CHAPTER FIVE

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The Doctor - confused, concerned and more than a little aggravated - re-entered the console room. He'd only managed three steps before the ship violently shimmied and forced him to grab onto the wall for support. The TARDIS sounded as though she were in agony, and it went straight through him like a knife's blade, so closely the two were linked.

“What did you do?!” he shouted over the rumbling and howling. As he reached the console, he pitched forward and barely managed to brace himself before his head smacked into it.

“We didn't do anything!” Dean shouted back. He tightly held onto Martha, so she wouldn't be thrown from the seat. He had his other arm locked around the back of it. “It just started up, for no reason!”

“Don't be daft. Of course there's a reason!” the Doctor snapped as he studied the readouts. His eyes narrowed as he saw what was going on with the ship. “We've entered the time vortex.” He hadn't programmed this into the TARDIS. He pounded a hand on the monitor, like it would alter the data it relayed. “That isn't possible!”

“How did it happen if it's not possible?” Martha shielded her eyes as the panel closest to Dean and her spit sparks in their direction.

“I must've missed something,” he murmured. He dashed to the panel which had shorted a second before and threw down a lever. He looked to them, the grave expression Martha knew all too well on his face. “We have to land. Whenever, wherever.”

“Then do it!” Dean yelled.

The Doctor shot a brief glare over his shoulder then focused on the ship. Once he'd finished punching a few buttons on the panel in front of him, he yanked the nearby lever up. After he did the TARDIS steadied as the familiar whirring of rematerialization echoed throughout the room. After it faded, he stood straight, with his head tipped back. He waited, then he smiled.

“There!” he brightly said. “Still in one piece!” He rubbed his hands together. “Let's find out where we are!”

As the Doctor turned back to the console, Dean narrowed his eyes at the back of his head. “This ship of yours is about as safe as a Pinto, Doc,” he muttered.

He gritted his teeth before he proceeded to deal with the problem at hand.

“You okay?” Dean asked as he helped Martha to steady herself on her feet.

She smiled. “That's my line,” she told him. “I'm fine. Thank you.” She shifted her gaze to the Doctor, who continued to read the screen in front of him. “And, yes, we're both fine, Doctor. Thanks for your concern,” she added, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

He turned at the waist the he glanced from Dean to Martha. “Yes, it's quite obvious you are,” he plainly replied. He motioned to the console. “What isn't, though, is how this happened.”

Martha rolled her eyes as the Doctor turned away. “Don't worry,” she assured Dean as she noted the expression on his face. “He's always like this. Acting like an - “

“Asshole?” he supplied.

The Doctor, eyes narrowed, peered over his shoulder. After a pause, he went back to work.

“I was going to say 'alien',” Martha dryly commented as she folded her arms across her chest. “But, sometimes, that works as well,” she added in a low voice.

“Ah, yes!” the Doctor's voice caught their attention. “We're on Earth.”

Martha joined him. “Something isn't right, though,” she assumed.

He sighed. “We're not in the correct year. It's 1989.” He ran a hand through his hair. “In Evansville, Oklahoma.”

“Did you say 'Evansville'?”

“Yes.” He raised an eyebrow, noting the change in Dean's expression and manner upon the realization of where they were. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head as he held up his hands. “Oh, no,” he quickly replied. “Nothing's wrong.”

He studied Dean a few seconds before he said, “We'll be here for a bit. Until I'm able to sort out what's happened to the TARDIS.”

“How long do you think it will take?” Martha asked as she watched the Doctor yank up the nearby floor grating.

“Honestly, I couldn't say,” he replied as he dropped below the floor of the console room. He knelt down and studied the wiring. Nothing seemed bothered on the surface. “Could be five minutes, could be five days.”

“Five days?” she and Dean said at the same time.

“What the hell are you talkin' about, five days?” Dean added, more annoyed at the idea of it than Martha. “I can't be gone for five friggin' days. There's no tellin' what Sam'll do.”

Not fazed by the forcefulness of Dean's response, the Doctor merely continued in the adjustment of the settings on the sonic screwdriver. “You needn't be concerned,” he evenly stated. He peered over the top rims of his glasses. “I am a Time Lord. It's our business, Time. We've been its masters for ages.”

He snorted. “You could've fooled me, Doc. You have a time and space ship which barely works.”

“If you'll remember, you are responsible for our current situation,” the Doctor casually replied. He scanned the screwdriver over a section of wire he'd redone on Thoros Beta. “The construction of the TARDIS has absolutely nothing to do with you and your trusty rifle.”

He smirked. “If you guys can't even build a ship that'll handle a shot of rock salt, my opinion of Time Lord technology just hit the shits,” he scoffed in reply. “My car could take it better than this piece of junk.”

“Junk?” the Doctor exclaimed as he jumped to his feet, eyes narrowed. “You'd refer to my ship as 'junk' in comparison to that product of substandard American motor design?”

“What did you just say -”

Holding up her hands, Martha stepped between Dean and the hole in the floor where the Doctor was. “Why don't we let the Doctor get things sorted here?” she cut in as she looked from the Doctor to Dean. “We're on Earth, so we know it isn't dangerous. We could leave for a while, take a walk - “ And cool off, she wanted to add, but chose not to. “Maybe the ship will be fixed by the time we get back?” She waited a few seconds. “How's that sound?”

Dean flicked his attention to the Doctor. He was so close to punching the son of a bitch straight in the face. He didn't care if the Doctor was some super-advanced alien in a crappy spaceship - he was still a smart-ass. And no one insulted his car. No one. “Fine,” he tightly said. “Been itchin' to get offa this thing for more than five minutes, anyway.”

Martha relaxed as Dean walked toward the main doors of the ship. Crisis averted. For now. The sooner Dean and the Doctor were permanently apart, the better. She looked to the Doctor. “We won't go too far,” she assured him.

“Be careful, Martha,” he said in a low voice.

“Why?”

“He knows this town.”

She then realized what he'd implied. “You think there may be an alien presence here?” she asked, equally as hushed.

“Highly probable. Just ... be extremely careful.”

She nodded. “Right.”

“What was that about?” Dean asked when Martha joined him.

“He reminded me not to go too far from the ship. He could have it repaired sooner rather than later, you know,” she answered with a smile. Even though he didn't appear to believe her, she opened the outer doors and a rush of hot air hit the both of them like a tidal wave. Outside, it was rather what she'd expected it to look like.

The TARDIS had landed beyond the actual town - which they could see on the horizon - and in the middle of an expansive field of flowing green grass. It was speckled with the trademark red dirt and trees were scattered across the landscape. North of the town, she barely made out a pale white two-level farmhouse. As she shifted her gaze to Dean she noticed he stared at the very same structure.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Huh?” She raised an eyebrow when he looked to her. “It's nothing. It's ... I haven't been here in a while.” He paused then added, “Sorta.” His attention shifted back to the town to the east of where they were currently. “'89 was actually when I was here last.”

“Why was that?”

He glanced at her. “Doesn't matter now.” He stepped out of the TARDIS and continued to scan the horizon. Evansville was about fifty miles from any major city. Where they were, they should be safe; they seemed to have landed in someone's back 40.

Martha removed her jacket and tossed it over the nearby railing before she followed. As she closed the doors, she cast one last look back to the Doctor. He sat on the floor, legs dangled over the edge of the hole, as he removed one of the lower panels from the console base. She hoped he sorted out the problem soon. Dean's cryptic responses about the place did nothing to settle her anxiety.

-

“Did you live here then?” Martha asked as she and Dean neared the outskirts of the small town. “In the '80s, that is?”

They'd walked for almost twenty minutes in complete silence. Every time she glanced at him, his eyes were riveted to the farmhouse to the north. It was a little more defined at this distance, quite obvious no one lived in the place these days. She had to find out why he was so interested in it. 'He knows this town ...' The Doctor's words wouldn't leave her head.

“No,” he murmured in response, without even glancing in her direction.

“Somethin' special about that house?” She nodded to the place when he finally did look at her. “You've been staring at it since we left the ship.”

“It's not important,” he muttered as he shook his head. He didn't want to talk about the Churchill house. Not now, not ever.

She frowned and decided not to press the issue. Whatever it was, it was obvious it bothered him. 'He knows this town.' Was there some alien presence here? In that particular house? What had it manifested as? A Daemon? Something else? She certainly couldn't force him it out of him. But if he ever chose to discuss it with her, she would more than willingly listen.

When she didn't ask another question, Dean relaxed, relieved she'd finally let it drop. What happened there all of those years ago, it still bothered him. John Winchester almost died in that house.

“Terribly hot here,” Martha commented, breaking the awkward silence. She dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, to clear away the beading sweat. “I don't think it's ever been this hot in London.”

“Welcome to summer in Middle America,” Dean flatly said. He hadn't really noticed the heat himself. Probably because he was used to it. Martha, though, seemed as though she could use a break. “There's a diner in town,” he went on. “We can stop, if you want to.”

She nodded, visibly grateful. “Just for a bit.”

-

Evansville, Oklahoma, was like a thousand other small towns Dean Winchester had been in and out of through the course of his life. A lone speck of civilization in the panhandle section of the state, a place not famous for anything to anyone. Unless the person happened to be a hunter. For them, the town was infamous. The mystery every newbie tried to solve his first week on the job: exactly what is haunting the Churchill House?

In the town itself, no one gave Dean or Martha a second glance as they strolled down the sidewalk. Styles hadn't changed much in the past twenty years, especially not in places like Evansville. Dean's clothes were timeless here. Martha, on the other hand, appeared more fashion-forward. Still, it wasn't anything which couldn't be dismissed as soon as she opened her mouth. Everything was a little off in England. Or so most Americans thought, Dean included.

The small diner was located on the town's version of high street, along with every other shop one could possibly require in a place like this. To Martha, Evansville was interesting. The country villages in England weren't like it at all. Rustic in their own ways, to be certain, but Evansville had a decidedly more frontier feel. A few steps shy of being a classic Hollywood representation of the Old West. Only the paved streets, minor renovations to the buildings and modern cars ruined the effect.

She looked to Dean. He wasn't comfortable here, it was obvious. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he quickly lied without even a side-glance to her. Actually, he hated this frigging town. Only the extreme desire to get the hell away from the Doctor for a while overrode his loathing of it. Everything was like it was when he'd been there last. Exactly. Of course it was – it was 1989. Again. “So you can stop askin'.” Why couldn't she worry about herself for a while?

“Dean!!”

He went rigid when a familiar voice shouted his name. It sent a strange chill right down to his core. For a moment, he thought he might've imagined it. It couldn't be. No. Being in this town, during this year, and having what had happened there so fresh in his mind, that was it.

Still, the curiosity had the better of him. Slowly, he turned in the direction in which the voice had originated. His eyes widened. For a second, he couldn't even breathe. Across the street, standing beside the red-dirt caked black Impala, banged and bandaged up, was his father. And John Winchester seemed to look squarely at him.

“Dad?” he whispered, not realizing he'd spoken aloud.

Martha followed Dean's gaze across the street. She found the same black car from the motel carpark. A tall, dark-haired man stood by the boot, which he closed now. “That's your father?”

“Yeah,” he quietly answered. “He's younger, but that's him. And he's still alive.” Looking away, he mirthlessly chuckled as he shook his head. “Of course he's still alive - this is 1989. Before ...”

“DEAN!”

His head snapped up, surprised, when John shouted again, more forcefully. Did he know him? It wasn't possible. How could he recognize him now, almost 20 years older than what he was then? He intended to get an answer. Before he could take more than two steps, Martha grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?” he snapped.

In the next moment, two boys, the older one holding the younger one's hand as he practically dragged him along behind, carelessly brushed by Martha in a hurry.

“Sorry, lady!” the younger boy called over his shoulder. The other impatiently guided him as they both crossed into the street and stopped when they finally reached John.

Dean blinked as it dawned on him – that was Sam. A six-years-old Sam, but it was his brother all the same. The other kid was – obviously - him. Suddenly, he felt stupid. His head bowed and he hoped Martha couldn't see his face. For brief moment, he'd actually believed his father knew who the hell he was.

Martha shifted her gaze to the scene across the street. John Winchester seemed to be lecturing the two boys, and he wasn't happy. Though, the younger version of Dean appeared to take the brunt of the scolding, while the other boy was rather oblivious. He was more interested in something on display in the bookshop window next to where the car was parked. She wondered exactly what was being said.

“He told me not to wander off,” Dean quietly said, as if he could read Martha's thoughts. Across the street, Sam pointed to the book store's window, interrupting the ass-chewing his 10-year-old self was getting from their father. John motioned to the car then, dejected, Sam obeyed. “For us, nowhere was safe. Definitely not a town like this one.”

Martha shifted her gaze to John just as he grabbed the young Dean by an arm, keeping him behind as Sam slid into the backseat of the car. Once the door closed, his father continued to lecture him.

Almost like it was yesterday, he could hear his father's voice and everything he'd said. In no uncertain terms, he'd explained that Dean had to be more careful with Sam. In a place like Evansville, everyone was a potential threat. This was Dean's job when he wasn't around – to watch over Sam, to keep him safe, to make sure nothing ever happened to him.

Martha looked up to Dean's profile. Perhaps, she thought, he was on the verge of crying. Or maybe it was something even worse. It was difficult to tell at her angle. And his expressions were difficult to decipher, much like the Doctor's. “Dean?” she dared to say.

“It's not fair,” he muttered as his hands balled into fists at his sides. Everything flooded back to him - how he'd felt when he learned John had given up his life to save him, what he and Sam had gone through since then, without their father, and how goddamn angry it made him feel. Even if he'd never say as much aloud. Then that night. When he couldn't do a damn thing except watch Sam die right in front of him. “It shouldn't have happened.” His voice harder as he spoke now. “None of it should've.”

“What shouldn't have happened?”

His hands relaxed as he made his decision. Resolve replaced the sadness and subdued rage on his face. “I won't let it happen again,” he coolly said as he shook his head. “I can stop it. This is my chance to do something about it. I can tell him ... everything. Things will be different then. The way they should be.”

When she realized what he was about to do, Martha seized one of his arms with both of her hands. “You can't talk to him!” she declared.

“Why the hell not?” he hissed. He tried to pry her fingers loose but she was a hell of a lot stronger than she looked. “Don't you get it? I can stop it! All of it!”

“You can't bugger with your own timeline,” she firmly stated, her grip tighter than ever. “The Doctor made it quite clear early on in our travels you can't - “

“I don't give a shit what he says!” Dean shot back. When he heard the low rumble of the Impala driving away, his head whipped around. John was leaving. He could only watch, helpless, as the car slipped farther down the main street. “Goddamnit!” he swore as he narrowed his eyes at Martha. “I could've warned him! I could've stopped him! It would've been different!”

“Exactly how would it have been different?”

“Sam wouldn't have died!” he angrily replied without thinking. He stood there, his gaze locked with hers. Her expression morphed from confusion to shock then back to confusion again. It'd been said, he couldn't unsay it. And he knew what the inevitable next question would be -

“What do you mean, he wouldn't have died? I thought he was with you at the motel?”

Dean averted his gaze, opting to stare at the ground to his left instead of look her in the eye. “Before that, he was dead.”

“Clinically dead?”

“Yeah,” he almost whispered with a nod of his head. “For almost two days.”

Her brow furrowed, the confusion turning to disbelief. The more logical centers of her mind taking over as her medical training defied the information given to her. “No,” she firmly said as she shook her head. “No one could revive from being dead for that long. The damage to the brain alone would make it utterly imposs-”

“I sold my soul to a demon to bring him back,” Dean cut in. There was no emotion at all in his voice when he spoke now. He hesitated before he finally looked at her. She was stunned. “I traded my soul for his life. This time next year, I'm dead. That was the deal and I took it.”

Her jaw was half-open, as though she wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words to respond. She couldn't even find the breath to help create the words to respond. Instead, she did the only thing she could do - stare at him, gobsmacked.

-

Back at the TARDIS, the Doctor flicked off the sonic screwdriver and placed it beside him. He examined the wiring underneath the floor, followed it to where it connected to the console then sighed as he shook his head. It made no logical sense. Why had the circuits engaged? Why did they enter the time vortex? Everything had a logical explanation. This, though, was a mystery. The Doctor didn't like mysteries, especially ones he couldn't quickly sort out.

“What's the trouble, old girl?” he murmured as he sat on his heels. He tilted his head back and waited. “I don't understand what's happened. Wouldn't want to help out, would you?” He waited again, then stood and climbed up onto the main floor. “Never hurts to ask,” he finished with a heavy sigh.

As he sat on the main floor, his back against the base of the console, he gazed around the room. He'd been at this for nearly half an hour with no success. Truthfully, they weren't “stuck” in 1989 or even trapped on Earth. He simply didn't want to chance time travel when he'd no idea what had caused the problem. What if it randomly entered the vortex again? They could end up at the beginning of time. Or, worse yet, at the end of it.

Running a hand through his hair, he let out a long breath as his gaze dropped to the floor beside the seats. He'd draped his trenchcoat over the back of one of them on Thoros Beta. During the excitement, however, it had fallen to the floor. He pulled it to him then reached into the left pocket and removed the Colt. As soon as he touched the piece, he felt the strange pulsating sensation. A frown spread across his face.

“What is that emission you're giving off, then?” he wondered.

Getting an idea, he hopped back down to the lower level and retrieved his screwdriver. Once he had it, he readjusted the settings and scanned the Colt. When he finished, he punched a few keys at the TARDIS control panel. A schematic of the gun, along with several readings, appeared on the monitor. His brow furrowed when he saw the results.

“Impossible,” he whispered. His gaze settled on the Colt resting on the console near the keyboard. “How could that have been fashioned into an Earth weapon during the early 1800s?” His hand hovered over the gun, as though he were afraid to touch it. “Distortion wave patterns like this ... it couldn't be,” he murmured as he hit another button. No, something wasn't right. He ran the tests a second time, to be sure.

Suddenly, he stood straight as the TARDIS computers relayed the exact same data as before. The boy was right - it was more than a transdimensional gate key. And it did possess the ability to destroy a number of alien species. But only if the wave pattern was aligned and focused (which it currently wasn't, thankfully) and that wasn't easy to accomplish.

When in proper working order, the weapon's power was absolutely terrifying. With this gun, its wielder could even kill a Time Lord.

Permanently.

-

End Chapter Five