Probably still need to put a bullet in them.
Sam shook his head, aware of his rising irritation. He hated his brother’s innate cynicism.
“Don’t you ever wonder, Dean, about others? There’ll be other people like us out there, you know.”
Dean frowned and signed, So?, again.
“Don’t you want to meet them? Don’t you have any interest in finding out how others live?”
No. Clearly you do, though. Is it that bad being stuck with me?
Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was obviously hurt by what he perceived as Sam’s attempt to expand his social circle, but he displayed it as anger instead.
“No, Dean, it’s not about that at all. I just think we shouldn’t automatically shut everyone out.”
Safer, Dean signed emphatically. We can’t trust other people.
You can’t, Sam thought, but he didn’t say it.
OoOoO
They spent the next couple of days exploring the neighborhood. The large supply of ethanol still ranked as their best find, but they also were able to replenish their food stocks and add some valuable ammunition to the arsenal they carried in the trunk of the car.
With the area swept, it seemed logical to move on, but it raised the obvious issue of where they went next. Sam knew looking for their father would still be front and center in his brother’s mind, and he wasn’t about to disagree – he was just tired of having no discernible plan of attack.
Although John didn’t talk in detail about his sojourns, names did get mentioned in passing – there was a Caleb, a guy called Jim who was possibly a pastor and someone called Bobby Singer. In Sam’s mind, their next step should be trying to find these people.
Dean, as always, was happy for them to go it alone and had nixed any of Sam’s previous suggestions to look for the people John associated with. It didn’t hurt to try again though.
“Dean?” Sam said as his brother emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed and towelling his face off following a shave. Dean nodded to show he was listening.
“I’ve been thinking... about Dad’s contacts,” he said, studying his brother’s expression to gauge how well this conversation was going. “And aside from a few names, we’ve got squat, but didn’t Dad mention some kind of roadhouse that he stopped off at a few times?”
Watching Dean meant he could tell that his brother was weighing up whether to admit that he knew that information as well. He eventually nodded.
“I’m sure when he talked about it once, he said it was in Nebraska somewhere. Logan or Lincoln or somewhere like that?”
Lincoln, Dean replied, finger spelling the name. He looked unhappy, but resigned. Sam figured Dean had also reached the conclusion that the time had come to start putting the feelers out, even if he hated the thought of doing it.
Sam nodded solemnly, not wanting to show Dean he was pleased that his brother was acquiescing at last.
“Lincoln it is then.”
OoOoO
It took them a full day’s travel to reach Nebraska. They passed through Omaha, stopping briefly to check on a supply bunker they’d set up several months earlier and stash some of the items they’d come across recently. They had similar bunkers all over the country to ensure they were never far from supplies, should they need them – another John Winchester duty they would almost certainly continue with even if their dad never returned.
When they reached Lincoln, they set about trying to find the location of the roadhouse. Dean, now that he was onboard with the plan, had admitted he knew a few other details from things their dad had said, which helped narrow it down a little.
They spent the day driving around with no luck, their optimism fading with the daylight. A night in the car, in low temperatures, did little for their moods and the following morning, Sam was contemplating suggesting that they call off the search.
They ate meager rations at the roadside and set off again, eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the roadhouse. After several hours, Sam was about to propose that they head for somewhere that had once been more populated and look for supplies so it wasn’t a completely wasted trip, when Dean suddenly slammed on the brakes.
“Shit, Dean! You wanna give me a heads up when you’re gonna do that?” Sam complained.
Recovering from the unexpected jolt, he followed the direction of Dean’s gaze. Past his brother’s head, out of the driver’s side window, Sam could make out a building set back a few hundred feet from the road. Dean turned to look at him, the unspoken question in his expression.
“Worth a try,” Sam said with a shrug.
Dean put the car into reverse until they found the dirt track that led up to the building. They’d never actually discussed what they’d do if they found the place, but Dean didn’t appear to be too worried about having that talk now. Going in armed usually sufficed in his brother’s books.
At first glance, the roadhouse looked abandoned. Sam glanced across at his brother, whose own gaze was fixed on the run-down edifice.
“You wanna go in?” Sam asked doubtfully.
Dean shrugged, but he was already getting out of the car. With no choice but to follow his brother, Sam sighed and started after him. Guns in hand, they climbed onto the porch, scanning for signs of life. Dean tried the door and it opened.
The interior was dark, unsurprising with some of the windows still boarded up. Dean moved left and Sam went right, weapons drawn. Sam was just about to remark that the place seemed empty when the door in front of him opened and a guy stepped out sporting the worst mullet he’d ever seen outside of a photograph of life in the 1980s. The guy’s eyes grew wide when he noticed he had company – and company that had a gun pointed at his face. His hands went up in a gesture of surrender as Dean then emerged from the shadows, weapon also trained on him.
“Uh, Ellen?” the guy said without turning. “You’ve got customers.”
From behind him a woman emerged, looking first surprised and then annoyed at the sight of their guns. She was followed by a younger girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to the other woman. Mother and daughter, Sam reasoned, putting the younger woman at a similar age to himself.
“What the...?” the older of the pair started to say before her eyes narrowed and she studied each of them in turn. “Wait - you look like... are you John Winchester’s boys?”
Not willing to let his guard down, Sam quickly threw a glance at his brother, whose expression hadn’t changed. Either he didn’t know this woman or he didn’t care for the fact that she knew them.
“Are you Sam or Dean?” she asked Sam, since he was closest.
Neither she nor the other girl appeared the least bit fazed that they had weapons. The mullet guy remained silent, eyes flicking back and forth, hands still raised presumably in the hope that he wasn’t about to get shot.
“I’m Sam,” Sam replied. “How do you know our dad?”
The woman, Ellen, smiled.
“John’s stopped by here more than a few times.” She nodded towards an old photograph pinned up behind the bar where, sure enough, John was featured in amongst the other patrons. He was sitting next to an older guy with a beard, the other man’s face partly obscured by a worn cap. John was unsmiling, as usual.
“I’m Ellen, this is my daughter, Jo.” She moved behind the bar and started to pour whiskey into some tumblers. Neither brother moved.
“You know, if you’re gonna shoot Ash, could you do it elsewhere? I’ve just mopped the floor.”
The comment, plus Ash’s indignant reaction, broke the tension and Sam laughed. He lowered his weapon, even though he could feel Dean’s glare.
“Sam? Dean? You want one?” Ellen said as she knocked back her own drink.
With a quick apologetic glance at Ash, Sam put his gun away and moved over to the bar. Ash disappeared into the back room, passing Jo who studiously ignored him in favour of appraising the newcomers.
“Thanks.”
“Dean?” Ellen said, pushing the glass towards the glowering figure.
After a long moment, Dean put his own gun away, glanced quickly at Sam, and then took the proffered drink.
“So are you all hunters?” Sam asked.
Ellen shrugged. “We’re more of a... ‘hunters’ retreat’, for those passing through. So what brings you boys here?” she asked.
“Our dad’s missing,” Sam replied, seeing no reason to lie. “It’s not unusual for him to be away for a few weeks, but it’s been two months. He might need help, so we thought we’d start with some of his contacts.”
Ellen nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sorry, but John’s not been here for at least five months, maybe six.”
Sam glanced over to Dean, who jerked his head in a ‘let’s go’ motion.
“But we might be able to help.”
Sam hadn’t moved, but he could tell by the way Dean halted that his brother was at least prepared to hear Ellen out.
“Ash keeps tabs on what’s going on out there. He’s got connections that he can call on, ask around for you? I know John’s hooked up with some of the other hunters that Ash is in communication with.”
Sam looked at Dean, whose body was still angled towards the door. He signed quickly to Dean.
Up to you. I’ve not got any better ideas.
Dean gave the exit one last longing glance and then abruptly sat down.
OoOoO
“So what’s the deal with your brother?” Jo asked, glancing around to where Dean was pacing. Sam turned too. Dean was fingering the cord of the amulet around his neck, something he did habitually when he was uncomfortable.
“He the strong, silent type or something?”
Sam huffed a polite laugh. “Something like that.”
“You were signing to each other. Is he deaf?”
“No.”
“But he signs?”
“Yeah.”
Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He could understand the curiosity, but it didn’t mean he should be subjected to the Spanish Inquisition either. Jo was still staring at Dean, who was either oblivious to the scrutiny or pointedly trying to ignore it.
“Dean can hear,” he said, “but he doesn’t speak.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
Jo frowned, evidently thinking she was missing something.
“How does he get your attention when you’re not looking at him then?”
“He whistles.”
“Huh. What if he hits his thumb with a hammer?”
“He kicks the crap out of something.”
Jo grinned at him suggestively. “What about when he comes?”
Sam fixed her with an unhappy glare. “Tell you what: why don’t you go and ask him? I’m sure you won’t need me to translate ‘fuck off’ for you.”
Her smile faded. “Sorry,” she muttered after a moment’s silence. “I was just joking. It gets a little dull in here when all you see is the same four walls and the same bored faces.”
“If it keeps you safe...” Sam countered.
Jo made a face. “Safe is boring, Sam. I wanna be out there hunting.”
“Safe’s also alive. I could think of worse things.”
Jo turned away and Sam wondered if she was sulking. Across the room, Dean’s posture and expression radiated tension. Although Dean had agreed to come, Sam had known it wouldn’t be easy for him since Dean didn’t respond well to other people. Behind him the door opened and Ash stepped out, one hand scrubbing across his untidy mullet.
“Well, there’s good news and bad.”
“Okay,” Sam said, aware the others were listening. “What’ve you got?”
“Okay,” Ash repeated as he wandered over and accepted the drink Ellen passed to him. “There’s a chance I can track where your dad went.”
“I’m guessing that’s the good news.”
“Yeah. The bad news is it might take me a couple of days.”
Sam glanced over at his brother, but Dean’s expression told him nothing. Since they didn’t come into contact with many people, he’d forgotten how shuttered his brother could be around others.
“You boys can stay here,” Ellen said. “I’ve got a free room upstairs; you’re welcome to use it.”
It sounded like a good idea, but Sam knew it wasn’t solely his decision to make. He offered Ellen a grateful smile. Evidently she sensed his reluctance to decide while there were others present.
“Up to you boys; I won’t be offended if you say no.”
She knew they’d need to talk so she picked up a pile of bar rags and disappeared into the back room, shooing Ash and Jo with her. Sam turned to his brother, knowing that even though they were alone, Dean wouldn’t entertain any discussion unless he signed too.
What do you think? Sam began.
Dean huffed and shook his head. I don’t know. How’d we know we can trust them? Dean’s motions were jerky and angry.
Sam rolled his eyes. Have they given us any reason not to? You saw the picture, Dad’s been here. He must have trusted them.
Dean didn’t respond immediately. Sam knew he’d be at war with himself now – unhappy that he might be about to make a different decision to the one their father had made. Dean’s hands were still for a moment, then he started to sign, but it was hesitant and he stopped a couple of times before delivering his verdict.
Fine, we’ll stay.
Sam nodded, relieved that Dean had been persuaded – for now at least.
OoOoO
While Ash worked, Dean told Sam he’d take the opportunity to do some work on the car. It didn’t need work – it never needed any work – but Sam wasn’t about to force his brother to be around people more than was necessary. Jo had also disappeared, leaving Sam alone with Ellen.
“You need a hand with anything?” he asked, wanting to make himself useful.
She smiled. “Okay. You wanna help me move some boxes?”
“Sure.”
He followed her through into a storeroom, stocked high with crates and boxes. Evidently she noticed his raised eyebrows as she laughed suddenly.
“We’re a roadhouse, Sam. We need stuff to sell.”
“You take money?” he asked, surprised. He knew about currency, but there’d never been any use for it in his lifetime.
She cocked her head. “Figure of speech; we trade stuff – food, information, you know.”
“D’you get a lot of business?”
“Not much. It’s mostly the same faces, but it’s not like we’ve got rent or an electricity bill to pay, so we’re good.”
“Awesome,” Sam replied, trying to imagine what it would be like to stay in one place and failing, so alien was the concept to him. “Okay. Tell me what you want moving.”
OoOoo
“You know,” Ellen said after they’d been working a while. “You probably don’t remember, but you came here a few times with your dad when you were little.”
Sam looked up. “Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t think you were even twelve months old the first time you came.”
The question was on Sam’s lips instantly, but he hesitated to ask it for a moment, feeling disloyal to his brother by talking about him when he wasn’t there.
“What was Dean like back then?”
Ellen smiled fondly as she recalled the memories, but the expression was also tinged with sadness.
“He was a very, very serious little boy. Don’t think I ever saw him smile, apart from at you.”
“Did... did you ever hear him talk?”
“Not directly,” Ellen replied, shaking her head. “I think he talked to you and sang to you, but it was rare to hear him actually doing it. It was like he always knew when people were listening.”
Sam nodded. “I wish I could remember that.”
“Doesn’t he talk when you’re on your own?” Ellen asked, surprised.
“No. I’ve never heard him speak.”
She seemed to process this for a moment. They both started to move the boxes again.
“I know a little ASL,” Ellen said after another minute or so had passed. “Granted, I’m hella rusty, but I couldn’t recognise any of the signs when you were talking to each other.”
Sam smiled as he handed her a crate, the bottles rattling loudly.
“When my dad realised Dean wasn’t going to speak, he managed to find a couple of ASL books, but for the most part, the signs are ones we’ve invented.”
“So it’s like your own private language,” she mused.
Sam paused, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah. I never really thought of it like that, but I guess it is.”
“Is that never a problem for Dean?”
He considered the question and shook his head.
“It’s not really because we live on our own. As you’ve probably gathered, Dean’s not exactly one for socialising. My dad never said anything to you when he’s been here?”
Ellen shrugged. “I asked him a few times why he didn’t bring you boys back here when you were older. I thought it would have been good for you to get a change of scenery and Jo sure as hell would have liked the company, but your daddy never really gave me a reason, and he’s not the kind of man you push.”
They exchanged wry smiles. Clearly Ellen had a good handle on his dad beyond one grainy photograph. Her smile faded.
“Once, when he was drinking hard, he told me Dean had problems - that he worried for him, for the both of you. He said so long as you stuck together you’d be okay.”
“And we will. He’s my brother.”
Ellen nodded. “Does it get lonely, Sam?”
He could feel her scrutiny and it was almost impossible not to get defensive. He knew if he did, it would just prove her point, regardless of whatever denial he issued.
“Not often, but yeah... sometimes, maybe.” He ran a hand across his hair in frustration. “Being so young when it all happened, I’ve never known any different. I see the world – Dean just sees everything that’s bad about it.”
“That’s understandable, and this is no disrespect to you, Sam, but Jo’s like you – she doesn’t see what we went through to survive when the virus first hit. Like you said, the world as it is now is all you’ve ever known and I guess it’s hard to understand why we’re not just out there making the most of it. Dean... Dean saw everything and at an age when something like that would make a deep impact on a child’s psyche. The virus did a lot more damage than just turning people into Croats, Sam,” she said gently.
She laid a hand on his arm, and for a moment Sam was overwhelmed by her kindness. He wanted to run and tell Dean that they were okay here, that there were people who understood them and wouldn’t judge, but Dean was intractable: it was the Winchesters against the world, and the world was everyone else in it, with no exceptions.
“If you can convince Dean,” she said after a moment’s silence, as if she was reading his thoughts. “Then you’re welcome here any time.”
Sam nodded gratefully and they resumed work in silence.
OoOoO
Ellen made dinner later on. Ash didn’t emerge from wherever it was that he’d gone to work, so Jo took him a plate. She rolled her eyes when she reappeared, muttering something about him being ‘a massive geek’.
When he’d finished working on the car, Dean had stayed outside exploring the lay of the land around the roadhouse. Sam hadn’t been certain that his brother would surface for dinner, but he’d come in, going upstairs to wash before joining Ellen, Jo and himself at the table in the back room. He sat down next to Sam, but looked far from relaxed.
At this distance, Sam could smell whiskey, leading him to the conclusion that the only thing that had gotten Dean through the door was a liberal amount of neat alcohol.
“Serve yourselves, boys,” Ellen said, placing the dishes down in the centre of the table. There was a steaming stew with extra servings of vegetables. “The veg is all home grown, Jo shot the deer yesterday.”
Jo smiled proudly, clearly hoping that this news would impress their visitors. Sam smiled politely, but Dean’s gaze was fixed on the table. Ellen returned, setting beers down in front of them all.
Sam studied the bottle and frowned.
“Beer? Seriously?”
Ellen smiled. “Homebrew. What kind of roadhouse would we be without beer? If the Egyptians could do it, so can we.”
There was silence for a while as they all concentrated on the food.
“So,” Jo said after the silence had gone on long enough. Beside him, Sam felt Dean tense. “Where exactly do you guys live?”
Sam knew she was in some way hoping that Dean would be the one to respond. She’d have to remain disappointed.
“Everywhere and nowhere, I guess you could say,” he replied with an easy smile, hoping to deflect the attention from his brother, who would certainly bolt if she continued expressing an interest in him. “We’ve never really set down roots anywhere. I guess you could say our car’s our home.”
Jo grinned. “Yeah, your car’s sweet. I wouldn’t mind a ride in it sometime.”
Before Sam could come up with suitably diplomatic response, Ellen said, “Jo, go and take Ash a beer please.”
Jo left the room. Dean had stopped eating and was holding the fork with a tension that threatened to bend the implement. Sam looked at Ellen apologetically and was met with a similar expression.
“I’m sorry, boys. She doesn’t get a lot of opportunity to talk to people your age. She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“It’s okay,” Sam replied, glancing quickly at Dean who looked up at Ellen fleetingly and nodded sharply once.
Jo returned and sat down. Clearly the order from her mother had had the desired effect and she didn’t ask any more questions for the remainder of the meal.
OoOoO
Whatever could be said about Ash’s choice of hairstyle, you had to give credit where credit was due for his investigative skills. It took two days he said it would, but while Dean was chopping firewood for Ellen and Sam was out hunting with Jo, Ash emerged with news. Finding himself alone, he contented himself with a drink. He knew Dean was outside, but Sam was the easier brother to talk to, so he’d wait.
Twenty minutes later Sam and Jo arrived back, between them carrying a mule deer carcass and a couple of quails. They were both grinning and flushed from the effort. Seeing Ash, Sam’s face instantly lost all humour.
“Have you found him?”
Ash nodded. “I think so.”
Sam echoed the movement, but something in his expression looked conflicted. “I’ll go get Dean,” was all he said, before he turned and headed back outside.
It wasn’t long before the sound of booted feet could be heard and the front door flew open, admitting first Dean and then Sam. Jo had taken the spoils of their hunt through to the store room and gone to find her mother, and for a moment Ash wished he’d told her to stay. He took a large mouthful of whiskey and tried not to wilt under the intense gaze of the Winchesters.
“So what have you got, Ash?” Sam asked, as he came to sit at the table. Dean hovered in the background, his eyes asking the exact same question.
“Your dad hooked up with a hunter called Bobby Singer in South Dakota. Bobby’s a, uh... conspiracy nut – of which I wholeheartedly approve,” he added with a grin that quickly disappeared when he noticed Dean’s hard gaze. “They were following a lead about where the virus originated. They left Bobby’s place two weeks ago and headed to Atlanta.”
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Ash watched as Dean signed something and Sam nodded.
“Have you any idea where they were heading to in Atlanta?”
“Better,” Ash replied with a grin borne of confidence and the knowledge that he was about to deliver good news. “I’ve got an address.”
OoOoO
There was no discussion about what they’d do next. Within an hour, their car was loaded up and they were ready to go, although they had acquiesced to Ellen’s suggestion that they stay for one last meal before they set off.
Jo had grown sullen at the news they were leaving. Her mood worsened when her request to go with them was met with undisguised amusement from Dean and a horrified, simultaneous ‘no’ from Sam and her mother.
They plotted their route, ensuring that they would pass several of their supply bunkers on the way. With nothing left to do after they’d eaten, and Dean increasingly anxious to get going, they said their goodbyes.
“You know you can come back here anytime,” Ellen said, after she’d hugged Sam and nodded to Dean, who was already climbing behind the wheel of their car. “Our door’s always open.”
“We appreciate that,” Sam replied warmly. He glanced at Dean, who signed, thanks.
“You take care now,” Ellen said, as she closed Sam’s door and stepped back as the car moved off.
Out of his peripheral vision, Sam observed his brother as they drove away from the roadhouse. Behind the wheel of his beloved car and away from others, Dean was a different guy. Aware that Sam was watching him, Dean flashed him a grin. With his eyes still fixed on the road, Dean rummaged under the seat to where he kept a box of tapes, grabbed one, and shoved it into the cassette player. After a short period of silence, the sounds of Led Zeppelin filled the car. Sam knew every single note of these songs, since both his dad and Dean worshiped at the altar of rock, but he often found himself wondering if there were still people out there creating new music - music that very few would ever actually get to hear.
Sam spent a lot of time wondering about life ‘before’. Neither their dad, nor Dean would talk about it in any depth, and their isolated, nomadic existence prevented him from finding out information from other survivors. John had given both of his sons a basic education, but where Dean was happy with rudimentary literacy skills and had no real interest in the past, Sam had diligently studied and regularly scoured libraries and bookshops in the abandoned places they passed through, all to further his understanding of how people had lived before the Croatoan virus had changed everything.
When they drove through cities, he tried to imagine the sidewalks full of people, traffic signals filtering a never-ending procession of vehicles, horns honking as everyone tried to get to their destinations as quickly as possible. Now, Dean didn’t even slow for intersections – there was no point; just empty roads on top of more empty roads. On the rare occasions they actually saw anyone, they still didn’t stop. Dean saw everyone as a Croat first, and with them safe in the car, there was no point actually wasting the bullets.
The journey took them a couple of days. Their supply bunkers were still there, and reassuringly, there were signs that John had stopped off at them too. They took what they needed and carried on.
OoOoO
The address in Atlanta that Ash had given them took them into Sylvan Hills, to a single storey ranch-style house that looked in no better state of repair than its ramshackle neighbours. They’d hidden the car several streets away and had done an initial scout of the area before heading back to the house to decide on their next move.
When Sam had asked what was at the address, Ash had explained that he thought a group of survivors were using it as a base of operations, but from the outside it looked as if no one had been near the house in years. They were experienced enough, and had just enough of John Winchester’s suspicious nature to know they’d need to do more than just look before they reached any conclusions.
You ready? Dean asked, after another period of observation had resulted in the princely sum of nothing.
Sam nodded, mentally doing an inventory of the various concealed weapons that he carried. Although Dean was the one who came alive at the thought of action, he allowed himself to be carried by the rising tide of adrenaline as they silently made their way across the street to the house.
You want front or back? Dean signed.
“Front,” Sam replied without hesitation. He wanted to think that, if they’d found this mystery group of survivors, there was a chance he could talk them into inviting them in, without weapons being necessary.
He gave Dean a few minutes to get into position around the back. When he heard a quick whistle, he headed for the front door, hand resting on the pistol in his pocket. He knocked loudly.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
He waited, listening, knowing Dean would be doing the same around the back. After a couple of minutes, he shouted again. “I’m looking for John Winchester. I’m his son.”
Another ten, twenty seconds passed, and then there was a movement from inside. Footsteps approached and Sam tightened his grip on his gun.
“Is John here?” he asked. “Ash from Harvelle’s Roadhouse told me I could find him here.”
He hoped the name dropping would gain him access and for once, fortune was smiling upon him as he heard the bolts being drawn back.
He was greeted by a man sporting a deep scowl and a shotgun, the latter pointed directly at his face when the door swung open. The man, who looked to be somewhere in his fifties, sized him up.
“John Winchester’s son, huh?” the man smirked. “Guess you’re not the one who’s dumb, but not deaf.”
Sam visibly bristled. A part of him hoped that Dean would appear behind the old bastard, with his gun cocked, just to wipe the smirk off his face.
“I’m Sam,” he said, through gritted teeth. “And for future reference, my brother’s name is Dean.”
“Yeah? So, where is he then?”
“He’s here,” a voice answered, and from out of what Sam presumed was the kitchen, a large African American woman emerged, hands in the air, her expression annoyed. Dean followed her out, his gun trained on her. Sam sighed. This was going well.
Ignoring Dean for the moment, Sam turned his attention to the woman.
“Sorry about my brother. We’re looking for John Winchester. We’re his-”
“Sons, I know,” the woman replied sharply. She glanced back at Dean and then the older man holding the shotgun. “For the love of God, Daniel, the boy’s not gonna put his gun away if you don’t.”
She glared briefly at Sam and then fixed Dean with a look that could curdle milk. “Boy, I was in the middle of fixing myself something to eat when you rudely interrupted. Now, I’m going to go back in there, so I suggest you move.” She pushed past Dean, then stopped and threw a glance over her shoulder at them both. “Especially if you’re wanting to be fed.”
Dean’s face was a picture and Sam couldn’t prevent his smile. When Dean looked at him, he shrugged and made to follow after the woman.
“Name’s Missouri Mosley,” she said as she bustled around the kitchen. She paused from the bread she was cutting and looked Sam up and down. “Who’d have thought you’d have gotten so tall,” she said, a faint smile on her lips as she shook her head in apparent disbelief.
Sam glanced back at Dean, who had decided to heed Missouri’s words and put his gun away before he joined them in the kitchen.
“You’ve met us before?”
Her smile grew. “I most certainly have, and although this one doesn’t smile any more than he did back then, you both grew handsome.”
She patted the chair near where she was working. “Come. Sit.”
Sam did as she asked. Dean hesitated, then went and took the seat across from his brother. There was silence as Missouri worked, punctuated only by the sounds of the other hunter, Daniel, moving around in another part of the house. Sam glanced up at Dean’s hand movement – a quick flick of his fingers that he did when he wanted his brother’s attention.
Ask her about Dad. Is he here or has he moved on?
Missouri paused – she was watching Dean carefully, her expression unreadable.
“I know you want to know about your dad, honey,” she replied directly to Dean. “And although he’s not here right now, he’s not moved on either. Does that answer your question?”
Sam knew he was gaping. Dean’s expression was more guarded, like he’d feel far more comfortable with his gun in his hand. Over the years, their signs had become almost exclusively idiosyncratic so by rights, no one should be able to understand them.
“How did you...?” Sam started to say. Missouri smiled fondly.
“I have... certain talents.”
“Like, mind reading?” Sam asked.
Missouri considered this for a moment, and then nodded. “A little.”
Sam watched as she suddenly looked at Dean sharply.
“What? Do I look like a performing seal to you? And that’s a disgusting thing to be thinking about!”
Dean smirked and looked down at the table. Sam stifled a laugh, but when Missouri looked at him, he could see a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. Again, he was hit by the bewildering thought: why did Dad keep us away from all these people?
“Anyway, let’s eat,” she said.
It turned out that Missouri and the other man, who she identified as Daniel Elkins were part of a small group of hunters who had spent years chasing leads on Croatoan. There had always been theories about where the virus had come from, but these people had actively pursued those theories, determined to find the truth or a cure or something.
Personally, Sam wasn’t sure what it would change if they actually discovered anything, but he was always interested because it meant people often talked about the old days and how things used to be. Missouri talked a lot.
What Sam found fascinating was how she paused every so often, head cocked slightly to one side as if she was listening to something that only she could hear. She’d then speak, but always as if she was answering a question. Every so often Sam glanced across at his brother, but Dean appeared to be studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone. He was fingering the amulet on its cord, but his expression was serious rather than ill at ease.
“So where exactly has our dad gone?” Sam asked Missouri, once they’d finished eating and they were starting to clear away the plates.
“Fort Gillem,” she replied. “He and Bobby Singer went to scout the place out.”
“What’s there?” he asked, glancing quickly at Dean.
“Military base,” Daniel Elkins replied gruffly, scratching at a spot on the table without looking up.
When Sam looked at Missouri, she nodded in confirmation. “It was built in the forties and there’s a lab there – nothing overly grand, mind, which is what made it perfect to do secret testing. Anyway, a month ago Bobby heard chatter that the virus might have been developed there, so they decided to go check it out. They left first thing this morning. I thought they’d have been back by now.”
She glanced at Dean in that way she’d been doing ever since they arrived.
“It’s about twenty minutes by car.”
He didn’t need Missouri’s ‘certain talents’ to know what his brother was thinking. He also knew it would be useless trying to argue that they should stay here when they were finally so close to finding their father.
Daniel gave him directions while Dean went to fetch the car. While he waited for his brother to return, he went to speak to Missouri again. Something in her expression earlier had troubled him. He told her as much and she smiled without humour.
“I’m sorry, honey.” She waved a hand, as if she was trying to dismiss what she was about to say. “It’s probably nothing...”
“But?”
“Your... your brother. I’m sensing hard times ahead for him, even though he doesn’t know it yet.”
Fear slithered through his veins. He struggled to find his voice. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, honey; I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. All I know is that you need to be there for him, even if you don’t always agree with his decisions. He needs you.”
More confused than ever, he simply nodded. The sound of the Impala broke the silence, the roar dropping to a purr as Dean pulled up outside the house. The idling engine indicated that his brother wasn’t intending to come back inside.
“I should go,” he said to Missouri.
Dean sat behind the wheel with a furrowed brow, as he slid into the seat beside him. He contemplated telling his brother what Missouri had just told him, but decided against it.
You ready? Dean asked, without really looking over.
“Yeah.”
Dean’s face suddenly burst into a wide grin.
Let’s go find Dad then.
Sam nodded, forcing a smile. Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t articulate what.
Dean took the roads Daniel Elkins had described, his speed a reflection of his desire to finally catch up with their father. Sam always found it amazing how easily Dean forgave John – after all, it wasn’t like they’d gotten a message from him telling them to come here. He’d abandoned them, plain and simple. He also knew that if John sent them away, Dean would go without a backward glance. He got angry just thinking about it and had every intention of telling their dad what he thought of this latest disappearing act once they found him.
He knew they must be close because they’d been driving for about fifteen minutes. He was scanning the horizon looking for anything that might resemble a military base when he saw the smoke.
“Dean?”
Out of his peripheral vision he saw Dean jerk his chin. What?
He pointed out of his window to the thick acrid-looking smoke rising from behind some trees, then Dean – still following the directions – made a right, and suddenly they were heading straight towards it.
