Summary: A trap set for Sam lands Dean in hot water. As Sam races to save his brother, the Winchesters find themselves being used as pawns in a brewing demon war. And what does this have to do with Yellow-Eyes and his special kids? Set in season 2. Set between canon events.
Set-up: Set in Season 2 – so John is dead but Yellow-Eyes is still alive and the boys are still trying to find out what his 'plans' for Sam are. Takes place right after 'Hunted' (when Gordon Walker comes after Sam and Sam meets Ava) so it's also after 'Croatoan' (the demon virus episode) and 'Simon Said' (where they meet Andy). This fic is intended to have Sam and Dean in equal measure, though from my notes so far, it may end up just a little bit more Sam than Dean. There are OC's but the entire story is written from only Sam and Dean's perspective.
Spoilers & Warnings: Major spoilers for seasons 1 & 2 but possible spoilers right up to the end of season 4. Some swearing (more than the show).
CHAPTER 1 - DOUBLE VISION
Peaceful sleep was becoming a rare occurrence for the Winchester brothers. It had been twelve days since they found out Sam was immune to a demon version of viral warfare. Eight days since Gordon Walker had tried to kill Sam, claiming he was fair game in the hunting world. Seven days since Ava Wilson, another of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's psychic kids, had disappeared leaving nothing but traces of sulfur and her fiancé's bloody corpse. Ten days since Dean had broken down and told Sam what their father's dying confession had been.
If you can't save Sam, then you might have to kill him.
Dean's attempts at sleep were plagued with worry for his brother; worry about Yellow-Eyes' plans, worry that other hunters would see Sam as a monster also, and worry he wouldn't be able to protect or 'save' him. He had tried to convince Sam to lay low, for the two of them to just walk away from this life and hope the chaos and impending shitstorm would just pass them by, but dammit if Sammy hadn't always been a stubborn son of a bitch. The kid insisted on taking this thing head on, on charging right into the fray and going on the offensive, determined to figure out what this was all about or die trying. Dean didn't like the plan but he would stick with Sam no matter what came their way; that much he did know. Wasn't like he knew how to do any different.
As the Impala purred along the California highway, he stole a sideways glance at his passenger, whose head was tipped sideways against the car's side window, uncut bangs hanging down and almost covering his closed eyes. Sam had drifted off immediately after hitting the highway, a sure sign of how exhausted he was these days. Dean breathed a grateful sigh that the kid was finally getting some undisturbed sleep.
He was wrong.
A bowling alley...
A young man in his early twenties drinking a Coke and wearing a staff uniform...
He's saying goodbye to a man in his forties, a coworker...
A neon sign, Cooley's Cool Bowlerama...
He's walking through a deserted parking lot, California license plates...
He's tripping on a bowling ball...
Another ball is flying through the air, hitting him in the stomach...
A third ball crushes his skull.
Sam awoke with a start, his hand jerking so hard he smashed it into the door handle and in turn making Dean jump.
"Dude, what the hell?"
Sam ignored the question, scrambling for his phone from his jacket pocket, completely unaware of the pained expression still twisting up his face.
"Sam?" Dean pressed more urgently. "What's going on? You have another one of your weirdo visions?"
Sam just nodded, letting slide the insensitive term Dean had penned his psychic-kid-related visions. "Cooley's Cool Bowlarama," he said aloud,trying to commit every last detail of his dream to memory for future reference. "I think it's here in California." He entered the name into Google Search on his phone, hoping for a match.
"Don't keep me in the dark here," Dean growled impatiently. "What did you see?"
Sam described his dream vision and directed Dean to take the next exit to turn around and head back east. "It's in Lancaster and I think it was around dusk so we should have enough time. It's barely two o'clock now."
Dean's mouth was drawn in a tight line but he followed Sam's direction without argument. "Okay, so do we think this guy was one of Yellow-Eyes' psychic kids?" he asked, his tone making it abundantly clear he would rather they turn tail and run in the opposite direction.
Sam shook his head, grateful at least that Dean had agreed to try and get to the bottom of these visions, however reluctantly. His fingers pressed to his temple in a vain attempt to ease the pain he was feeling as he answered. "No, if the pattern holds, then Ava saw the psychic kids when they were about to die. I seem to see their victims when they... you know." He cut himself off, not wanting to say the words 'turn evil' out loud.
"When they go postal?" Dean finished for him.
Sam swallowed. Thanks Dean, always with the abundance of tact.
"Sammy, we've been over this," Dean continued without pause. "That's not gonna happen to you."
Sam wasn't up for this discussion again, wasn't up for the wary and creeped-out expression that inevitability came over his brother's face whenever the topic was psychic-related. Instead he steered the subject back to the details of the vision as the Impala hit the highway ramp again to head east. They were only a couple of hours out of Lancaster, having finished a case in Barstow this afternoon and barely having started to head west towards Vegas before the interruption.
Impersonating local police, Sam called the bowling alley for a list of employees and got to work looking them up through the DMV database, trying to find out the identity of the bowling ball victim. He had a name inside fifteen minutes. Greg Kingsley, a twenty-one year old part-time employee with a drug trafficking record and two domestic assault charges against his girlfriend.
"Nice guy," Dean snorted. "And we're saving him why?"
"Dean," Sam admonished. "We don't know...ahh!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as the now familiar searing pain of a vision tore through him.
Girl with a motorcycle helmet...
She's going into a diner, sign on the door reads Good Grub Café...
Ordering from a waitress, nametag 'Giselle'...
Going back outside, getting on her bike, pulling out onto the road...
The bike is starting to steer itself, she's trying to take control back…
She's panicking, crossing the yellow line...
Slams head on into a pick-up truck.
Dean's voice and the shock of the abrupt, violent end to the vision snapped Sam back to the present. He was struggling for air and his head was pounding worse than it had with any vision yet.
"Dude, your nose is bleeding," Dean blurted, his hand gripping Sam's shoulder, his eyes darting back and forth between his brother and the road. "You okay?"
He attempted a reassuring nod but failed miserably, nothing but a strangled gasp making it past his lips. Before he could voice any opposition, Dean was pulling over on the shoulder of the highway and throwing the Impala in park.
"What the hell was that, Sammy?"
"Vision," Sam managed.
"Another vision? Since when do they come two at a time?" Dean's voice was angry but Sam knew it was fear talking. "It about the same guy?"
Sam shook his head, still struggling to clear his head and calm his breathing. "No… someone else. A girl."
"Well that's just awesome," Dean snarled, his fingers still wrapped in the shoulder of Sam's shirt. "One at a time wasn't enough?"
They sat in silence for a long minute while Sam pulled himself together, Dean's patience noticeably thin and his worry noticeably thick. Sam's visions were usually bad - painful and incapacitating - but this one had been the worst by far. He ran the back of his hand under his nose and wiped the blood on his shirt, keenly aware of his big brother's eyes still glued on him.
He finally nodded and Dean retracted his hand slowly, giving him a questioning look.
"A diner," he breathed, pulling his phone back out of his pocket. "Good Grub Café. Somewhere in the south coz I saw Palm trees."
"And there was a biker chick. She went into the diner, ate, then when she left, her bike seemed to get a mind of its own and it drove her right into oncoming traffic."
Dean rubbed his hand down across his face. "So who do we save?" he asked, looking back at the road and the passing cars. "The douchebag who beats women or the victim of reincarnated Christine?" He attempted a smirk but it wasn't fooling anybody. "Tattoos aren't really my thing but you know where my vote lies."
"We save both," Sam blurted, staring down at his phone, unable to believe his luck. "Good Grub Café is right here in California too. It's in Burbank. If we're fast, we can swing by there and still make it to Lancaster by dusk. One of us can stay there and intervene with the girl on the bike and the other can continue on to warn the guy at the bowling alley."
"What? No. No, we stick together."
"Dean, with this detour, we're gonna be pressed for time. We have no choice."
"Then we make a choice. Jax Teller's girlfriend or the wife beater. You pick."
"Dean!" Sam was getting frustrated. He knew his brother was just being protective but ridiculously so, as usual. He took a deep breath. "This has something to do with the demon that killed Mom, the demon that has 'plans for me', remember? We need to find out what those plans are so we can stop them. We've hit a dead end and both these visions could be leads. We need to run every lead we get, you know that. I mean, these events are too far apart to be caused by the same person so we need to check out both of them. This could lead us to more psychic kids, more answers!"
He could see the tense muscles of Dean's jaw twitching in disapproval but the elder Winchester threw the Impala in gear and maneuvered her back out onto the road. "Fine," he conceded curtly.
Another hour and they reached the outskirts of Burbank. Dean followed Sam's directions through the busy streets to the Good Grub Café, the plan being to drop Sam off while Dean continued on to the bowling alley in Lancaster. Sam was nervous about the lack of time. The city traffic had slowed them down and Dean would be hard pressed to reach Greg Kingsley before the man's head was smashed in by a supernaturally-propelled bowling ball. On top of that, he had no idea what time the girl would be at the café; they may have already missed her.
He directed Dean to the street the diner was on, recognizing the sign as they approached. "That's it," he announced with relief. "I'll get out here… oh wait, dude, that's her!"
"The girl from my vision. That's her." He nodded towards a blonde girl about his age getting off a red sport bike parked in front of the diner, shaking her long hair loose as she removed her helmet.
"That's your biker chick?"
"Yeah. This is good, man; it means we haven't missed her. I was worried we wouldn't be in time." He pulled on the door handle but paused and turned back to his brother. "You remember the details, right?"
"What?" Dean was clearly distracted by the blonde.
Sam rolled his eyes. "The bowling alley, Dean, the details of the vision… Dean!"
Dean's green eyes met his hazel ones and a grin spread over his face. "Dude, we're switching. I'll help Motorcycle Mama here and you can go save Mr. Lowlife in Lancaster."
Sam groaned at his brother's predictability but knew he didn't have the time to argue. "Don't scare her off," he warned, imagining his brother getting a slap in the face and the blonde taking off on the bike just to get away from Dean's advances. "Just keep her off the bike."
They both got out and passed each other at the front of the car as Sam made his way round to the driver's side. "Keep me posted," Sam said over the hood. "And don't… don't be too… you."
Dean's grin grew wider. "You giving me advice on talking to chicks, Sam? Really?"
Sam gave one last roll of the eyes and sank into the Impala, leaning over when a sharp knock sounded on the passenger window. He rolled it open and his brother leaned in. "What did she order?" Dean asked.
"The chick. What did she order in the diner?"
"Uhhh, just pecan pie with ice cream."
"Kay. I'll call you soon." With that, Dean gave the window sill a dismissive double tap and walked away, disappearing into the rundown café.
It was already dusk by the time Sam pulled into the parking lot of Cooley's Cool Bowlarama. It was just as he had seen it in his vision and he didn't see a body with a crushed skull on the pavement. Good, he was on time.
He parked the Impala at the far edge of the parking lot and got out, his eyes scanning the place for any lurking would-be killers. Killers that used to be ordinary people until Yellow-Eyes singled them out, chose them for his 'special plans' - people just like him.
He didn't see anybody so he headed towards the back door of the alley where Greg Kingsley would be exiting. He had taken no more than three steps forward, however, when the door opened and Greg walked out. The young man barely glanced at the tall hunter approaching him, oblivious to the tragic fate he had almost walked into. Sam took a sideways step to block his path and Greg stopped abruptly, his head snapping up with a frown.
"Greg Kingsley?" Sam greeted him.
"Yeah. Who the fuck are you?"
Sam flashed a fake FBI badge, hoping it would be believable even without the suit that he hadn't had the time to change into. "Special Agent Roth. Can I speak to you for a moment?"
"What for? Did that bitch Donna say I did something to Chelsea again?" His lips curled into a snarl. This guy clearly had a quick temper. "I didn't do nothing. You just ask Chelsea. I didn't touch her. She fell."
"Uh, this isn't about that," Sam replied. "Can we go somewhere private for a moment and talk? Maybe inside?" He needed to get the guy out of the parking lot – away from the scene of the would-be crime.
Greg frowned and folded his arms across his chest. "I ain't going nowhere unless you got a warrant. You got a warrant?"
Sam pursed his lips. "I'm not arresting you," he explained impatiently. "I just need to ask you some questions."
"Ask away, G-man," Greg answered, stepping sideways and shoving roughly past the taller man. "You got 'til I reach my car."
Sam glanced nervously around again and followed, catching up to Greg with two strides of his long legs. "I think you should just…" His let the suggestion drop when a bowling ball rolled across their path, tripping Greg into a stumble. "Oh crap!" He wrapped a fist in Greg's sleeve, his eyes darting around wildly. "We gotta go, now!"
"Hey!" Greg shouted, trying to shirk out of Sam's grasp as he regained his footing. "Get off of me!"
Sam ignored the protests and yanked the smaller man behind him, staring in the direction the ball had come from. There were a few cars and a large dumpster and a lot of shadow but no sign of a psychic kid trying to kill Greg with the power of their mind. "Come with me," he demanded, moving towards the Impala.
Another bowling ball tore towards them from a different direction, this one above ground and moving fast. It was heading for Greg's gut, just like his vision, but Sam yanked the man out of the trajectory just in time. He spun around and yelled into the dimming light. "Hey! Stop this! I know what you're doing! I know what you're able to do!" There was no answer. "Leave Greg out of this and let's just talk!"
Greg's voice was more angry than the scared it should have been. "What the fuck is going…?"
There was a sickening crunch and Sam spun around to be greeted by a spray of blood and brains. Greg slumped to the ground, his head reduced to half its size, and the offending bowling ball continued its trajectory, smashing into the passenger door of a nearby Honda Civic.
"Damnit!" Sam hissed, his eyes once again searching the surrounding shadows for the culprit. Maybe this situation was more like Andy's twin Ansem Weims, who could exert his psychic juju at a distance or over the phone. Or maybe Greg was the psychic kid after all. Maybe…
He saw something. A flash of yellow at the mouth of the alley. Someone had been watching.
"Hey!" he yelled, already moving in that direction. "Wait! Stop right there!"
He sprinted to the alley to see a girl wearing a yellow t-shirt disappear into a doorway at the far end. Within seconds he was inside a rundown apartment building, chasing the girl up the empty back stairwell. He finally caught her on the sixth floor landing and his fingers wrapped around her elbow, wrenching her to a sharp halt.
She struggled and kicked at him but he easily pinned her against the cement wall, insisting that he wasn't going to hurt her and that he just wanted to talk. A dirty sweatshirt from the floor shot up into the air and the sleeves wrapped themselves around his neck, tightening quickly. He let go of her with one hand and tugged it away from his windpipe, relieved when the old, rat-eaten material ripped in half in his hands and dropped harmlessly to the floor.
"Enough!" he snapped, glaring at the girl struggling in his grip. She was about his age, very sleight of frame, brown hair, mousy features and a huge purple bruise covering the right side of her face. It was the bruise that caused Sam's breath to hitch and his aggressive demeanor to falter. "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated more softly.
He noticed the wrought iron railing behind him start to quiver and a he grimaced, wondering how strong her telekinetic powers were and what chance he stood if she mojo'd a balustrade loose. "I know about what you can do," he said quickly. "I know what you just did to Gary."
"Let me go," she begged, her expression full of fear.
"I just want to talk for now, okay?"
The railing stopped rattling. "What's your name?" he asked with a breath of relief.
He raised an eyebrow. Greg had mentioned that name. He put two and two together quickly. "Did Greg give you that bruise?"
He sighed, giving her a chastising look. "And you thought killing him was the solution?"
She bit her lip, staring at him in silence for a long moment before finally answering. "He never would have let me go," she said, her voice meek. "He said he'd kill me and… and he would have. He already found me twice and…"
Sam didn't need to hear any more. His grip on her wrists loosened and he took a step back, his forehead creased with concern at his current moral dilemma. He couldn't turn her in to the police but she had just murdered someone. Greg may have been an abusive scumbag but he was human.
Chelsea stayed where she was, backed up against the wall, her eyes still wide with fear as she watched him. "Please don't hurt me," she whimpered.
He groaned, knowing already he was going to give her a pass on killing Greg. When had he sunk so far he was forgiving vigilante justice? "I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. "But your ability, the telekinetic thing, I really need to talk to you about it."
She shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. I saw you. And Chelsea, you're not alone, okay? I have abilities too. Not the same as yours but I think they're related. There are other people like us."
She remained silent.
"Can we just go somewhere and talk?" he asked, pulling on his best 'puppy-eyes look' as Dean called it. "The police will be all over this place as soon as someone finds Greg's body, if they haven't already. We need to get you away from here."
She nodded slowly and followed obediently when Sam took her hand and led her down the stairs. The parking lot was now dark but still quiet, Greg's body lying undisturbed in a pool of his own blood and brain splatter. Sam ushered Chelsea swiftly into the Impala and drove away, looking for somewhere private where they could stop and talk, preferably somewhere with no loose projectiles.
It was well after ten o'clock at night by the time Sam got back to the Good Grub Café in Burbank. He had talked to Chelsea for a long time, until he was convinced he had all the information she could give him about her powers and that she wouldn't be using them to kill anyone else. Like him, she was born in 1983 and her telekinetic powers had just developed recently, shortly after her twenty-second birthday. She had never dreamt of a man with yellow eyes and as far as she knew, both her parents were both alive and well somewhere in Ohio. She hadn't seen them since she had run away at sixteen, escaping from one abusive household only to find herself trapped in another one. She had seldom used her powers because Greg, her anger-prone boyfriend, had already made it clear he thought she was a freak and would have killed her for sure had he found out how right he was. It wasn't until after the last beating that she decided she needed to take matters into her own hands.
Sam had been preoccupied with the conversation and two hours had passed by the time he realized Dean hadn't called him yet. A spark of worry flickered within him when he dialed Dean's number and got no response, but he chalked it up to his brother using his charm to convince the blonde to stay off her bike by keeping her 'otherwise occupied'. Sam didn't understand the appeal his brother had to women beyond his good looks but he had to admit, it existed in spades. He dropped Chelsea off at her friend Donna's house and gave her his number, insisting she call if she needed anything or if something happened relating to her powers. Then he got back on the highway towards Burbank.
Several unanswered calls later, his worry had overcome his irritability. Sure, Dean could be an ass and would often drop off the grid for a few hours when in the company of a willing female, but he would still answer Sam's calls, especially when they were on a hunt. With Sam two hours away chasing a Yellow-Eyed demon related lead, there was just no way Dean wouldn't check in.
He pulled up sharply in front of the diner, which was open twenty-four hours, not sure if it was a good sign or bad that the red sport bike was still parked outside. He strode in and looked around to discover neither his brother nor the blonde girl from his vision were anywhere to be seen.
The plump waitress named Giselle, however, was still there. He made his way over to the counter where she was pouring a coffee and flashed her a smile.
"What can I get for you, sugar?" she droned, barely giving him a sideways glance.
"Uh, I'm looking for my friend," he lied. "Blonde girl, twenties. She was riding that red bike out front."
Giselle raised her head at that, her eyes studying him for a moment. "A friend of yours, you say?"
Sam nodded, encouraged. "Yeah. Have you seen her?"
She nodded. "I did. 'Bout four o'clock this afternoon. She left without paying."
Sam frowned. "She did?" That didn't sound good. "Can you tell me, was there a guy with her? Little older than me, short hair?"
"Good lookin' fella who walks like he's got a bowling ball between his legs?" Giselle chuckled.
Sam rolled his eyes but nodded. "Yeah, that's him."
"Yep. He came in and made a bee-line to your friend soon as he set eyes on her. Didn't get the impression she was interested but guess I was wrong coz next thing I know, they're both gone. Didn't leave any money for their bills, either." She reached under the counter and pulled out a motorcycle helmet. "She left this just sitting on the seat."
Okay, this really wasn't good. Sam's worry spiked.
Giselle pushed the helmet over the counter towards him. "This won't do me no good," she said. "But I gotta cover any dine-and-dashes, so if you pay your friends' tabs, you can have it. They owed me nineteen forty-two."
Sam nodded and pulled out a twenty from his money clip.
He huffed and handed the scowling woman another five dollar bill. She pocketed it and gave him an insincere smile. "Now, you ordering anything, sugar, coz you hafta order to stick around."
He shook his head, looking around the quiet diner as he picked up the helmet. "Can I use your bathroom?" he asked absently, not waiting for a reply before he was marching towards the back of the diner and down the hallway marked 'washrooms'.
There was no sign of Dean in the men's washroom so he swallowed his pride and slipped into the women's also. Still finding nothing, he came back out into the hallway only to be greeted in the doorway by a burly woman with a disgusted expression on her face.
"Perv," the woman hissed as she passed, giving him a wide berth.
Sam might have been embarrassed had he not been so worried for his brother. The only other door in the hallway was a metal door with a bar handle that he guessed led outside at the side of the diner. He barged his way through it, finding himself squinting his eyes to see in the dim light of an alley.
Nothing. There was no sign of Dean. He dialed his brother's number again as he poked around, seeing nothing of interest except a rank-smelling dumpster. Then he heard it.
Deep Purple. Oh shit. He fell to his knees and searched frantically under the dumpster, reaching his hand beneath it to pull out the source of the music. Damnit. Dean's phone.
But no Dean.
A/N: Hi there! I'm back with a brand new story. A lot of set up in this chapter but hopefully you'll give it a shot. Reviews are always appreciated so let me know what you thought so far :-)