AN: This is a story I'll continue if it gets enough interest, and if I have enough time. The only warning is for bad language, particularly later on (I have a little more written but I won't post it yet). Let me know what you think of my first Supernatural story :)
Someone keeps stealing this. I haven't even had the chance to write anything in it yet. It's been a week since Jo got me this stupid thing for my 23rd so I could 'vent' or whatever, but I can't really think of anything to put in it, and besides someone keeps stealing it. So there'd be no point.
I reckon it's Jo herself, cause it's probably not Ash. Well, I guess whoever it was ended up disappointed – no secrets, no confessions, nothing.
I'm surprised that I've managed to even write this, actually. There doesn't seem much point in doing so – who's gonna be around to read it in ten years? Probably no one, not even me. No one tends to live to a very old age anymore, that's for sure. It doesn't bother me so much: people die every day, and one day it'll be me. That's just the facts.
Not sure where Jo got this from. None of the suppliers or outposts we've been to recently had luxury items (they've all been munitions keepers this month), and all the houses we've searched were all charred and black, as usual. There was definitely no place to get a brown leather journal (no, Jo, it's not a diary, it's a journal). So I have no idea how she managed to conjure it up, but she did. Strange.
I have no idea who's been writing in here, but whoever it is, is gonna get their ass kicked. This is my journal. Dad gave it to me to start writing in, so I'd stop borrowing his all the damn time. But some jerk keeps stealing it, and it disappears every other damn day. I don't even know why you'd take it, there's nothing in it! Except from a couple of newspaper clippings from our cases and a few bits of lore I could be bothered to scrawl down when Dad told me to. Nothing personal, at all.
So whoever it is, quit it. I know it's not Dad, cause it's not his writing. I don't recognise your writing whoever you are, but this is my journal, so quit it.
Look, this is stupid. I don't recognise your writing either, but this has to end. It's a stupid prank, and I'm not in the mood.
I would ask one thing, though – how'd you get newspaper clippings? All the newspapers went out of print decades ago.
. . . Actually, looking at them, there are from decades ago, but they're just in super good condition. The lore's all pretty archaic as well – everyone knows about demons, and how to draw devil's traps, you don't need to write it down!
I know you're a hunter though. You've gotta be with research like that.
I just don't get why you'd be using my journal to paste in all your really old crap! Jo gave this to me for my birthday a week back, so it's mine.
What are you talking about?! That's a paper from last week, from March 3rd, 2007. It's an article about the devil's gate opening in Wyoming – I was there, me and my Dad closed it. End of story.
. . . It's 2057
Who are you?
Dean Winchester – who the fu- Hell are you?!
Call me Sam, I guess.
So I looked on my friend Ash's computer archive – from, like, ages ago – and it drew up an article on Dean Winchester. Get this – you were born in the 1970s, that's almost a century ago! Seriously, dude, something weird is happening with this journal. It keeps going missing, and I think it ends up in your time. We're communicating between the decades – understand? Or have I finally gone freaking crazy
Yeah, I get it, but how? Cursed object? Look, buddy, I bet you're real nice and everything, but half the stuff you say doesn't make sense. Like, what about 'everyone knowing how to draw a devil's trap'? No one even knows demons exist, except us hunters!
Anyway, I can't trust you. I know nothing about you. You could be some demon, for all I know. Don't write back.
I tried not to write back, but I have to do something.
You mentioned a devil's gate opening in Wyoming on March 3rd. That's the beginning, but there's still a chance. We have to stop what happened after that! Stop it, and maybe you have a shot at preventing the whole damn world ending.
Strange thing is, you die exactly a year after the devil's gate opens in Wyoming – like, exactly a year!
I know. I said don't write back. Stop it.
But - how do you know you're gonna die in a year . . . ?
Because I made a deal, okay?! A demon deal, for my dad's life. He was killed fighting these special kids – something about demon blood being fed to them as babies, I don't know – and I sold my soul to get him back. I didn't want to be on my own, okay? So I was weak, and stupid, and I got one year out of the bitch who did the deal. That's how I know, Sam.
What's this about the world ending, anyway?!
I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't know. It's not
You're not stupid. I know what it's like to want to protect the people you love, even though it kinda feels like you can't do anything. You're not weak, though. Sacrificing yourself isn't weak, honestly. Why do I get the feeling this is the first time you've even spoken to anyone about this? Maybe it's not me who needs to vent
You opened a can of worms there, Dean.
What happened was
There's this sort of modern myth about a righteous man who gets rescued from hell by angels or something. He broke the first seal on the Apocalypse, apparently. Sounds like total crap to you probably, but to us, it's all we can think about, cause it basically made our lives the what they are today.
So this guy was destined to be the vessel of this archangel, Michael, as soon as the Apocalypse got under way – which it did, cause one of those special kids you were talking about broke the last seal, and demons and angels took care of the rest. But then that kid got killed – he was supposed to have been the vessel of Lucifer, and he and Michael were supposed to have this big prize fight 'winner takes all' style thing. But when he died, Lucifer didn't have his true vessel, cause there were no 'special kids' left to use.
Legend goes that the righteous man said no to Michael as well, and he's still out there somewhere – but it's hard to say cause no one knows his name and no one knows for sure if they've seen him. But the point is that Lucifer just keeps taking these temporary vessels, and destroying everything he can. The Earth's this big wasteland, and he and Michael just rampage around it.
The word is, Lucifer's just waiting for his next true vessel to be born. Could take years, people say. Other people say it could never happen, and it'll be like this forever – Michael and Lucifer can't fight until they both have their true vessels.
I hope it doesn't last forever
You gotta understand, Dean, this is all everyone can think about, talk about – it's always sort of just there, bubbling away under the surface, at the back of our minds. We have nothing left but the chance that this'll end, and we can rebuild. Unfortunately, I have no idea what it's like to live in the 'normal' world that you do, cause the world ended before I was even born. My parents are dead – but I have my friends. They're all I have.
That's why it's so important that you help me, Dean – promise you'll help me?
. . . I'm sorry; this is a lot to take in.
You're damn right it's a lot to take in, Sam. I mean, the apocalypse? Lucifer?! I mean, what the hell? It's just – it's just crazy! But I'll have a look into that prize fight or whatever for next time the journal ends up in my glove box. I'll get my best man on it.
. . . Sorry about your parents. My mom died when I was just shy of four – she died in this fire. Dad says it was a demon, but we can't really be sure. We never got what did it. I don't know if we ever will, but sometimes when he's been drinking, Dad will mention – he'll say something like, 'my boy' or whatever. I don't know, man. I think he blames himself, and I think he can't stop thinking about
What if he'd lost both of
What if he was alone
I try not to think about it. But yeah – that's how we got started hunting. Dad took me on the road from Lawrence, Kansas in the Impala (there's a picture tucked in the front, I bet you're dying to see her – you should be) all over the USA, saving people, hunting things – the family business. That was 27 years ago, and we're still going strong – well, aside from, you know, going to hell in a year.
That's not funny, Dean.
Lighten up, Sammy! What's your story, anyway? Who're these 'friends'? Got a girl, eh?
Dean, do you have to lower the tone? Fine, I have one friend who I travel with that's a girl, but she's like my sister! And she's only 19. Her name's Jo, and she's an excellent hunter – the greatest, she's got your back all the time. Don't know what I'd do without her. Then there's Ash, he's like a family friend, and a bit older than me. A bit weird, but IQ through the roof, we reckon. Obviously there's no way of testing that in our circumstances, but you can just tell. Computer genius, which is useful when you have to investigate who you're talking to via a magic disappearing journal.
That's magic time-travelling journal, technically, Sammy. Get your facts right!
19, eh? Got a picture?
Dean, gross. Right, I've clipped in a Polaroid: it's Jo, me, and Ash, in that order. Sorry for the crappy quality, we were lucky to even find that camera. Feel free to keep that, though, cause we basically used up the entire camera on taking dumb pictures of ourselves. You have to have fun where you can, I guess.
Jeez, didn't know I had a Sasquatch as a future pen-pal! How tall are you?
Here's one of me and dad.
Tall enough. Anyway, nice car, man. You can really see the family resemblance between you and your dad – or is that just the matching leather jackets? You got a bike, or what?
Nah, just baby – she's our only home.
I know the feeling. I don't really have a home either. We just walk everywhere, or something – if we find a house that isn't too charred, or a car with minimal guts and enough gas – we make use of other people's stuff. It's not like they're using it.
. . . Let me explain. Right, so there's this virus, cooked up by – well, it sounds stupid, but Pestilence. He's a demon, and a Horseman of the apocalypse. There's obviously three other horsemen, and you have to watch out for all of them. Like, try and track their movements as much as you can by tuning into the hunter radio frequency. You don't wanna meet any of those guys – though, strangely, you don't see much of Death, while sightings of War and Famine are ten-a-penny. Weird.
The virus, though – it's called 'Croatoan', and it turns you into this crazy zombie if you get it. If an area's closed off cause of Croatoan, even the werewolves and shifters steer clear of it (weirdly enough, we don't see a lot of the other supernatural crap these days – it's mostly zombies and demons, but you never see angels).
But the point is that loads of people have been killed by the zombies, or by hunters who think they're infected. So there's loads of spare stuff in every house, if others haven't stolen all the good stuff already, or if it hasn't been burned down cause it's infected, or whatever.
Sorry. Didn't mean to bring you down with tales of this shithole we call a world. I promise to be a little more optimistic next time.
Review if you enjoyed it, or if you have any constructive criticism or suggestions! - B.
P.s. I'm British, so unfortunately it's hard for me to keep our colloquialisms out of this fic, but I'll have go! So sorry if you catch any British phases at all, please forgive me! Thanks :)