SPN FIC - The Genuine Article (Part 1 of 2)
This right here? Is my FIVE HUNDREDTH Supernatural story.
In honor of the occasion, I invited my most faithful commenter, irismay42, to set up the whats and wherefores. She asked for the boys and John, post-AVSC -- a John who's run afoul of something fugly, leaving his boys to figure out (a) that something's not right, and (b) how to fix the problem. Here you go, my dear: Part One of your story. Many thanks for your friendship and devotion! I hope you enjoy what the Muse and I have cooked up.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 13), Sam (almost-9), and John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 7962 words altogether; this part is 3676 words
"Is he feeding the birds?" Sam fussed.
THE GENUINE ARTICLE
By Carol Davis
They found Dad at 3:30 on Tuesday afternoon, in the little park across the street from the post office.
The thing was, Dad wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the park, or the post office, or the whole town, for that matter. He was supposed to be thirty miles away, finishing up a hunt. Waiting for dark, so he could dig up a grave, do a salt and burn.
Sure, it wouldn't be full dark for another four or five hours, but if Dad had four or five hours on his hands, he wouldn't be doing… this.
"Is he feeding the birds?" Sam fussed.
He and Dean were some distance away, standing outside Main Street News (best place in town for candy, new comics, and some great novelty items - plastic vomit, no-tear toilet paper, fart spray, that sort of stuff), but Dad was still plainly identifiable. So was the flock of assorted birds clustered around the bench he was sitting on. Pigeons, mostly, but a few others: a couple of starlings, some sparrows. The squirrels were starting to assemble, too.
"I guess," Dean murmured.
Sam turned to him, frowning. "Dad. Is feeding the birds."
Not a sure sign of an impending apocalypse, but definitely strange. Dean had vague memories of a bird feeder in the back yard of their house in Lawrence, and supposed Dad might have refilled the thing now and then, but it was a leap between that and sitting on a park bench tearing slices of bread into little chunks to feed the pigeons.
"Is he trying to lure something?" Sam asked. "Is there some monster you lure with breadcrumbs? What's he doing?"
Dean shook his head.
But Sam had never found silence, or an I don't know, to be an acceptable reply. It occurred to Dean later on that he should have done something to fill the silence - sing, tap dance, recite limericks, something - to distract Sam from thinking. As it was, Sam had plenty of time to jump to conclusions. "Is this what he does," Sam said, every bit as stone-faced as the statue of Daniel Boone near where Dad was sitting. "When he says he's working? When he says there's a case? When he says he's saving people? He's sitting somewhere feeding the stupid BIRDS?"
"No," Dean said quickly.
Sam's left eyebrow arched.
The real answer, the honest, hundred-and-ten-percent truthful answer, would have been, "I don't think so." Or, "I don't want to think so." Instead, Dean told his brother, "He's got a reason, Sam. It's not gonna be dark for hours. He must've just wanted to -"
God, things had been bad since Christmas. There'd been whole days when Sam would say nothing at all. When he'd follow instructions, would go to school and go to bed, eat a little bit, take a shower, brush his teeth, but he'd do all of it without saying a word. The kid he'd been a while back, the one who would laugh and hug and spend hours setting up a prank, who'd ask for help with his homework, or whether they could see a movie on Saturday - that kid had been slowly disappearing for a year or more. But last Christmas, when Dean had confirmed Sam's worst fears - that was the killing blow.
And Dean got that. He did. Sam had been lied to. Deceived. It made sense that he was pissed off about it.
But Christmas was four months ago.
"He's got a reason, Sam," Dean said again, more softly this time.
Yeah, it sounded like an apology.
He half expected Sam to walk away, to head back toward the apartment, where he'd probably slam doors and sulk until it was time for bed. Instead, Sam glanced up and down the street, checking for traffic, and aimed for the park. For the bench where Dad was sitting, in the shadow of Dan'l Boone, feeding the local wildlife chunks of torn-up bread. Sam had that I'm going to flip my shit look on his face, so Dean took off after him, catching up with him a short distance into the park and grabbing him by the arm to halt him in his tracks. "Don't," Dean warned him. "Come on, Sam. He's got a reason. Come on. We'll just -" Say hi was on his mind, but maybe that was the wrong move. If Dad hadn't come back to the apartment, hadn't informed them he was here in town, he likely had a reason for that as well. Walking up and involving themselves in whatever Dad was doing might be a serious misstep.
Weird, though. That Dad hadn't looked in their direction. They weren't that far away. He hadn't done so much as glance toward them, that Dean could tell.
Had done nothing to warn them off.
Confused, Dean hung onto Sam's arm, doing what he could to reel Sam back in. Sam was big enough, strong enough to break free if he chose, particularly if he was pissed off enough to throw a couple of punches or deliver a good solid kick to the shins (if he goes for my balls I'm gonna freaking kill him went through Dean's head), but to Dean's further bewilderment Sam simply stood there scowling, shaggy hair flipping against his face, pushed there by the breeze.
In the end it was Dean who kept moving toward their father. The smallest of signals from Dad would have sent him in the other direction, but there was none of that. There was no sign that Dad was even aware of his presence until Dean walked up to the bench and said, "Dad?"
Dad turned to him and smiled.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
"Beautiful day," Dad said. "Couldn't be better."
It was decent enough, for the end of April. Sunny, chilly enough to demand a jacket, but definitely an improvement over the frozen grayness of the winter (the weather being added to by Sam's unending snit; Dean had hoped more than once over the past few weeks that spring might thaw Sam out along with the ground, but it hadn't happened yet).
Maybe Dad had had enough of skulking around at night, of being out in the cold, dealing with dead people. Maybe a few minutes of sitting in the sun, handing out bread to the birds, was something he'd needed. It wasn't as if he'd walked away from a job, right? He'd identified the angry dead guy. Had crossed his T's and dotted his I's.
You couldn't blame a guy for wanting to kick back for a little while.
Dad made no objection when Dean sat down on the bench, leaving a little bit of space between the two of them. He went on tossing bread to the cooing, bobbing pigeons; after a minute, he held out a slice to Dean in a display of camaraderie the likes of which Dean hadn't seen in months - not since last summer, he figured. Since the last time they'd worked on the car together.
Sam was a few paces away, over past the Boone statue, watching.
There'd been a time the three of them had had fun in parks like this, tossing a football around, flying through the air on the swings (Dad too, when the swing set was sturdy enough to accommodate an adult), Dad holding Sam aloft so he could pretend to make his way across a jungle gym all by myself. Sam had been small then, unquestioning, amused and thrilled by simple things. Half an hour playing in a park was all it took to make him happy for days.
The stupid book, Dean thought. If he just hadn't seen the stupid journal…
Dad started humming then, softly, a song Dean didn't recognize. Some old thing, he supposed, maybe something Mom had liked. Or something that was popular back when Dad was in school. For all that Dad preferred gut-thumping rock while they were on the road, a lot of that stuff was hard to hum. The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell (Mom's music; it was Mom's music) - that was more suited to humming along with the cooing of the birds.
"Where's the car?" Sam said.
If Dad was easily identifiable from some distance away, the Impala was even more so. Dean fully expected to glance around the perimeter of the park and locate it parked on one of the small streets that formed the borders of the park, but all he could see were smaller, newer vehicles, a battered blue pickup, the florist's delivery van. No reason to worry, he told himself; Dad had obviously felt like taking a walk, and had parked a few blocks away. Maybe he'd parked at the diner, had grabbed himself a quick bite to eat, and instead of climbing back into the car had decided to enjoy the sunshine and stretch his legs.
Sam moved a little closer, step by cautious step.
"Hey, Sammy."
That's what Dad would say: his customary greeting to Sam, as long as he wasn't angry.
"Hey, Sammy."
Instead, Dad offered Sam a broad, pleasant smile and a nod. He flicked a handful of bread toward the birds, pulled in a deep breath and tipped his head back, let the sunlight fall on his face.
Sam didn't say anything.
He didn't need to; what he was thinking was clearly expressed in the way his eyebrows were crushed together, the way his lips had all but disappeared.
Could you NOT?? Dean thought. It's been four frigging months, you little douche. Could you NOT do this??
Sam stood there watching Dad bask in the sun (looking for all the world like a contented cat, drowsy, well-fed and happy), a flush rising into his face like mercury climbing in a thermometer, hands balling into fists. There was something else there, too, something Dean hated seeing in Sam - had hated it ever since Sam was small and round and dopey, dependent on the constant presence of the two people he was familiar with for his continuing contentment and sense of all's right with the world.
Sam was scared.
Dean frowned at him, cocked his head as a dog would, asking silently for an explanation.
"That's not Dad," Sam said. "It's not."
Dean didn't say anything until they were well out of earshot, until he'd dragged Sam back in the direction they'd come from, grateful that Sam didn't protest being hauled away, didn't put up a stink in the middle of a public park - no matter that no one other than Dad was nearby, to bear witness. It was public enough, and they'd spent almost six full weeks trying not to be noticed in any negative way by any of the people who legitimately lived here.
Stay under the radar: the Winchester way of life.
"That's not -" Dean sputtered when they were halfway back to the sidewalk, to the street that separated the park from Main Street News. "What -"
"It's not him," Sam insisted.
"Then who is it, Sam?"
"I don't know."
"He's wearing Dad's clothes. He's wearing Dad's watch, and his wedding ring. You think somebody who looks exactly like Dad, what, knocked him unconscious and stole his clothes?" Distantly, Dean was aware that his voice had gone high and shrill. That for all that he wanted to knock the stuffing out of Sam's stupid accusation, he had to admit Sam had a point. That guy on the bench had greeted him and Sam like they were strangers. Had responded to them as if they were simply two local kids who wanted to hang out and watch him toss bread to the birds.
For lack of something better to do, maybe.
"Dean," Sam said, and there was a thin thread of panic in his voice.
"Shut up," Dean told him.
There'd been nightmares, Dean remembered. Sam had wakened trembling and sweaty any number of nights after Christmas, his mind full of the things he'd read about in Dad's book. The dreams had slacked off the past couple of months, but they still came every once in a while, and still packed just as much of a punch. The bottom had dropped out of Sam's world, and Dean got that; he DID. But Sam wasn't a little kid any longer. He was old enough to man up about this. Accept what went on in the world, and deal with it.
The way Dean dealt with it.
"Shapeshifter?" Sam whispered. "Or - or -"
"Stop," Dean said.
"It's not him, Dean."
"Just stop, and let me think, okay? Can you give me two minutes to think?"
Sam blinked hard, rapidly, but it didn't do much to get rid of the tears that were building up in his eyes. Fat lot of help he was, Dean thought, wishing there were someone nearby that he could turn to - Pastor Jim, or Bobby, or Caleb. Anybody. Some adult who would know how to handle this. A small voice in the back of his head tried to suggest that Sam was wrong, that nothing out of the ordinary was going on here, that Dad simply wanted a little time to sit in the sun and forget that come full darkness, he needed to go out into a rural cemetery thirty miles from here and dig up a grave.
Needed to burn the remains of someone who'd been dead longer than Dad had been alive.
The truth was, Dean had understood the wrongness of this whole thing the moment Sam had pointed across the park and asked, "Is he feeding the birds?"
They both knew.
And hell yes: they were both scared.
To their dismay, the man who both was and wasn't their father got up from the park bench, dusted crumbs from his lap, and tossed the empty bread wrapper into a trash can. That done, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and began to stroll across the park, in no apparent hurry. He was far enough away that the boys couldn't hear him, but from the look of it, he'd begun to hum again. He was enjoying himself, plainly, something that hadn't been true of the real John Winchester for a good long time.
"Deeeeeean," Sam pleaded.
Dean took off running, Sam a step or two behind. When they caught up with the man they both fell into an easier pace, Dean on one side of the man and Sam on the other.
"Nice day, huh?" Dean asked, a little breathless.
"Spectacular," the man agreed.
"Where you walking to?" Sam asked.
The man smiled down at him. Reached over and gently ruffled Sam's hair. Sam flinched a little but forced himself to smile, managed to be just an everyday kid, fearful of nothing that could go for a stroll in the sunlight across the street from the post office and the florist and a store that sold rubbery plastic puke. "Nowhere in particular," the man said.
"Can we walk with you?"
"Already are, looks like."
"I'm Sam," Sam chirped. "That's Dean."
Too bold, Dean thought. Too jumping into the deep end of the pool. But maybe that was the way to go with this: find out everything they could, so they'd have intel to offer Bobby, or Jim, or Caleb. They ran the risk of spooking whoever (whatever?) this was, but sometimes you had to risk that. Had to go balls to the wall with the thing, or stay away from it altogether.
Sam beamed up at the man. Gave him that opening, that chance to introduce himself.
"Eager little fellow, aren't you?" the man said.
Shit, Dean thought.
Neither of them had seen or spoken to Dad since early that morning, when Dad had dropped them off at school. He'd said he was headed for Breighton Corners, where he'd scout out the exact location of Harlan Anderson's grave and get things ready for doing the salt and burn. He didn't plan to come back to town until after he'd gotten everything buttoned down, so the boys should plan on getting themselves some dinner, and hitting the rack by ten. It was a simple job, he'd said - minimal chance of anything going pear-shaped - so they'd be able to pack up and move on by Saturday. That would allow him a day of rest, a day to make sure all the weapons were clean, supplies topped off.
Whether Dad had actually reached Breighton Corners or not, Dean had no idea.
If this was a shifter, where was Dad??
"Um… Mister?" Dean said, trying to adopt the eager, childlike trill Sam had used.
The man looked over at him, an eyebrow raised in question.
"Have you… umm… you haven't seen a big black car, have you? Chevy Impala? Parked around here?"
The man's expression crinkled a little. "A Chevy what, now?"
"Impala," Dean said.
"Haven't paid much attention to the cars. Too nice of a day."
Breighton Corners was thirty miles away. If this man - this thing - had overpowered Dad out there, and had left the car behind, then he'd walked thirty miles to get here. Assuming his energy and his shoe leather would hold up that long, it was a good eight-hour walk. Dad had left Sam and Dean at school only eight hours ago; not enough time to reach Breighton Corners, be overcome, and for this… this whoever to walk back here.
Maybe Dad - the real Dad - was close by.
Here in town, maybe.
Which meant what? Turning the town upside down? Going to the police? Excuse me, officer, but this guy who looks like my dad isn't my dad. My real dad is probably out cold somewhere. He might be tied up. And he's probably in his underwear, because this guy took his clothes. And his watch, and his ring. Sure, I know that sounds crazy. But can you help us? Can you lock this guy up while I look for my dad?
I'm just a kid, sir.
Can you help me?
I'm just a kid, and I don't know what happened to my dad.
When they reached the edge of the park the man kept walking. True to what he'd said a minute ago, he paid little attention to the traffic, strolling right on across the street as if there'd been no moving cars anywhere in sight. The driver of one of them blatted his horn at the man, which the man greeted with a smile and a wave before he continued on his way.
Sam, still standing on the sidewalk with Dean, hissed, "We gotta tie him up."
They certainly couldn't let him go. Not when he was their only clue to where Dad might be. Not when he might be any one of a variety of fugly things, maybe biding his time until dark, when he might turn into something else. Might start killing. Maiming. Kidnapping other people and taking over their identities. Hell, maybe there were more of them out there, waiting for dark.
This could be a whole Invasion of the Body Snatchers thing.
"How're we gonna do that?" Dean whispered back. "He's bigger than we are. If he fights us, we can't hold him down."
"We take him down," Sam said.
Simple as that. As if Sam had taken to heart all the training Dad had insisted he take on, and believed in his ability to overpower an adult of Dad's size and physical strength. Sure, the man had been very easygoing up to this point, but nothing said he wouldn't flip a switch and turn into some monstrous thing with giant teeth and claws. Something that would make a snack out of a kid, the way a kid would scarf down a couple of hotdogs. Too, Dad had kept Sam a long way from the line of fire, even after that disaster with the journal. He'd hunt when he was ready, Dad had told him - same as Dean.
Trust the little freak to believe he was ready now.
"We need backup," Dean said. "We need Uncle Bobby. Or somebody. Whoever he can send here really quick."
Sam looked at him blankly, then nodded toward the man, who was a good fifty yards away. "You're gonna just let him go? What if we can't find him again?"
"What do you want to do, shoot him?"
"If we have to," Sam said.
"It's not like that, Sam! You don't just shoot people!"
"He's not 'people'," Sam replied. "He's not human at all. What if he killed Dad? Huh? Where does that leave us?"
"He didn't -"
Thoughts began to tumble around in Dean's head, none of them clear, all of them buzzing like a nest of angry bees. KILLED DAD was the loudest of them, the one demanding the most attention, and Dean shook his head hard, trying to yank himself away from that idea, because it couldn't be true. It COULDN'T, no matter how much time Dad spent in the vicinity of ugly, murderous things. No matter how much danger he put himself into every single day. Dad could not be dead. That simply was not possible.
That thing wearing his clothes had not killed him.
But what if it had?
STOP!!!! he shrieked, without saying anything at all.
Another voice spoke up then. Dad's voice, firm and commanding. You know what I taught you. You know what to do.
You hearing me, soldier?
Yes, sir, Dean thought.
Salt. Silver. Holy water. Iron. They had all those things, back at the apartment. Had more of them in the car, but God only knew where the car was. Dean blinked, jolted his head hard a couple of times. Looked at his brother: the little brother who, once upon a time, had laughed with glee at simple things. Had crawled into Dean's arms wanting to be hugged. Had asked for stories to be read to him, for help with his homework.
He was asking for help now.
"We gotta do it," Sam said in a small voice. "There's nobody else."
"Then let's do it," Dean replied.
The conclusion...
In honor of the occasion, I invited my most faithful commenter, irismay42, to set up the whats and wherefores. She asked for the boys and John, post-AVSC -- a John who's run afoul of something fugly, leaving his boys to figure out (a) that something's not right, and (b) how to fix the problem. Here you go, my dear: Part One of your story. Many thanks for your friendship and devotion! I hope you enjoy what the Muse and I have cooked up.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 13), Sam (almost-9), and John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 7962 words altogether; this part is 3676 words
"Is he feeding the birds?" Sam fussed.
THE GENUINE ARTICLE
By Carol Davis
They found Dad at 3:30 on Tuesday afternoon, in the little park across the street from the post office.
The thing was, Dad wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the park, or the post office, or the whole town, for that matter. He was supposed to be thirty miles away, finishing up a hunt. Waiting for dark, so he could dig up a grave, do a salt and burn.
Sure, it wouldn't be full dark for another four or five hours, but if Dad had four or five hours on his hands, he wouldn't be doing… this.
"Is he feeding the birds?" Sam fussed.
He and Dean were some distance away, standing outside Main Street News (best place in town for candy, new comics, and some great novelty items - plastic vomit, no-tear toilet paper, fart spray, that sort of stuff), but Dad was still plainly identifiable. So was the flock of assorted birds clustered around the bench he was sitting on. Pigeons, mostly, but a few others: a couple of starlings, some sparrows. The squirrels were starting to assemble, too.
"I guess," Dean murmured.
Sam turned to him, frowning. "Dad. Is feeding the birds."
Not a sure sign of an impending apocalypse, but definitely strange. Dean had vague memories of a bird feeder in the back yard of their house in Lawrence, and supposed Dad might have refilled the thing now and then, but it was a leap between that and sitting on a park bench tearing slices of bread into little chunks to feed the pigeons.
"Is he trying to lure something?" Sam asked. "Is there some monster you lure with breadcrumbs? What's he doing?"
Dean shook his head.
But Sam had never found silence, or an I don't know, to be an acceptable reply. It occurred to Dean later on that he should have done something to fill the silence - sing, tap dance, recite limericks, something - to distract Sam from thinking. As it was, Sam had plenty of time to jump to conclusions. "Is this what he does," Sam said, every bit as stone-faced as the statue of Daniel Boone near where Dad was sitting. "When he says he's working? When he says there's a case? When he says he's saving people? He's sitting somewhere feeding the stupid BIRDS?"
"No," Dean said quickly.
Sam's left eyebrow arched.
The real answer, the honest, hundred-and-ten-percent truthful answer, would have been, "I don't think so." Or, "I don't want to think so." Instead, Dean told his brother, "He's got a reason, Sam. It's not gonna be dark for hours. He must've just wanted to -"
God, things had been bad since Christmas. There'd been whole days when Sam would say nothing at all. When he'd follow instructions, would go to school and go to bed, eat a little bit, take a shower, brush his teeth, but he'd do all of it without saying a word. The kid he'd been a while back, the one who would laugh and hug and spend hours setting up a prank, who'd ask for help with his homework, or whether they could see a movie on Saturday - that kid had been slowly disappearing for a year or more. But last Christmas, when Dean had confirmed Sam's worst fears - that was the killing blow.
And Dean got that. He did. Sam had been lied to. Deceived. It made sense that he was pissed off about it.
But Christmas was four months ago.
"He's got a reason, Sam," Dean said again, more softly this time.
Yeah, it sounded like an apology.
He half expected Sam to walk away, to head back toward the apartment, where he'd probably slam doors and sulk until it was time for bed. Instead, Sam glanced up and down the street, checking for traffic, and aimed for the park. For the bench where Dad was sitting, in the shadow of Dan'l Boone, feeding the local wildlife chunks of torn-up bread. Sam had that I'm going to flip my shit look on his face, so Dean took off after him, catching up with him a short distance into the park and grabbing him by the arm to halt him in his tracks. "Don't," Dean warned him. "Come on, Sam. He's got a reason. Come on. We'll just -" Say hi was on his mind, but maybe that was the wrong move. If Dad hadn't come back to the apartment, hadn't informed them he was here in town, he likely had a reason for that as well. Walking up and involving themselves in whatever Dad was doing might be a serious misstep.
Weird, though. That Dad hadn't looked in their direction. They weren't that far away. He hadn't done so much as glance toward them, that Dean could tell.
Had done nothing to warn them off.
Confused, Dean hung onto Sam's arm, doing what he could to reel Sam back in. Sam was big enough, strong enough to break free if he chose, particularly if he was pissed off enough to throw a couple of punches or deliver a good solid kick to the shins (if he goes for my balls I'm gonna freaking kill him went through Dean's head), but to Dean's further bewilderment Sam simply stood there scowling, shaggy hair flipping against his face, pushed there by the breeze.
In the end it was Dean who kept moving toward their father. The smallest of signals from Dad would have sent him in the other direction, but there was none of that. There was no sign that Dad was even aware of his presence until Dean walked up to the bench and said, "Dad?"
Dad turned to him and smiled.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
"Beautiful day," Dad said. "Couldn't be better."
It was decent enough, for the end of April. Sunny, chilly enough to demand a jacket, but definitely an improvement over the frozen grayness of the winter (the weather being added to by Sam's unending snit; Dean had hoped more than once over the past few weeks that spring might thaw Sam out along with the ground, but it hadn't happened yet).
Maybe Dad had had enough of skulking around at night, of being out in the cold, dealing with dead people. Maybe a few minutes of sitting in the sun, handing out bread to the birds, was something he'd needed. It wasn't as if he'd walked away from a job, right? He'd identified the angry dead guy. Had crossed his T's and dotted his I's.
You couldn't blame a guy for wanting to kick back for a little while.
Dad made no objection when Dean sat down on the bench, leaving a little bit of space between the two of them. He went on tossing bread to the cooing, bobbing pigeons; after a minute, he held out a slice to Dean in a display of camaraderie the likes of which Dean hadn't seen in months - not since last summer, he figured. Since the last time they'd worked on the car together.
Sam was a few paces away, over past the Boone statue, watching.
There'd been a time the three of them had had fun in parks like this, tossing a football around, flying through the air on the swings (Dad too, when the swing set was sturdy enough to accommodate an adult), Dad holding Sam aloft so he could pretend to make his way across a jungle gym all by myself. Sam had been small then, unquestioning, amused and thrilled by simple things. Half an hour playing in a park was all it took to make him happy for days.
The stupid book, Dean thought. If he just hadn't seen the stupid journal…
Dad started humming then, softly, a song Dean didn't recognize. Some old thing, he supposed, maybe something Mom had liked. Or something that was popular back when Dad was in school. For all that Dad preferred gut-thumping rock while they were on the road, a lot of that stuff was hard to hum. The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell (Mom's music; it was Mom's music) - that was more suited to humming along with the cooing of the birds.
"Where's the car?" Sam said.
If Dad was easily identifiable from some distance away, the Impala was even more so. Dean fully expected to glance around the perimeter of the park and locate it parked on one of the small streets that formed the borders of the park, but all he could see were smaller, newer vehicles, a battered blue pickup, the florist's delivery van. No reason to worry, he told himself; Dad had obviously felt like taking a walk, and had parked a few blocks away. Maybe he'd parked at the diner, had grabbed himself a quick bite to eat, and instead of climbing back into the car had decided to enjoy the sunshine and stretch his legs.
Sam moved a little closer, step by cautious step.
"Hey, Sammy."
That's what Dad would say: his customary greeting to Sam, as long as he wasn't angry.
"Hey, Sammy."
Instead, Dad offered Sam a broad, pleasant smile and a nod. He flicked a handful of bread toward the birds, pulled in a deep breath and tipped his head back, let the sunlight fall on his face.
Sam didn't say anything.
He didn't need to; what he was thinking was clearly expressed in the way his eyebrows were crushed together, the way his lips had all but disappeared.
Could you NOT?? Dean thought. It's been four frigging months, you little douche. Could you NOT do this??
Sam stood there watching Dad bask in the sun (looking for all the world like a contented cat, drowsy, well-fed and happy), a flush rising into his face like mercury climbing in a thermometer, hands balling into fists. There was something else there, too, something Dean hated seeing in Sam - had hated it ever since Sam was small and round and dopey, dependent on the constant presence of the two people he was familiar with for his continuing contentment and sense of all's right with the world.
Sam was scared.
Dean frowned at him, cocked his head as a dog would, asking silently for an explanation.
"That's not Dad," Sam said. "It's not."
Dean didn't say anything until they were well out of earshot, until he'd dragged Sam back in the direction they'd come from, grateful that Sam didn't protest being hauled away, didn't put up a stink in the middle of a public park - no matter that no one other than Dad was nearby, to bear witness. It was public enough, and they'd spent almost six full weeks trying not to be noticed in any negative way by any of the people who legitimately lived here.
Stay under the radar: the Winchester way of life.
"That's not -" Dean sputtered when they were halfway back to the sidewalk, to the street that separated the park from Main Street News. "What -"
"It's not him," Sam insisted.
"Then who is it, Sam?"
"I don't know."
"He's wearing Dad's clothes. He's wearing Dad's watch, and his wedding ring. You think somebody who looks exactly like Dad, what, knocked him unconscious and stole his clothes?" Distantly, Dean was aware that his voice had gone high and shrill. That for all that he wanted to knock the stuffing out of Sam's stupid accusation, he had to admit Sam had a point. That guy on the bench had greeted him and Sam like they were strangers. Had responded to them as if they were simply two local kids who wanted to hang out and watch him toss bread to the birds.
For lack of something better to do, maybe.
"Dean," Sam said, and there was a thin thread of panic in his voice.
"Shut up," Dean told him.
There'd been nightmares, Dean remembered. Sam had wakened trembling and sweaty any number of nights after Christmas, his mind full of the things he'd read about in Dad's book. The dreams had slacked off the past couple of months, but they still came every once in a while, and still packed just as much of a punch. The bottom had dropped out of Sam's world, and Dean got that; he DID. But Sam wasn't a little kid any longer. He was old enough to man up about this. Accept what went on in the world, and deal with it.
The way Dean dealt with it.
"Shapeshifter?" Sam whispered. "Or - or -"
"Stop," Dean said.
"It's not him, Dean."
"Just stop, and let me think, okay? Can you give me two minutes to think?"
Sam blinked hard, rapidly, but it didn't do much to get rid of the tears that were building up in his eyes. Fat lot of help he was, Dean thought, wishing there were someone nearby that he could turn to - Pastor Jim, or Bobby, or Caleb. Anybody. Some adult who would know how to handle this. A small voice in the back of his head tried to suggest that Sam was wrong, that nothing out of the ordinary was going on here, that Dad simply wanted a little time to sit in the sun and forget that come full darkness, he needed to go out into a rural cemetery thirty miles from here and dig up a grave.
Needed to burn the remains of someone who'd been dead longer than Dad had been alive.
The truth was, Dean had understood the wrongness of this whole thing the moment Sam had pointed across the park and asked, "Is he feeding the birds?"
They both knew.
And hell yes: they were both scared.
To their dismay, the man who both was and wasn't their father got up from the park bench, dusted crumbs from his lap, and tossed the empty bread wrapper into a trash can. That done, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and began to stroll across the park, in no apparent hurry. He was far enough away that the boys couldn't hear him, but from the look of it, he'd begun to hum again. He was enjoying himself, plainly, something that hadn't been true of the real John Winchester for a good long time.
"Deeeeeean," Sam pleaded.
Dean took off running, Sam a step or two behind. When they caught up with the man they both fell into an easier pace, Dean on one side of the man and Sam on the other.
"Nice day, huh?" Dean asked, a little breathless.
"Spectacular," the man agreed.
"Where you walking to?" Sam asked.
The man smiled down at him. Reached over and gently ruffled Sam's hair. Sam flinched a little but forced himself to smile, managed to be just an everyday kid, fearful of nothing that could go for a stroll in the sunlight across the street from the post office and the florist and a store that sold rubbery plastic puke. "Nowhere in particular," the man said.
"Can we walk with you?"
"Already are, looks like."
"I'm Sam," Sam chirped. "That's Dean."
Too bold, Dean thought. Too jumping into the deep end of the pool. But maybe that was the way to go with this: find out everything they could, so they'd have intel to offer Bobby, or Jim, or Caleb. They ran the risk of spooking whoever (whatever?) this was, but sometimes you had to risk that. Had to go balls to the wall with the thing, or stay away from it altogether.
Sam beamed up at the man. Gave him that opening, that chance to introduce himself.
"Eager little fellow, aren't you?" the man said.
Shit, Dean thought.
Neither of them had seen or spoken to Dad since early that morning, when Dad had dropped them off at school. He'd said he was headed for Breighton Corners, where he'd scout out the exact location of Harlan Anderson's grave and get things ready for doing the salt and burn. He didn't plan to come back to town until after he'd gotten everything buttoned down, so the boys should plan on getting themselves some dinner, and hitting the rack by ten. It was a simple job, he'd said - minimal chance of anything going pear-shaped - so they'd be able to pack up and move on by Saturday. That would allow him a day of rest, a day to make sure all the weapons were clean, supplies topped off.
Whether Dad had actually reached Breighton Corners or not, Dean had no idea.
If this was a shifter, where was Dad??
"Um… Mister?" Dean said, trying to adopt the eager, childlike trill Sam had used.
The man looked over at him, an eyebrow raised in question.
"Have you… umm… you haven't seen a big black car, have you? Chevy Impala? Parked around here?"
The man's expression crinkled a little. "A Chevy what, now?"
"Impala," Dean said.
"Haven't paid much attention to the cars. Too nice of a day."
Breighton Corners was thirty miles away. If this man - this thing - had overpowered Dad out there, and had left the car behind, then he'd walked thirty miles to get here. Assuming his energy and his shoe leather would hold up that long, it was a good eight-hour walk. Dad had left Sam and Dean at school only eight hours ago; not enough time to reach Breighton Corners, be overcome, and for this… this whoever to walk back here.
Maybe Dad - the real Dad - was close by.
Here in town, maybe.
Which meant what? Turning the town upside down? Going to the police? Excuse me, officer, but this guy who looks like my dad isn't my dad. My real dad is probably out cold somewhere. He might be tied up. And he's probably in his underwear, because this guy took his clothes. And his watch, and his ring. Sure, I know that sounds crazy. But can you help us? Can you lock this guy up while I look for my dad?
I'm just a kid, sir.
Can you help me?
I'm just a kid, and I don't know what happened to my dad.
When they reached the edge of the park the man kept walking. True to what he'd said a minute ago, he paid little attention to the traffic, strolling right on across the street as if there'd been no moving cars anywhere in sight. The driver of one of them blatted his horn at the man, which the man greeted with a smile and a wave before he continued on his way.
Sam, still standing on the sidewalk with Dean, hissed, "We gotta tie him up."
They certainly couldn't let him go. Not when he was their only clue to where Dad might be. Not when he might be any one of a variety of fugly things, maybe biding his time until dark, when he might turn into something else. Might start killing. Maiming. Kidnapping other people and taking over their identities. Hell, maybe there were more of them out there, waiting for dark.
This could be a whole Invasion of the Body Snatchers thing.
"How're we gonna do that?" Dean whispered back. "He's bigger than we are. If he fights us, we can't hold him down."
"We take him down," Sam said.
Simple as that. As if Sam had taken to heart all the training Dad had insisted he take on, and believed in his ability to overpower an adult of Dad's size and physical strength. Sure, the man had been very easygoing up to this point, but nothing said he wouldn't flip a switch and turn into some monstrous thing with giant teeth and claws. Something that would make a snack out of a kid, the way a kid would scarf down a couple of hotdogs. Too, Dad had kept Sam a long way from the line of fire, even after that disaster with the journal. He'd hunt when he was ready, Dad had told him - same as Dean.
Trust the little freak to believe he was ready now.
"We need backup," Dean said. "We need Uncle Bobby. Or somebody. Whoever he can send here really quick."
Sam looked at him blankly, then nodded toward the man, who was a good fifty yards away. "You're gonna just let him go? What if we can't find him again?"
"What do you want to do, shoot him?"
"If we have to," Sam said.
"It's not like that, Sam! You don't just shoot people!"
"He's not 'people'," Sam replied. "He's not human at all. What if he killed Dad? Huh? Where does that leave us?"
"He didn't -"
Thoughts began to tumble around in Dean's head, none of them clear, all of them buzzing like a nest of angry bees. KILLED DAD was the loudest of them, the one demanding the most attention, and Dean shook his head hard, trying to yank himself away from that idea, because it couldn't be true. It COULDN'T, no matter how much time Dad spent in the vicinity of ugly, murderous things. No matter how much danger he put himself into every single day. Dad could not be dead. That simply was not possible.
That thing wearing his clothes had not killed him.
But what if it had?
STOP!!!! he shrieked, without saying anything at all.
Another voice spoke up then. Dad's voice, firm and commanding. You know what I taught you. You know what to do.
You hearing me, soldier?
Yes, sir, Dean thought.
Salt. Silver. Holy water. Iron. They had all those things, back at the apartment. Had more of them in the car, but God only knew where the car was. Dean blinked, jolted his head hard a couple of times. Looked at his brother: the little brother who, once upon a time, had laughed with glee at simple things. Had crawled into Dean's arms wanting to be hugged. Had asked for stories to be read to him, for help with his homework.
He was asking for help now.
"We gotta do it," Sam said in a small voice. "There's nobody else."
"Then let's do it," Dean replied.
The conclusion...