We’ve Held Fire Long Enough To Learn, for amanofmydreams, part 1 of 2
Title: We’ve Held Fire Long Enough To Learn
Recipient: amanofmydreams
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~17,600
Warnings: (Mostly off screen) canon character deaths, language and show-level violence. Some minor, mostly emotional h/c. Nonsensical science. No spoilers per se, but characters from various seasons up to S9 show up in various roles as well as OCs.
Author’s Note: Sci Fi AU with Powers!Teenchesters. Title comes from a lyric from an Elton John/Little Richard duet because I struggle with titles. Also because in this AU ‘verse impossible things happen (because science!) This wound up being epic long and way too complicated, but I hope amanofmydreams likes it. I apologize for any unanswered questions, as I’m sure there are a few. I fear what I may have started.
Summary: Safe to say the Winchester boys were a big disappointment to The Angel Program.
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May 31, 1997 - Sioux Falls, South Dakota
The man is just sitting on the porch, weathered ball cap pulled low to shade his eyes. He might be napping as he seems not to pay attention to the black Ford Taurus with government plates despite the cloud of dust that kicks up in its wake. The dog at his feet seems elderly but interested, and Victor Henriksen hasn’t missed the fingers tightening on the shotgun lying plain on the man’s lap. He’d gotten the lowdown on Bobby Singer from the local sheriff - a drunken cuss still reeling from the death of his wife, but from all accounts the closest thing that the Winchesters had to family. This is not going to be easy, Henriksen thinks to himself, especially since his partner Cal Reidy is already buying into the myth that was growing about those boys. Cal nods to him as they swing open their car doors and step out in unison, a synchronized cop ballet just like on television. Henriksen plasters on a smile. No reason they can’t start this out pleasant.
“Good afternoon,” Victor calls out as the car doors close with a muffled double thump. Both he and Cal freeze at the distinct sound of the shotgun being pumped. Hendricksen can’t say he’s surprised. So much for pleasant. The two federal agents raise their hands to hold up their FBI badges. “Agent Henriksen, Agent Reidy, FBI. Looking to speak to Bobby Singer.” He puts no question on the end of that sentence and the man just snorts and lifts the shotgun higher, vaguely aiming at the car between them. The man’s hand is steady and the old hound dog lifts his head and glares at them balefully. It growls at them, edging closer to its master though it’s already practically lying on top of the man’s feet. Singer murmurs something to it that the agents can’t make out and the dog subsides. In Henriksen’s peripheral vision he can see Cal is holding his breath.
“I don’t much care if you’re Donny and Marie, I’d like you to leave my property ‘less you have a warrant, Agent,” the grizzled man growls, adding in a mocking tone, “And please don’t insult me, son, it ain’t me you’re after.” The hound barks softly and settles his head on his paws, casually watchful.
“We just have a few questions, Mr. Singer,” Reidy chimes in, “About the Winchesters? Dean and Sam?” To their surprise, the man starts to laugh, albeit with little humor.
“Oh, I expect you do. Don’t expect you’ll find the answers you’re looking for though. If you didn’t get the message and you don’t read the papers, I betcha got CNN in your government-funded hotel room. That Cooper fella is all over the story. Me I’ve heard all I care to.”
“Cooper doesn’t know where they are now, sir. Seems no one does. That right?” Victor says, chancing a step towards the porch, hands still in the air. The gun doesn’t waver but the finger on the trigger doesn’t twitch either. “But you see, I don’t belive that. Because you’re practically family to those boys. Uncle Bobby, right?”
“They mighta called me Uncle when they were small,” Singer grudgingly admits, then his glare grows hotter. “Mind you that was before law enforcement handed them over to those Order of Paragon bastards and those lowlifes killed my wife. Oh and then labelled me an ‘unfit parental figure.’ All the while the government turning a blind eye to things,” Singer spits out bitterly. “As far as those boys are concerned, I’m just one more who left them to deal on their own.”
“You’re saying they haven’t been in touch with you,” Henriksen states in flat disbelief.
“Those boys aren’t idjits, son,” Singer answers incredulously. “Nah, they’ve gone to ground and heaven only knows when we’ll see ‘em again, any of us. Probably not until every last soul that’s linked to that damned Angel Program has been dealt with. Why don’t you two go get on that, then? You do your jobs and actually arrest all those sons of bitches and maybe the boys can quit hiding.”
“That would be a whole lot easier with their help,” Henriksen tries to persuade. It’s not really his concern what the government will want with the Winchesters beyond their ‘material witness’ status and frankly he doesn’t care, but this geezer doesn’t need to know that. He does his best to appear earnest but he can tell Singer’s not sold.
“The other...victims haven’t been exactly helpful, and we don’t really know how to help them with what they’ve been through,” Reidy continues with more genuine sincerity. “Sam and Dean, they could be of a lot of help for the victims and to help us bring down the people who did this to them.”
“Balls,” Singer swears softly to himself. He lays the shotgun back on his lap, waving at them to lower their hands. The older man removes his hat and scrubs his hand through thinning hair For a long minute there’s nothing but the soft mosquito hum of early summer. “If I talk to you about all this, will you leave me in peace?” Singer finally asks and Henriksen lifts an eyebrow. He didn’t expect the man to give in so easily, if at all.
“We aren’t looking to arrest anyone here, Mr. Singer,” is the agent’s reply and all three men recognize that it’s not an answer. Reidy looks like he wants to add something but meets Hendriksen’s cool gaze; he says nothing. Singer finally nods grimly, gesturing with the shotgun to the cooler at the edge of the porch and then setting it aside, though still within a hand’s reach of distance, the agents both note.
“If it’ll get you gone today, I’ll tell you what I know. It’ll be easier telling with a beer.” Reidy accommodates him, hands him the dripping bottle and Singer grunts his thanks before taking a swallow, then sighs. “Guess the best place to start might be the beginning. When he was about four, Dean got real sick...”
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January 22, 1984 - Lawrence, Kansas
“I don’t understand...Michael’s Sword? I’ve never heard of it,” Mary Winchester repeated, the pediatrician’s words swirling around and still not making sense. Her oldest boy, the light of her life, would be five in two days. He couldn’t be dying of an incurable disease, not in this day and age, those things still didn’t happen. Did they? John stood like a statue at her side, unblinking in shock and what she feared might already be grief.
“It’s very, very rare, Mrs. Winchester. Probably one case in a half a million children. It does have a basis in genetics, however, so your other boy...”
“You think Sammy could have this as well?” John asked, his voice so strangled that Mary wouldn’t have recognized it if she wasn’t watching him speak. “Would there something that you can do if he does?” Mary couldn’t help but let out a cry as the pediatrician shook his head sadly.
“Dean...how long...?” Mary couldn’t finish the question. The doctor shook his head.
“It varies, but not long. No more than a year, it could be much less.”
“This can’t be happening. There must be something,” Mary said, her voice shaking. John tried to place his arm around her shoulder but she shook him off. “No, John, I can’t lose my children!”
“Mrs. Winchester, I’m so sorry,” the doctor murmured. “I’m afraid there’s nothing that we can do.” Mary froze, looking up through her tears at that peculiar emphasis.
“What are you trying to tell me? There’s someone you know that can help my son?” she asked sharply. The doctor pulled a crisp white card from his drawer, dropping his gaze to it, not meeting her eyes as he pushed it towards her.
“I think there might be.” Mary snatched up the card in shaking hands, her jaw tightening with determination. She read it quickly before handing it to John.
“The Angel Program?” John queried dubiously. The doctor shrugged, still looking vaguely uneasy.
“It’s apparently some research think tank specializing in rare genetic diseases, particularly in children. They’ve expressed some interest in Dean’s case. Incidents of Michael’s Sword are quite rare as I’ve said.” He shook his head. “Nothing has been published, I’m not familiar with their work, so I don’t know if they can help. It might all be snake oil and I’m sure it’s not without risk or cost.”
“Cost doesn’t matter, this is our son’s life, maybe both of our children. If there’s the slightest chance, we’ll take it,” Mary stated fiercely, her glare daring her husband to contradict her. John Winchester’s slumped shoulders were answer enough, but he nodded.
“Anything to save our boy.”
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Transcript from Newsmakers with Carol McKinnon, original air date September 24, 1989
HOST: Carol McKinnon
GUEST: Brother Zachariah, Order of Paragons
HOST: Recently the public was made aware that, for the past thirteen years, children from all over the country have been taken away from their families or caretakers and placed into a facility called The Angel Program, without any fanfare or publicity. According to the press releases put out by the Order of Paragons, the religious organization that runs this program, the children there have been “holistically treated to unlock and achieve their potential.” Our guest today is Brother Zachariah, who is the official spokesperson for the Order of Paragons and the head of the Angel Program. Welcome, Brother Zachariah, to Newsmakers.
GUEST: Thank you, Carol, it’s great to be here.
HOST: I honestly have so many questions I don’t know where to start. Before this story broke I, as well as most of our viewing audience, had never heard of your Order. What can you tell us about the Order of Paragons?
GUEST: Well, Carol, I’m afraid I’m going to have to correct you about your use of the term ‘religious organization’ to describe us, though I totally understand the confusion, with the robes and the ‘Brother This’ and ‘Sister That.’ (chuckles) But the Order of Paragons is not religious. We’re made up of people from all walks of life and many different religions, probably more than a handful of atheists. (clears throat) I myself don’t prescribe to any particular faith, I think of myself as - uh - a spiritual person.
HOST: I see. So what kind of organization is this then? Something like the Boy and Girl Scouts?
GUEST: Hmm, not quite. I’d call us a group of like-minded individuals who have dedicated themselves to a lifetime of service to finding a better way to raise our children.
HOST:Why would that be something that’s needed?
GUEST: Most people would agree with us, Carol, that our educational system has failed our children, the health system has failed them, their government has failed them. But the dirty little secret that no one wants to admit is that it’s also their parents who are failing them. Too many children are malnourished and sick and uneducated and affected by poverty and crime. Even kids who are being raised in by middle class parents are often falling victim to neglect.
HOST: Those are harsh accusations.
GUEST: I would say the truth often is. Our order is made up of world-class doctors, teachers, personal trainers, nutritionists, scientists, psychologists, all of whom have given up their jobs, their families, their very names in order to pursue the common goal of helping disadvantaged and neglected children achieve their full potential. We styled ourselves after a traditional monastic order to demonstrate the level of commitment we have to this cause. The Angel Program is about helping to form the brightest, strongest, healthiest, most well-adjusted young adults. As they graduate our students are being mentored by the best of the best, drinking in everything the mentors have to offer so that they too may one day take their place as the movers and shakers of the next generation.
HOST: That all sounds very ambitious. Brother Zachariah, I don’t feel like we’re getting a full picture here. What are you saying this Angel Program do that America’s doctors, educators, parents can’t?
GUEST: In a word? Focus. We are completely and totally focused on these children. It’s all we are about. It’s all we do. And the results are amazing, Carol. Trust me when I tell you we are bringing heaven to earth.
HOST: Well I am intrigued and I’m sure our viewers are too. When we come back, I’ll have more questions for Brother Zachariah and we’ll have an opportunity to meet some of these children. Some of the first graduates will be with us to share their experiences. How should we be raising our children? Stay with us.
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November 4, 1989 - The Angel Program Special Kids Facility
The Angel Program Complex known to most people was in a town on the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri. Its bright halls and brighter students were photographed and discussed and interviewed by newspapers large and small, and they’ve been profiled by network news shows and smaller local television news. While the premise behind the program was controversial, most of the stories had a positive bent, and even the harshest critics admitted they couldn’t find anything sinister going on there.
The complex that housed the heart of the Angel Program had no official name; it didn’t officially exist. The children that lived in both places in many ways were treated the same. They were educated, clothed, fed with the same food; they were seen by many of the same counsellors and doctors and nutritionists and athletic trainers from the Order of Paragons. It was not the similarities that were important, of course. It was the differences.
At first, the arrival of the Winchesters was unremarkable. The boys were still in shock, not understanding what was happening to them or why, one silent and numb with grief, the other younger boy asking repeated questions until a gesture from his brother made him. None of that was all that unusual in Brother Castiel’s experience. They had let the boys stay together through the initial examinations; it kept them calm and compliant. It wasn’t until Sister Naomi asked one of the guards to escort Sam Winchester to Quarantine that things got interesting. The ten year old boy who had not yet uttered a word, who had regarded the staff, infirmary, even needles with dull disinterest, was suddenly in the dark-haired woman’s face, emerald eyes blazing.
“He stays with me,” the boy stated, his voice husky from disuse and smoke. The Paragon doctor frowned, taken aback, but gestured to the guards to proceed. They stayed where they were, expressions of surprise mirrored on their faces.
“Take him,” she scowled at them, not understanding their hesitation.
“We can’t. Something’s...holding us in place,” one of the guards gritted out, his tone equally annoyed and impressed as they eyed the young boy.
“That’s impossible. He’s too young,” Naomi scoffed. Castiel regarded the brothers with new interest. Dean’s body was rigid, sweat darkening his brow. The older brother had pushed the younger boy behind him. Sam Winchester was peeking out from around his brother’s shoulder. He seemed more interested than frightened, obviously confident that his big brother could hold off this threat.
Castiel had seen enough. He stepped between the doctor and her patients, causing the woman to focus on him.
“Sister Naomi, did you have a chance to read Brother Zachariah’s report on the Winchesters?” he asked mildly. The doctor shook her head haughtily, clearly annoyed at his interference.
“I skimmed it for information on their physical condition. Both are in excellent health, minor smoke inhalation and the older boy had some mild burns that were already treated. He also noted no need for quarantine for Dean, but that Sam-“
“Did you happen to read the part about how the boys escaped the house fire?” Castiel cut her off and her frown deepened.
“I don’t see the relevance, Brother Castiel. Please stand aside and let us handle this.”
“I said, Sammy stays with me!” the boy repeated emphatically. Naomi let out a small shriek as the metal drawers and cabinets all flew open at once and various sharp instruments floated into the air. Castiel hid a smile. Dean Winchester had clearly been paying closer attention to his surroundings than they had thought. Of course, he was currently the one in the line of fire for the flying surgical implements, so it was best that he takes care of it.
“I think it’s a better idea that the Winchesters stay together for now,” Castiel said calmly. He met Dean’s defiant gaze squarely. “Please release the guards and put the medical supplies back where you found them.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” the boy asked uncertainly. It was clear that he was growing tired, but the scalpel aimed at Castiel’s eye didn’t waver.
“If I am lying, you can always stab me later.” To his surprise the boy almost smiled and the items were gently placed back where he found them, though the drawers and cabinets remained open. The freshly released guards made their way towards the boys but were halted by Castiel’s commanding hand.
“You have no say in this. Standard protocol-“
“Standard protocol applies to children who are unaware that some children are special, Sister, do you really think that applies in this case. Sam clearly knows his brother is special.”
“Uh-huh,” the boy chimed in, “Dean’s Superman. He saves me.”
“That’s because you’re Lois Lane, twerp,” his brother taunted, the smaller boy instantly rising to the bait.
“Ew, Dean, that’s a girl. I’m not Lois Lane, I’m...I’m Superman’s little brother!” the younger Winchester declared hotly. Dean mussed his brother’s hair as they pushed at each other in the manner of small boys. Both seemed to have forgotten the impasse between the adults in the room, but Castiel had no doubts that Dean was as focused on their stalemate as he was on distracting his brother from it.
“We need to separate them, they’re already too close. And if we let them get their way in this they’ll be uncontrollable.”
“They were completely compliant until you tried to separate them. They just lost their parents, Sister Naomi, they need time to adjust. I will take full responsibility with Brother Zachariah, and we can consult with Sister Josephine on the best way to separate them without trauma. Or if you’d rather proceed I’ll get out of the way so I’m not the first one to bleed.”
“Fine, Brother Castiel, it’s on your head.”
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May 31, 1997 - Sioux Falls, South Dakota
“So they let Sam and Dean stay together?” Reidy scratched his head in confusion. Singer shook his head.
“No, they had no intention of doing that, but the head-shrinker they made the boys go see advised that they go slow with it. So bit by bit they made it harder for the boys to speak to each other, to see each other, to spend any real time together. Dean saw it coming, and he had a plan...”
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Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
11/30/89
Dear Sammy,
I’m starting this out that way cuz if anyone is reading this it better be you, Sammy. Sister Josephine recommended that I write down my thoughts, and so I am. But I’m writing in that special code that Dad taught me. I’ll be teaching you, too, so you and I can tell each other things and no one else will know about it. They’re going to try to keep us from spending a lot of time together so this is how we’ll talk once you get the hang of it. Thank God you can already read and write as good as I can, you freak.
So, where do I start? My name is Dean Winchester and I’m ten years old, I’ll be eleven in a couple of months. I like baseball and Led Zeppelin and I used to want to be a fireman when I grew up.
Four weeks ago today our parents were killed. Our house caught fire with all of us in it, weird fire that chased us through the house. I was able to get Sammy out. I blasted through the wall with my mind, which should have been cool but it makes me sick to think of it.
I can do stuff like that. I never knocked down walls before that night, but I’ve been able to move things and stop things by thinking since I was six. Mom said she first noticed it when Sammy started walking, he never fell when I was watching him. I stopped all his falls. (You’re welcome.)
When I told Mom what I was doing she got really scared. She and Dad insisted over and over that I shouldn’t ever use my power ever again, no matter what, and especially not where someone could see. I guess they didn’t want anyone to know they had a freak for a son. They even talked about leaving town, but they were afraid it would look suspicious. I don’t know why, but that’s what Dad said. They were worried all the time because of me. You never got to know them before, when they laughed and were happy and Dad didn’t drink as much or fight with Uncle Bobby.
Dad told that if anything happened to him and Mom, we’d go live with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Karen. It scared me when he said that because I could see he was scared, too. But that’s not what happened. Some scary dudes in robes and some scarier dudes in suits showed up instead and then we were here. They call it the Angel Program, but it ain’t Heaven. Unless everyone in Heaven is a dick.
The first thing these boneheads did was try to separate us. I got some practice holding and moving things, and I would have hurt them if they’d tried to take you. But that one guy here that maybe isn’t a total douche worked it out. Then they talked about my gift, and they said I was a special kid because of it, and that’s why I had to be here. That’s why Mom and Dad wanted us to come here instead of go to Bobby’s, because if I have one freaky power I might get more, and you could get some too.
I don’t know if I believe that, Sammy. I do believe that this is all my fault. I’m no Superman, Sammy. Mom and Dad would still be alive if I was.
Dean
P.S. No chick flick moments when you read this, Sam. Got it?
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November 5, 1989 - Lawrence, Kansas
The young officer sighed as he closed the file marked Winchester on his desk. His eyes strayed automatically to the picture on his desk. His beloved Brenda holding baby Maureen, two sets of sky blue eyes staring lovingly back at him. What would he do if something happened to them? He pushed the thought away as it felt like tempting fate, then looked up as he heard his name. Officer Caldwell came to his office door and entered with a single knock, a somewhat grubby and unkempt man with a ball cap in tow.
“Harlan? This is Mr. Singer, he’s here about the Winchesters.”
“Thanks, Will. Mr. Singer. I’m Harlan Brass, good to meet ya,” the young officer said, grasping the man’s hand in a firm shake as he regarded him with sympathy. He could see the marks of exhaustion and grief and his eyes briefly strayed to the photo again.
“Likewise, though I hope I’m not offending if I say I wish I never had to,” Singer replied, sinking into the chair that Harlan wordlessly offered and waving off other hospitality.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harlan said, the words feeling as inadequate as always. Singer looked as awkward as he felt.
“Thanks. John and Mary were...they were good folks. They didn’t deserve...I’m sorry, but...Dean and Sam. Please tell me those boys are all right.”
Harlan made a show of looking through the file, gave the other man a moment to compose himself.
“They weren’t injured in the fire. According to the fire department, a wall near their bedroom must have collapsed when the fire spread and the boys were able to escape that way. They had some minor smoke inhalation that was treated at the scene, but no burns.”
“And John and Mary?”
“They were in another part of the house, the fire seemed to burn hottest there. They were gone before anyone could...the medical examiner, he said it must have been quick, if that helps.”
“But the boys made it out because the whole bedroom wall just…fell? That isn’t kinda unusual?” Singer frowned.
“Well, yeah. Very. It fell outwards like it was bulldozed, not sure I’ve ever seen that,” Harlan replied, trying to ignore the feeling of unease he got whenever he read through the inspector’s statements. “I expect if someone digs in deeper they’ll find some kind of explanation. The good news is those boys got lucky,” Harlan said, blushing when he saw Singer’s flat glare. “Err, well, I mean...”
“I got your meaning,” the older man said stiffly. He took off his hat and rubbed his hand through thinning hair, mumbling under his breath. Harlan only made out the word ‘mess’ but still nodded agreement as Singer met his gaze again. “So where are the boys now?” The officer flipped open the file to the case worker’s notes and read silently for a second then replied.
“Um...according to the file John Winchester had made arrangements for the boys to be taken by the, uh, Angel Program if anything happened to him and his wife. Someone named, uh, Brother Zachariah showed up with the paperwork and took the children back with him. Child Services said that everything was in order,” he said, the troubled feeling growing. In his experience these kinds of things took time, and with the Winchester boys they had been removed to new custody in a little over a day. Singer’s reaction was to slump even further down in his chair, palming his face in despair.
“Balls...so they took them? Both of them?”
“Yes,” Harlan replied, feeling alarmed as he took in the other man’s pallor. “Mr. Singer, is something wrong?”
“Other than everything?” the gruff man answered back sharply, then waved an apology. “I’m sorry, son, this isn’t about you, it’s those...see, my wife and I were supposed to be named guardians for those boys and despite whatever fancy lawyers or paperwork might have been bandied about I know that John and Mary wanted the boys to be with us. I’m just not sure we have the money we’ll need to fight this.”
“Oh,” Harlan replied, still feeling rather helpless in the face of all that information. Bobby sketched a wan grin at the officer’s expression, rising to his feet with a grunt.
“I’ll get out of your hair for now, looks like I got plenty of calls to make.”
“Sure. But...Mr. Singer, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I...what happened to the Winchesters, it’s been weighing on me some, and I’d like to help if I can.”
Bobby Singer palmed the business card that the officer gave him, shook his hand again and left. Harlan strongly suspected he’d never hear from the man again, but he vowed to keep his ears open for news about the people who had taken the Winchester boys. It seemed the least he could do.
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Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
2/23/90
Dear Sammy,
Guess what? I got me a new power. You’re the only one I’m telling, so keep it to yourself. I know the mantra around here is “TELL SOMEONE BLAH BLAH BLAH” but I was right, we can’t trust most of them. The good news about my new freak power is I think I can use it to maybe tell who we can trust.
Sister Josephine, that shrink you keep crushing on? I was talking to her when my powers kicked in. She likes you, dude. When I talk about you she gets a little happy, which is nice because the rest of the time she is depressed as shit. But it was kind of relief because I’m pretty sure she’s good. She doesn’t feel like the others.
Yep, I can feel other people’s feelings. I gotta be honest, it sucks out loud. Because most of the dicks around here? What they feel about us, it makes me want to barf, like a lot. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s not a good feeling. It’s like...they feel greedy when they look at us. It’s like we’re some kind of all you can eat buffet of freak kids.
So as far as these bastards are concerned, all I can do is move stuff with my mind. Got it?
Dean
P.S. I still think Brother Castiel is okay, too. He came to talk to me after my session, and I get a lot of sad and worried from him, kind of like your girlfriend the shrink. Not sure if he’s worried about us or something else.
P.S.S. Can’t wait till you finish learning this code, dude, it’s pretty boring writing to myself.
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Journal entry by Sam Winchester, decoded
3/15/90
Dear Dean,
This code is hard. I miss Mom and Dad. The fire was not your fault and you were great. You are a superhero even if you can be a jerk.
I think I can read minds, Dean. Should I tell?
Love, Sammy
P.S. Sister Josephine is nice. Her real name is Jody Mills. Her husband and son are dead. She thinks about them a lot. I know there is more but I had to stop because it hurt my head.
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Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
3/16/90
Dear Sammy,
I say tell them. Maybe they can help train you so your head won’t hurt when you use it, and if they don’t think you have any powers they’ll probably try to send you away.
Dean
P.S. Don’t worry cause I’d never let them do that.
P.P.S. Don’t push it so you hurt yourself, I mean it.
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November 5, 1991- The Angel Program Special Kids Facility
Dean resisted the urge to hold his brother’s hand as Sister Hannah led them into Brother Zachariah’s office. His brother wouldn’t want to be treated like a baby, but the small tremors he could feel was too much for him to bear; he settled for a manly arm around the shoulders and hip bump. His brother pressed back against him and Dean felt a more intense flare of upset from the boy.
“It’s all good, Sammy, just take it easy,” Dean murmured, and his brother shook his head slightly.
“I got us in trouble, I’ve been asking too many questions, I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, his breath hitching faster. Dean stopped and turned his brother to face him, squeezing the back of his neck tight.
“Cut it out with the panicking, dude. We don’t know what this is about, right? We don’t even know it’s bad. So chill.” Sam took a shaky deeper breath and nodded, and Dean let him go. They had to hurry to catch up to Brother Zachariah’s assistant but she didn’t seem to notice the drama behind her. Both boys tried to stealthily look around the Paragon offices, neither of them had ever been past the infirmary in this part of the facility. Dean didn’t know what he had been expecting, but what they saw didn’t say ‘charitable teaching organization’ so much as ‘high end office complex meets mad scientist’s laboratory.’
“This is weird,” Sam breathed and Dean bumped his shoulder in agreement and warning as Sister Hannah knocked on a heavy wooden door, a polished golden plate proclaiming Brother Zachariah’s name. They heard a muffled voice from inside respond, and the door swung open. The round face and insincere smile of Brother Zachariah looked down on them for the first time since they had arrived as he ushered them into his office.
“Come in, come in. Well, Dean and Samuel Winchester! I trust you boys are doing well, you look much better than when I last saw you too. And I understand you, Samuel, can read minds now? Isn’t that wonderful!” He sat imperiously behind a massive desk while the boys fidgeted uncertainly. Sister Hannah softly shut the door behind them and the smile fell from the older man’s face as if it had never been there. “Please take a seat, boys,” he said in a more serious tone, and with a glance at each other the boys complied. Brother Zachariah leaned across the desk and regarded them like they were interesting lab specimens, which Dean supposed they were to someone like him. The only emotion he was getting from him was a weird feeling of pleasure and anticipation that didn’t make the older Winchester feel any better about this situation. Brother Zachariah smiled darkly. “Can you read my mind, Samuel?”
“Sir?” Sam looked startled and Dean felt his brother’s fear flare up again. “I wouldn’t...I wasn’t...” The smarmy Paragon chuckled at the boy.
“You misunderstand me, Sam. I’m asking you to try.” At the boy’s uncertain look, he spread his arms wide with an empty grin. “Go on. You have my permission. In fact I insist.”
Dean watched as his brother steadied himself, then locked eyes with the other man. Sam’s face went a sickly white as he gasped then made a wounded cry that Dean never wanted to hear again. He stood and grabbed his brother’s head in alarm, trying to figure out how he was hurt. He felt sick as he felt Brother Zachariah’s warped satisfaction wash over him, along with his brother’s shock.
“Sammy? Sammy, talk to me,” Dean coaxed, then whirled on the smug man who he knew had somehow injured his brother. “What did you do to him?” Brother Zachariah raised an eyebrow, but it was Sam who responded.
“It’s okay, Dean. I’m okay.” Sam took a shuddering breath, settling himself. “He didn’t...he just showed me...Aunt Karen is dead.” Tears formed in the boys eyes but didn’t fall as he continued, “She...it was an accident. With the car. Uncle Bobby was...he wasn’t hurt. They thought he might have been drunk when he was driving.”
“Bobby Singer is not being charged, by the way. We took the liberty of intervening with the authorities on your uncle’s behalf. Such a tragedy, I am so sorry for your loss,” the other man intoned with false sympathy. Dean bit off the reply that he wanted to make, taking a moment to gain his composure and fight against the feelings swirling in the room as well as his own.
“We can see that,” he finally gritted out. Brother Zachariah’s pen container rattled as Dean continued his battle for control, but nothing went flying and eventually he was able to draw in a calming breath. As the charged atmosphere stilled, the Paragon smiled with genuine pleasure.
“Well done, Dean, you’re gaining more and more control over your Gift. And well done to you as well, Samuel, I’m not at all easy to read I’ve been told.” He stood, and the brothers let him hurry them to the door with no fuss. “That’s all the time I have today, boys, but let me just say I’ve been very impressed and I cannot wait to see you two mature.” Sister Hannah met the boys and ushered them back to the common room, where Sam managed to wait until she left before breaking down with a cry of his brother’s name. Dean drew him in and held him as he sobbed.
“I know, buddy, I know,” he said, his brother’s grief mingling with his own too much to keep his own tears from falling. “They got to Uncle Bobby, he’s not going to be able to help us now. It’s just you and me, Sammy, just you and me.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Sam Winchester, decoded
4/5/93
Dear Dean,
I asked Sister Hael about what happens to other special kids, the ones who aren’t in the Angel Program and I was able to read her. She’s the third one I asked and they all had the same thought, the Angel Program is where all the special kids are. That’s why Mom and Dad were always so spooked about your powers, about anyone finding out. I think they knew, Mom and Dad, maybe even Uncle Bobby, about the Angel Program, but they thought they could keep you safe if they could make them think you were a Norm.
So none of that was on you, jerk.
Love, Sam
P.S. Sister Hael’s real name is Grace Beaumont. She has a crush on Brother Castiel, which is kind of gross. She doesn’t like me because I ask questions, for some reason she thinks I shouldn’t be doing that, which maybe she’s right because no one else does. But she’s not plotting my death or anything so don’t fly off the handle.
P.S.S. Besides if she gets super mean to me or something, I’ll just sic Andy on her. He hasn’t turned in one assignment yet and I don’t think she’s noticed. Pretty sure she hasn’t even noticed he’s in the class.
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Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
4/6/93
Dear Sammy,
Bitch.
You might be right. But they got us in the end, so I must have screwed it up somewhere. It doesn’t matter now so I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
Dean
P.S. Cas should totally take that action. Sister Hael is hot as Hael. Get it? That being said, you better tell me if she messes with you. I mean it, Sammy.
P.S.S. Andy’s power totally rocks. Think he can work his mojo on Brother Bartholomew for me? Dude’s riding my ass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
12/23/94
Dear Sammy,
I’m gonna kick your ass, Sammy! Were you screwing around in my dream last night? And when were you going to tell me you could do that you little bitch?
Dean
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Journal entry by Sam Winchester, decoded
12/24/94
Dear Dean,
I wasn’t sure until you asked me if I actually did it. I guess I have a new power. Not sure how helpful this one is, it’s kind of weird and not as much fun as you’d think. Maybe if I practice I can get it so no one knows I’m there, then it might be something we can use.
Love, Sam
P.S. Your dreams are gonna give me nightmares. I can’t unsee that. Jerk.
P.S.S. Merry Christmas! Hopefully they’ll let us spend some time together tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 19, 1995 - The Angel Program Special Kids Facility
“Is this seat taken?”
Dean’s jaw dropped in surprise as the young redhead plopped down her tray across from his and sat with a toss of her long hair. Once he’d discovered his empathic ability, he’d realized the best way to hide it was to pretend that he didn’t care about anyone or anything (other than Sam, but he’d already set the precedent for that.) As a result, he had a pretty clear reputation around the facility as, well, an asshole. No one had approached his table at lunch in years other than the occasional girl who found his bad boy rep alluring. He gave her a quick once over; she was a kind of casual pretty. Dean automatically flashed the girl a charming grin, which faltered as she rolled her eyes.
“Oh please, as if,” she snorted as she seated herself across from him. “I know you think you’re God’s gift to women, Dean Winchester, but newsflash: I am.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she extended a hand in greeting. “Charlie Bradbury, new girl. In case you hadn’t heard.”
“New girl,” he repeated as he took her hand, noting her firm grip. “Don’t often get newbies that are so...mature.” She made that unladylike snorting sound again.
“I’m sure. This place likes to start the brainwashing young,” she noted bitterly. “Most of the kids I’ve met have totally drunk the Kool-aid.” She shook her head absently as she scanned the room before fixing her gaze on him. “But not you. Or your brother from what I hear. That’s why we’re gonna be best friends.”
“You think we’re gonna be friends?” Dean challenged.
“Yep,” Charlie said smugly taking a bite from her sandwich. “See, you’re going to give me the lowdown on this place, and I’m gonna let you in on what’s been happening in the outside world.”
“Like what?”
“Nuh-uh. You first, dude. Angel Program 101, Unabridged Edition.”
“Sure. Okay, what’s up with the A.P.? Well, most everybody here is somebody’s castoff, plus some hospital kids and their siblings. Sammy found out they don’t take anyone under four, we’re not sure why. They put you in quarantine?”
“Um, here. What? Quarantine? What?”
“Okay, right, they didn’t do that because you already had a gift,” Dean stated flatly, it wasn’t a question. “That’s how they refer to powers. You’ve got a power?” Charlie nodded, her brow still furrowed in confusion. She continued chewing and her next response came directly into Dean’s head.
“You mean the mind talking and the technowhatzit. Yeah, it’s how Mom and I were avoiding these goons.” After he stared at her for a second, she added, “Oh, you have to talk, I’m just a sender, can’t pick up people’s thoughts back. My mom said it’s because I’m a talker not a listener.”
“Gotcha. Sam’s the opposite. He’s a catcher, you’re a pitcher, so as long as you only want one side of a conversation…” He turned his attention to his lunch for a second before adding softly, “So they know you can do that, right?”
“Yes,” Charlie said aloud and grumpily. “I was one of those hospital kids. Long story short, these people apparently offered to cure me, but only if my mom would give me up. She signed the contract but once I was healthy we ran. We managed for years to keep ahead of them. Until I screwed up. They sent a bunch of cattle into the road, no gadgets in cows for me to mess with and that made us have an accident and my mom was hurt and I guess I...I screamed into their minds some. And I might have blown all the transformers nearby.” That last bit was mumbled around another bite of sandwich. Dean nodded, understanding.
“That was the techno-techno-“
“Technowhatzit,” she finished helpfully. “I think they’re calling it technopathy here. Get me near gizmos and I can crack them with my brain. Neat, right?”
“Totally,” Dean answered sincerely, returning her grin. They directed their attention to their lunches as a guard strolled by. Dean was surprised at the easy camaraderie he felt with this newcomer. He tentatively reached out and found nothing in her emotions that would lead him to think she wasn’t sincere about wanting to be his friend. He was therefore surprised when she suddenly poked him in the chest. Hard.
“Hey, you haven’t finished the lowdown.”
“You’re the one who started showing off,” Dean grumbled. “So. Where was I...Quarantine. Quarantine’s where they send most kids to start. Sam and I didn’t go but our guess is they monitor you, run lots of tests, ask lots of questions and try to figure out if you’re ‘special.’ Most kids aren’t, so after six months they move the Norms out to the ‘official’ Angel Program. The rest come here.
“Norms? That’s what they call them?”
“Nah, that’s what we call them,” Dean shrugged. “Sam says the Paragons call them Nulls. Whatever, tomato, potato. They do their time and then go do whatever Norms do, I guess. They call us ‘Special Kids’ and we get hidden back here in superhero school. They classify us by number of gifts, they’re kind of obsessed with that. Like right now you’re a Two.” His lunchmate nodded absently as she absorbed this news. “There’s maybe a couple hundred of us here. Mostly Ones, some Twos, only a handful of Threes. They watch us all, but they’re most interested in the Threes. Most of them get to be ‘mentored’ by one of the ‘Angels’ - also known as hot shot rich guys,” Dean sneered, poking his fork at something vaguely healthy looking on his plate. Most of the meals they were served were disgustingly well balanced.
“Yeah, there was something about that on the Web, without the superpowers bit. They call the kids that get mentored ‘Vessels,’ which is basically uber-creepy if you ask me,” she said with a shudder that Dean couldn’t help but echo. “So Three is the highest? No Fours or Fives?”
“Well...that’s the official story, but it might not be true. Sam picked up some thought chatter about some other kids they think of as Maxers. Not sure if that’s because they’re maxing out the number of gifts or because of what happened to Max Miller.”
“What happened to him?”
“Officially? He was a Three who became a Vessel. According to Sam, Max Miller had more than three powers and he couldn’t handle it. He went insane and killed his sponsor because his brain short circuited. It all happened before we got here, but we think he’s the reason for all the signs everywhere,” Dean stated gesturing to the sign on the wall near their table that stated in simple block letters “TELL SOMEONE ABOUT YOUR NEW GIFT”
“So the Threes all win the grand prize. What happens to the Twos like me and...” She gestured at him questioningly.
“Me? I’m just a One, but I’m awesome,” Dean chuckled, and Charlie frowned at him.
”That’s the first time you’ve lied to me, Dean,” Charlie’s voice in his head said solemnly. Then she winked. ”But I’m gonna let it go because I get that if you’re keeping a secret it’s probably not the best idea ever to discuss it in the lunch room.” She gave him a ‘go on’ gesture and Dean couldn’t help but like this girl.
“Right, well near as I can tell they let some of them out into society, some join the security forces,” he gestured towards a tall young black man standing at the wall. “Like Jake there, he was one of us till Brother Uriel recruited him right before he turned eighteen. Dude’s gift is kind of lame, he’s just super strong, not like we’re not all stronger than Norms. He’s also an supreme asshole but Sam says that’s not a gift.”
“So what you’re telling me is you’re not a fan?” Charlie drily asked.
“He picked on Sam,” Dean shrugged. “So I had to TK him into a hot stove, but hey, no hard feelings, right Jake?” Dean raised his voice and waved, the other man returning a scowl. “He’s got some extra super healing mojo too, so it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“Still, he’s a dick,” Charlie mused. “You and your brother are pretty close, then?”
“As close as they’ll let us be. They keep us apart, say it’s ‘detrimental’ for us to spend too much time together. We manage, though.” He pointed out a petite blonde girl wearing the traditional Paragon robes. “That girl there, I never knew her but I hear she was a special kid before. So apparently some of us are asked to become Paragons, too,” he sighed, then added softly, “At least I hope they ask.” The two new friends shuddered in unison. “So, how bout you share, what does the outside world think about us?
“Probably half of them don’t know the Angel Program exists at all,” Charlie informed him. “Not because they’re keeping it a secret, just because they don’t really care. Everyone that knows about it seems to think it’s a wonderful charity thing, they’ve let people see the normal kids and everyone thinks that’s all this is. I mean, they’re curing sick kids and helping disadvantaged youth, of course everyone thinks it’s brilliant.” Charlie gestured around her. “No one knows this place exists, or if they do they aren’t talking about it.”
“Well that sucks,” Dean summarized, not really surprised. “If they don’t know we’re here...”
“They aren’t going to help us,” Charlie sighed morosely. Feeling a wave of grief and melancholy from her, he put his hand on her arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, he was out of practice with acting nice to people other than Sam.
“I don’t want to upset you, but is your mom...?”
“She’s not dead. But she’s in a coma, When she wakes up, I know she’ll find me, but...she may never do that.” Charlie frowned at the robed brothers and sisters passing nearby. “These people did that to her, they just expect me to forget that?”
“Yes,” Dean answered simply. “Charlie, you have to keep your head down here. I worry about Sam all the time because he’s always asking questions, but he does this puppy eye thing and I guess he’s cute enough still to get away with it. If they think you’re not under their control, they will deal with you. If we’re gonna be friends, I need to know you’ll be okay.” Charlie bit her lip and nodded, and he felt her push the anger and sadness down for now.
“What do you mean, if?” she snorted in mock indignation. “We’re already best friends, Dean Winchester, and don’t you forget it!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
7/5/95
Dear Sammy,
We thought your dream thing was strange, you won’t guess what I can do now. Thank God when it happened Charlie was the only one there, because I’m definitely keeping this to just us, and Charlie won’t tell. So she and I were talking, and I started telling her that story about you and Andy and I’m saying what you said and then she’s staring at me like weird (weirder than normal for Charlie) and I look in the mirror and dude, I was you! I mean I was still me, but I looked like you, sounded like you.
Charlie said I’m like Mystique in the comic books, except not a hot chick. So then we decided to try to see if I could be a hot chick, and it turns out I can only be someone I know well, but I did manage to pull off a good Lydia Prince which got a little weird cause Charlie said I was even hotter than her. But then I tried to be Sister Rebecca and it wasn’t very good, because I don’t go to class enough to know her, according to Charlie. I tried just making someone up and that didn’t work at all, but maybe I can learn to do that someday. Still, kind of awesome, right? I mean, not as good as TK but better than that emotional bullshit.
I might have “the flu” for a few days while I work on getting this one under control, so don’t worry.
Dean
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recipient: amanofmydreams
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~17,600
Warnings: (Mostly off screen) canon character deaths, language and show-level violence. Some minor, mostly emotional h/c. Nonsensical science. No spoilers per se, but characters from various seasons up to S9 show up in various roles as well as OCs.
Author’s Note: Sci Fi AU with Powers!Teenchesters. Title comes from a lyric from an Elton John/Little Richard duet because I struggle with titles. Also because in this AU ‘verse impossible things happen (because science!) This wound up being epic long and way too complicated, but I hope amanofmydreams likes it. I apologize for any unanswered questions, as I’m sure there are a few. I fear what I may have started.
Summary: Safe to say the Winchester boys were a big disappointment to The Angel Program.
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May 31, 1997 - Sioux Falls, South Dakota
The man is just sitting on the porch, weathered ball cap pulled low to shade his eyes. He might be napping as he seems not to pay attention to the black Ford Taurus with government plates despite the cloud of dust that kicks up in its wake. The dog at his feet seems elderly but interested, and Victor Henriksen hasn’t missed the fingers tightening on the shotgun lying plain on the man’s lap. He’d gotten the lowdown on Bobby Singer from the local sheriff - a drunken cuss still reeling from the death of his wife, but from all accounts the closest thing that the Winchesters had to family. This is not going to be easy, Henriksen thinks to himself, especially since his partner Cal Reidy is already buying into the myth that was growing about those boys. Cal nods to him as they swing open their car doors and step out in unison, a synchronized cop ballet just like on television. Henriksen plasters on a smile. No reason they can’t start this out pleasant.
“Good afternoon,” Victor calls out as the car doors close with a muffled double thump. Both he and Cal freeze at the distinct sound of the shotgun being pumped. Hendricksen can’t say he’s surprised. So much for pleasant. The two federal agents raise their hands to hold up their FBI badges. “Agent Henriksen, Agent Reidy, FBI. Looking to speak to Bobby Singer.” He puts no question on the end of that sentence and the man just snorts and lifts the shotgun higher, vaguely aiming at the car between them. The man’s hand is steady and the old hound dog lifts his head and glares at them balefully. It growls at them, edging closer to its master though it’s already practically lying on top of the man’s feet. Singer murmurs something to it that the agents can’t make out and the dog subsides. In Henriksen’s peripheral vision he can see Cal is holding his breath.
“I don’t much care if you’re Donny and Marie, I’d like you to leave my property ‘less you have a warrant, Agent,” the grizzled man growls, adding in a mocking tone, “And please don’t insult me, son, it ain’t me you’re after.” The hound barks softly and settles his head on his paws, casually watchful.
“We just have a few questions, Mr. Singer,” Reidy chimes in, “About the Winchesters? Dean and Sam?” To their surprise, the man starts to laugh, albeit with little humor.
“Oh, I expect you do. Don’t expect you’ll find the answers you’re looking for though. If you didn’t get the message and you don’t read the papers, I betcha got CNN in your government-funded hotel room. That Cooper fella is all over the story. Me I’ve heard all I care to.”
“Cooper doesn’t know where they are now, sir. Seems no one does. That right?” Victor says, chancing a step towards the porch, hands still in the air. The gun doesn’t waver but the finger on the trigger doesn’t twitch either. “But you see, I don’t belive that. Because you’re practically family to those boys. Uncle Bobby, right?”
“They mighta called me Uncle when they were small,” Singer grudgingly admits, then his glare grows hotter. “Mind you that was before law enforcement handed them over to those Order of Paragon bastards and those lowlifes killed my wife. Oh and then labelled me an ‘unfit parental figure.’ All the while the government turning a blind eye to things,” Singer spits out bitterly. “As far as those boys are concerned, I’m just one more who left them to deal on their own.”
“You’re saying they haven’t been in touch with you,” Henriksen states in flat disbelief.
“Those boys aren’t idjits, son,” Singer answers incredulously. “Nah, they’ve gone to ground and heaven only knows when we’ll see ‘em again, any of us. Probably not until every last soul that’s linked to that damned Angel Program has been dealt with. Why don’t you two go get on that, then? You do your jobs and actually arrest all those sons of bitches and maybe the boys can quit hiding.”
“That would be a whole lot easier with their help,” Henriksen tries to persuade. It’s not really his concern what the government will want with the Winchesters beyond their ‘material witness’ status and frankly he doesn’t care, but this geezer doesn’t need to know that. He does his best to appear earnest but he can tell Singer’s not sold.
“The other...victims haven’t been exactly helpful, and we don’t really know how to help them with what they’ve been through,” Reidy continues with more genuine sincerity. “Sam and Dean, they could be of a lot of help for the victims and to help us bring down the people who did this to them.”
“Balls,” Singer swears softly to himself. He lays the shotgun back on his lap, waving at them to lower their hands. The older man removes his hat and scrubs his hand through thinning hair For a long minute there’s nothing but the soft mosquito hum of early summer. “If I talk to you about all this, will you leave me in peace?” Singer finally asks and Henriksen lifts an eyebrow. He didn’t expect the man to give in so easily, if at all.
“We aren’t looking to arrest anyone here, Mr. Singer,” is the agent’s reply and all three men recognize that it’s not an answer. Reidy looks like he wants to add something but meets Hendriksen’s cool gaze; he says nothing. Singer finally nods grimly, gesturing with the shotgun to the cooler at the edge of the porch and then setting it aside, though still within a hand’s reach of distance, the agents both note.
“If it’ll get you gone today, I’ll tell you what I know. It’ll be easier telling with a beer.” Reidy accommodates him, hands him the dripping bottle and Singer grunts his thanks before taking a swallow, then sighs. “Guess the best place to start might be the beginning. When he was about four, Dean got real sick...”
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January 22, 1984 - Lawrence, Kansas
“I don’t understand...Michael’s Sword? I’ve never heard of it,” Mary Winchester repeated, the pediatrician’s words swirling around and still not making sense. Her oldest boy, the light of her life, would be five in two days. He couldn’t be dying of an incurable disease, not in this day and age, those things still didn’t happen. Did they? John stood like a statue at her side, unblinking in shock and what she feared might already be grief.
“It’s very, very rare, Mrs. Winchester. Probably one case in a half a million children. It does have a basis in genetics, however, so your other boy...”
“You think Sammy could have this as well?” John asked, his voice so strangled that Mary wouldn’t have recognized it if she wasn’t watching him speak. “Would there something that you can do if he does?” Mary couldn’t help but let out a cry as the pediatrician shook his head sadly.
“Dean...how long...?” Mary couldn’t finish the question. The doctor shook his head.
“It varies, but not long. No more than a year, it could be much less.”
“This can’t be happening. There must be something,” Mary said, her voice shaking. John tried to place his arm around her shoulder but she shook him off. “No, John, I can’t lose my children!”
“Mrs. Winchester, I’m so sorry,” the doctor murmured. “I’m afraid there’s nothing that we can do.” Mary froze, looking up through her tears at that peculiar emphasis.
“What are you trying to tell me? There’s someone you know that can help my son?” she asked sharply. The doctor pulled a crisp white card from his drawer, dropping his gaze to it, not meeting her eyes as he pushed it towards her.
“I think there might be.” Mary snatched up the card in shaking hands, her jaw tightening with determination. She read it quickly before handing it to John.
“The Angel Program?” John queried dubiously. The doctor shrugged, still looking vaguely uneasy.
“It’s apparently some research think tank specializing in rare genetic diseases, particularly in children. They’ve expressed some interest in Dean’s case. Incidents of Michael’s Sword are quite rare as I’ve said.” He shook his head. “Nothing has been published, I’m not familiar with their work, so I don’t know if they can help. It might all be snake oil and I’m sure it’s not without risk or cost.”
“Cost doesn’t matter, this is our son’s life, maybe both of our children. If there’s the slightest chance, we’ll take it,” Mary stated fiercely, her glare daring her husband to contradict her. John Winchester’s slumped shoulders were answer enough, but he nodded.
“Anything to save our boy.”
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Transcript from Newsmakers with Carol McKinnon, original air date September 24, 1989
HOST: Carol McKinnon
GUEST: Brother Zachariah, Order of Paragons
HOST: Recently the public was made aware that, for the past thirteen years, children from all over the country have been taken away from their families or caretakers and placed into a facility called The Angel Program, without any fanfare or publicity. According to the press releases put out by the Order of Paragons, the religious organization that runs this program, the children there have been “holistically treated to unlock and achieve their potential.” Our guest today is Brother Zachariah, who is the official spokesperson for the Order of Paragons and the head of the Angel Program. Welcome, Brother Zachariah, to Newsmakers.
GUEST: Thank you, Carol, it’s great to be here.
HOST: I honestly have so many questions I don’t know where to start. Before this story broke I, as well as most of our viewing audience, had never heard of your Order. What can you tell us about the Order of Paragons?
GUEST: Well, Carol, I’m afraid I’m going to have to correct you about your use of the term ‘religious organization’ to describe us, though I totally understand the confusion, with the robes and the ‘Brother This’ and ‘Sister That.’ (chuckles) But the Order of Paragons is not religious. We’re made up of people from all walks of life and many different religions, probably more than a handful of atheists. (clears throat) I myself don’t prescribe to any particular faith, I think of myself as - uh - a spiritual person.
HOST: I see. So what kind of organization is this then? Something like the Boy and Girl Scouts?
GUEST: Hmm, not quite. I’d call us a group of like-minded individuals who have dedicated themselves to a lifetime of service to finding a better way to raise our children.
HOST:Why would that be something that’s needed?
GUEST: Most people would agree with us, Carol, that our educational system has failed our children, the health system has failed them, their government has failed them. But the dirty little secret that no one wants to admit is that it’s also their parents who are failing them. Too many children are malnourished and sick and uneducated and affected by poverty and crime. Even kids who are being raised in by middle class parents are often falling victim to neglect.
HOST: Those are harsh accusations.
GUEST: I would say the truth often is. Our order is made up of world-class doctors, teachers, personal trainers, nutritionists, scientists, psychologists, all of whom have given up their jobs, their families, their very names in order to pursue the common goal of helping disadvantaged and neglected children achieve their full potential. We styled ourselves after a traditional monastic order to demonstrate the level of commitment we have to this cause. The Angel Program is about helping to form the brightest, strongest, healthiest, most well-adjusted young adults. As they graduate our students are being mentored by the best of the best, drinking in everything the mentors have to offer so that they too may one day take their place as the movers and shakers of the next generation.
HOST: That all sounds very ambitious. Brother Zachariah, I don’t feel like we’re getting a full picture here. What are you saying this Angel Program do that America’s doctors, educators, parents can’t?
GUEST: In a word? Focus. We are completely and totally focused on these children. It’s all we are about. It’s all we do. And the results are amazing, Carol. Trust me when I tell you we are bringing heaven to earth.
HOST: Well I am intrigued and I’m sure our viewers are too. When we come back, I’ll have more questions for Brother Zachariah and we’ll have an opportunity to meet some of these children. Some of the first graduates will be with us to share their experiences. How should we be raising our children? Stay with us.
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November 4, 1989 - The Angel Program Special Kids Facility
The Angel Program Complex known to most people was in a town on the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri. Its bright halls and brighter students were photographed and discussed and interviewed by newspapers large and small, and they’ve been profiled by network news shows and smaller local television news. While the premise behind the program was controversial, most of the stories had a positive bent, and even the harshest critics admitted they couldn’t find anything sinister going on there.
The complex that housed the heart of the Angel Program had no official name; it didn’t officially exist. The children that lived in both places in many ways were treated the same. They were educated, clothed, fed with the same food; they were seen by many of the same counsellors and doctors and nutritionists and athletic trainers from the Order of Paragons. It was not the similarities that were important, of course. It was the differences.
At first, the arrival of the Winchesters was unremarkable. The boys were still in shock, not understanding what was happening to them or why, one silent and numb with grief, the other younger boy asking repeated questions until a gesture from his brother made him. None of that was all that unusual in Brother Castiel’s experience. They had let the boys stay together through the initial examinations; it kept them calm and compliant. It wasn’t until Sister Naomi asked one of the guards to escort Sam Winchester to Quarantine that things got interesting. The ten year old boy who had not yet uttered a word, who had regarded the staff, infirmary, even needles with dull disinterest, was suddenly in the dark-haired woman’s face, emerald eyes blazing.
“He stays with me,” the boy stated, his voice husky from disuse and smoke. The Paragon doctor frowned, taken aback, but gestured to the guards to proceed. They stayed where they were, expressions of surprise mirrored on their faces.
“Take him,” she scowled at them, not understanding their hesitation.
“We can’t. Something’s...holding us in place,” one of the guards gritted out, his tone equally annoyed and impressed as they eyed the young boy.
“That’s impossible. He’s too young,” Naomi scoffed. Castiel regarded the brothers with new interest. Dean’s body was rigid, sweat darkening his brow. The older brother had pushed the younger boy behind him. Sam Winchester was peeking out from around his brother’s shoulder. He seemed more interested than frightened, obviously confident that his big brother could hold off this threat.
Castiel had seen enough. He stepped between the doctor and her patients, causing the woman to focus on him.
“Sister Naomi, did you have a chance to read Brother Zachariah’s report on the Winchesters?” he asked mildly. The doctor shook her head haughtily, clearly annoyed at his interference.
“I skimmed it for information on their physical condition. Both are in excellent health, minor smoke inhalation and the older boy had some mild burns that were already treated. He also noted no need for quarantine for Dean, but that Sam-“
“Did you happen to read the part about how the boys escaped the house fire?” Castiel cut her off and her frown deepened.
“I don’t see the relevance, Brother Castiel. Please stand aside and let us handle this.”
“I said, Sammy stays with me!” the boy repeated emphatically. Naomi let out a small shriek as the metal drawers and cabinets all flew open at once and various sharp instruments floated into the air. Castiel hid a smile. Dean Winchester had clearly been paying closer attention to his surroundings than they had thought. Of course, he was currently the one in the line of fire for the flying surgical implements, so it was best that he takes care of it.
“I think it’s a better idea that the Winchesters stay together for now,” Castiel said calmly. He met Dean’s defiant gaze squarely. “Please release the guards and put the medical supplies back where you found them.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” the boy asked uncertainly. It was clear that he was growing tired, but the scalpel aimed at Castiel’s eye didn’t waver.
“If I am lying, you can always stab me later.” To his surprise the boy almost smiled and the items were gently placed back where he found them, though the drawers and cabinets remained open. The freshly released guards made their way towards the boys but were halted by Castiel’s commanding hand.
“You have no say in this. Standard protocol-“
“Standard protocol applies to children who are unaware that some children are special, Sister, do you really think that applies in this case. Sam clearly knows his brother is special.”
“Uh-huh,” the boy chimed in, “Dean’s Superman. He saves me.”
“That’s because you’re Lois Lane, twerp,” his brother taunted, the smaller boy instantly rising to the bait.
“Ew, Dean, that’s a girl. I’m not Lois Lane, I’m...I’m Superman’s little brother!” the younger Winchester declared hotly. Dean mussed his brother’s hair as they pushed at each other in the manner of small boys. Both seemed to have forgotten the impasse between the adults in the room, but Castiel had no doubts that Dean was as focused on their stalemate as he was on distracting his brother from it.
“We need to separate them, they’re already too close. And if we let them get their way in this they’ll be uncontrollable.”
“They were completely compliant until you tried to separate them. They just lost their parents, Sister Naomi, they need time to adjust. I will take full responsibility with Brother Zachariah, and we can consult with Sister Josephine on the best way to separate them without trauma. Or if you’d rather proceed I’ll get out of the way so I’m not the first one to bleed.”
“Fine, Brother Castiel, it’s on your head.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 31, 1997 - Sioux Falls, South Dakota
“So they let Sam and Dean stay together?” Reidy scratched his head in confusion. Singer shook his head.
“No, they had no intention of doing that, but the head-shrinker they made the boys go see advised that they go slow with it. So bit by bit they made it harder for the boys to speak to each other, to see each other, to spend any real time together. Dean saw it coming, and he had a plan...”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
11/30/89
Dear Sammy,
I’m starting this out that way cuz if anyone is reading this it better be you, Sammy. Sister Josephine recommended that I write down my thoughts, and so I am. But I’m writing in that special code that Dad taught me. I’ll be teaching you, too, so you and I can tell each other things and no one else will know about it. They’re going to try to keep us from spending a lot of time together so this is how we’ll talk once you get the hang of it. Thank God you can already read and write as good as I can, you freak.
So, where do I start? My name is Dean Winchester and I’m ten years old, I’ll be eleven in a couple of months. I like baseball and Led Zeppelin and I used to want to be a fireman when I grew up.
Four weeks ago today our parents were killed. Our house caught fire with all of us in it, weird fire that chased us through the house. I was able to get Sammy out. I blasted through the wall with my mind, which should have been cool but it makes me sick to think of it.
I can do stuff like that. I never knocked down walls before that night, but I’ve been able to move things and stop things by thinking since I was six. Mom said she first noticed it when Sammy started walking, he never fell when I was watching him. I stopped all his falls. (You’re welcome.)
When I told Mom what I was doing she got really scared. She and Dad insisted over and over that I shouldn’t ever use my power ever again, no matter what, and especially not where someone could see. I guess they didn’t want anyone to know they had a freak for a son. They even talked about leaving town, but they were afraid it would look suspicious. I don’t know why, but that’s what Dad said. They were worried all the time because of me. You never got to know them before, when they laughed and were happy and Dad didn’t drink as much or fight with Uncle Bobby.
Dad told that if anything happened to him and Mom, we’d go live with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Karen. It scared me when he said that because I could see he was scared, too. But that’s not what happened. Some scary dudes in robes and some scarier dudes in suits showed up instead and then we were here. They call it the Angel Program, but it ain’t Heaven. Unless everyone in Heaven is a dick.
The first thing these boneheads did was try to separate us. I got some practice holding and moving things, and I would have hurt them if they’d tried to take you. But that one guy here that maybe isn’t a total douche worked it out. Then they talked about my gift, and they said I was a special kid because of it, and that’s why I had to be here. That’s why Mom and Dad wanted us to come here instead of go to Bobby’s, because if I have one freaky power I might get more, and you could get some too.
I don’t know if I believe that, Sammy. I do believe that this is all my fault. I’m no Superman, Sammy. Mom and Dad would still be alive if I was.
Dean
P.S. No chick flick moments when you read this, Sam. Got it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 5, 1989 - Lawrence, Kansas
The young officer sighed as he closed the file marked Winchester on his desk. His eyes strayed automatically to the picture on his desk. His beloved Brenda holding baby Maureen, two sets of sky blue eyes staring lovingly back at him. What would he do if something happened to them? He pushed the thought away as it felt like tempting fate, then looked up as he heard his name. Officer Caldwell came to his office door and entered with a single knock, a somewhat grubby and unkempt man with a ball cap in tow.
“Harlan? This is Mr. Singer, he’s here about the Winchesters.”
“Thanks, Will. Mr. Singer. I’m Harlan Brass, good to meet ya,” the young officer said, grasping the man’s hand in a firm shake as he regarded him with sympathy. He could see the marks of exhaustion and grief and his eyes briefly strayed to the photo again.
“Likewise, though I hope I’m not offending if I say I wish I never had to,” Singer replied, sinking into the chair that Harlan wordlessly offered and waving off other hospitality.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harlan said, the words feeling as inadequate as always. Singer looked as awkward as he felt.
“Thanks. John and Mary were...they were good folks. They didn’t deserve...I’m sorry, but...Dean and Sam. Please tell me those boys are all right.”
Harlan made a show of looking through the file, gave the other man a moment to compose himself.
“They weren’t injured in the fire. According to the fire department, a wall near their bedroom must have collapsed when the fire spread and the boys were able to escape that way. They had some minor smoke inhalation that was treated at the scene, but no burns.”
“And John and Mary?”
“They were in another part of the house, the fire seemed to burn hottest there. They were gone before anyone could...the medical examiner, he said it must have been quick, if that helps.”
“But the boys made it out because the whole bedroom wall just…fell? That isn’t kinda unusual?” Singer frowned.
“Well, yeah. Very. It fell outwards like it was bulldozed, not sure I’ve ever seen that,” Harlan replied, trying to ignore the feeling of unease he got whenever he read through the inspector’s statements. “I expect if someone digs in deeper they’ll find some kind of explanation. The good news is those boys got lucky,” Harlan said, blushing when he saw Singer’s flat glare. “Err, well, I mean...”
“I got your meaning,” the older man said stiffly. He took off his hat and rubbed his hand through thinning hair, mumbling under his breath. Harlan only made out the word ‘mess’ but still nodded agreement as Singer met his gaze again. “So where are the boys now?” The officer flipped open the file to the case worker’s notes and read silently for a second then replied.
“Um...according to the file John Winchester had made arrangements for the boys to be taken by the, uh, Angel Program if anything happened to him and his wife. Someone named, uh, Brother Zachariah showed up with the paperwork and took the children back with him. Child Services said that everything was in order,” he said, the troubled feeling growing. In his experience these kinds of things took time, and with the Winchester boys they had been removed to new custody in a little over a day. Singer’s reaction was to slump even further down in his chair, palming his face in despair.
“Balls...so they took them? Both of them?”
“Yes,” Harlan replied, feeling alarmed as he took in the other man’s pallor. “Mr. Singer, is something wrong?”
“Other than everything?” the gruff man answered back sharply, then waved an apology. “I’m sorry, son, this isn’t about you, it’s those...see, my wife and I were supposed to be named guardians for those boys and despite whatever fancy lawyers or paperwork might have been bandied about I know that John and Mary wanted the boys to be with us. I’m just not sure we have the money we’ll need to fight this.”
“Oh,” Harlan replied, still feeling rather helpless in the face of all that information. Bobby sketched a wan grin at the officer’s expression, rising to his feet with a grunt.
“I’ll get out of your hair for now, looks like I got plenty of calls to make.”
“Sure. But...Mr. Singer, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I...what happened to the Winchesters, it’s been weighing on me some, and I’d like to help if I can.”
Bobby Singer palmed the business card that the officer gave him, shook his hand again and left. Harlan strongly suspected he’d never hear from the man again, but he vowed to keep his ears open for news about the people who had taken the Winchester boys. It seemed the least he could do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
2/23/90
Dear Sammy,
Guess what? I got me a new power. You’re the only one I’m telling, so keep it to yourself. I know the mantra around here is “TELL SOMEONE BLAH BLAH BLAH” but I was right, we can’t trust most of them. The good news about my new freak power is I think I can use it to maybe tell who we can trust.
Sister Josephine, that shrink you keep crushing on? I was talking to her when my powers kicked in. She likes you, dude. When I talk about you she gets a little happy, which is nice because the rest of the time she is depressed as shit. But it was kind of relief because I’m pretty sure she’s good. She doesn’t feel like the others.
Yep, I can feel other people’s feelings. I gotta be honest, it sucks out loud. Because most of the dicks around here? What they feel about us, it makes me want to barf, like a lot. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s not a good feeling. It’s like...they feel greedy when they look at us. It’s like we’re some kind of all you can eat buffet of freak kids.
So as far as these bastards are concerned, all I can do is move stuff with my mind. Got it?
Dean
P.S. I still think Brother Castiel is okay, too. He came to talk to me after my session, and I get a lot of sad and worried from him, kind of like your girlfriend the shrink. Not sure if he’s worried about us or something else.
P.S.S. Can’t wait till you finish learning this code, dude, it’s pretty boring writing to myself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Sam Winchester, decoded
3/15/90
Dear Dean,
This code is hard. I miss Mom and Dad. The fire was not your fault and you were great. You are a superhero even if you can be a jerk.
I think I can read minds, Dean. Should I tell?
Love, Sammy
P.S. Sister Josephine is nice. Her real name is Jody Mills. Her husband and son are dead. She thinks about them a lot. I know there is more but I had to stop because it hurt my head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
3/16/90
Dear Sammy,
I say tell them. Maybe they can help train you so your head won’t hurt when you use it, and if they don’t think you have any powers they’ll probably try to send you away.
Dean
P.S. Don’t worry cause I’d never let them do that.
P.P.S. Don’t push it so you hurt yourself, I mean it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 5, 1991- The Angel Program Special Kids Facility
Dean resisted the urge to hold his brother’s hand as Sister Hannah led them into Brother Zachariah’s office. His brother wouldn’t want to be treated like a baby, but the small tremors he could feel was too much for him to bear; he settled for a manly arm around the shoulders and hip bump. His brother pressed back against him and Dean felt a more intense flare of upset from the boy.
“It’s all good, Sammy, just take it easy,” Dean murmured, and his brother shook his head slightly.
“I got us in trouble, I’ve been asking too many questions, I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, his breath hitching faster. Dean stopped and turned his brother to face him, squeezing the back of his neck tight.
“Cut it out with the panicking, dude. We don’t know what this is about, right? We don’t even know it’s bad. So chill.” Sam took a shaky deeper breath and nodded, and Dean let him go. They had to hurry to catch up to Brother Zachariah’s assistant but she didn’t seem to notice the drama behind her. Both boys tried to stealthily look around the Paragon offices, neither of them had ever been past the infirmary in this part of the facility. Dean didn’t know what he had been expecting, but what they saw didn’t say ‘charitable teaching organization’ so much as ‘high end office complex meets mad scientist’s laboratory.’
“This is weird,” Sam breathed and Dean bumped his shoulder in agreement and warning as Sister Hannah knocked on a heavy wooden door, a polished golden plate proclaiming Brother Zachariah’s name. They heard a muffled voice from inside respond, and the door swung open. The round face and insincere smile of Brother Zachariah looked down on them for the first time since they had arrived as he ushered them into his office.
“Come in, come in. Well, Dean and Samuel Winchester! I trust you boys are doing well, you look much better than when I last saw you too. And I understand you, Samuel, can read minds now? Isn’t that wonderful!” He sat imperiously behind a massive desk while the boys fidgeted uncertainly. Sister Hannah softly shut the door behind them and the smile fell from the older man’s face as if it had never been there. “Please take a seat, boys,” he said in a more serious tone, and with a glance at each other the boys complied. Brother Zachariah leaned across the desk and regarded them like they were interesting lab specimens, which Dean supposed they were to someone like him. The only emotion he was getting from him was a weird feeling of pleasure and anticipation that didn’t make the older Winchester feel any better about this situation. Brother Zachariah smiled darkly. “Can you read my mind, Samuel?”
“Sir?” Sam looked startled and Dean felt his brother’s fear flare up again. “I wouldn’t...I wasn’t...” The smarmy Paragon chuckled at the boy.
“You misunderstand me, Sam. I’m asking you to try.” At the boy’s uncertain look, he spread his arms wide with an empty grin. “Go on. You have my permission. In fact I insist.”
Dean watched as his brother steadied himself, then locked eyes with the other man. Sam’s face went a sickly white as he gasped then made a wounded cry that Dean never wanted to hear again. He stood and grabbed his brother’s head in alarm, trying to figure out how he was hurt. He felt sick as he felt Brother Zachariah’s warped satisfaction wash over him, along with his brother’s shock.
“Sammy? Sammy, talk to me,” Dean coaxed, then whirled on the smug man who he knew had somehow injured his brother. “What did you do to him?” Brother Zachariah raised an eyebrow, but it was Sam who responded.
“It’s okay, Dean. I’m okay.” Sam took a shuddering breath, settling himself. “He didn’t...he just showed me...Aunt Karen is dead.” Tears formed in the boys eyes but didn’t fall as he continued, “She...it was an accident. With the car. Uncle Bobby was...he wasn’t hurt. They thought he might have been drunk when he was driving.”
“Bobby Singer is not being charged, by the way. We took the liberty of intervening with the authorities on your uncle’s behalf. Such a tragedy, I am so sorry for your loss,” the other man intoned with false sympathy. Dean bit off the reply that he wanted to make, taking a moment to gain his composure and fight against the feelings swirling in the room as well as his own.
“We can see that,” he finally gritted out. Brother Zachariah’s pen container rattled as Dean continued his battle for control, but nothing went flying and eventually he was able to draw in a calming breath. As the charged atmosphere stilled, the Paragon smiled with genuine pleasure.
“Well done, Dean, you’re gaining more and more control over your Gift. And well done to you as well, Samuel, I’m not at all easy to read I’ve been told.” He stood, and the brothers let him hurry them to the door with no fuss. “That’s all the time I have today, boys, but let me just say I’ve been very impressed and I cannot wait to see you two mature.” Sister Hannah met the boys and ushered them back to the common room, where Sam managed to wait until she left before breaking down with a cry of his brother’s name. Dean drew him in and held him as he sobbed.
“I know, buddy, I know,” he said, his brother’s grief mingling with his own too much to keep his own tears from falling. “They got to Uncle Bobby, he’s not going to be able to help us now. It’s just you and me, Sammy, just you and me.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Sam Winchester, decoded
4/5/93
Dear Dean,
I asked Sister Hael about what happens to other special kids, the ones who aren’t in the Angel Program and I was able to read her. She’s the third one I asked and they all had the same thought, the Angel Program is where all the special kids are. That’s why Mom and Dad were always so spooked about your powers, about anyone finding out. I think they knew, Mom and Dad, maybe even Uncle Bobby, about the Angel Program, but they thought they could keep you safe if they could make them think you were a Norm.
So none of that was on you, jerk.
Love, Sam
P.S. Sister Hael’s real name is Grace Beaumont. She has a crush on Brother Castiel, which is kind of gross. She doesn’t like me because I ask questions, for some reason she thinks I shouldn’t be doing that, which maybe she’s right because no one else does. But she’s not plotting my death or anything so don’t fly off the handle.
P.S.S. Besides if she gets super mean to me or something, I’ll just sic Andy on her. He hasn’t turned in one assignment yet and I don’t think she’s noticed. Pretty sure she hasn’t even noticed he’s in the class.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
4/6/93
Dear Sammy,
Bitch.
You might be right. But they got us in the end, so I must have screwed it up somewhere. It doesn’t matter now so I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
Dean
P.S. Cas should totally take that action. Sister Hael is hot as Hael. Get it? That being said, you better tell me if she messes with you. I mean it, Sammy.
P.S.S. Andy’s power totally rocks. Think he can work his mojo on Brother Bartholomew for me? Dude’s riding my ass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
12/23/94
Dear Sammy,
I’m gonna kick your ass, Sammy! Were you screwing around in my dream last night? And when were you going to tell me you could do that you little bitch?
Dean
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Journal entry by Sam Winchester, decoded
12/24/94
Dear Dean,
I wasn’t sure until you asked me if I actually did it. I guess I have a new power. Not sure how helpful this one is, it’s kind of weird and not as much fun as you’d think. Maybe if I practice I can get it so no one knows I’m there, then it might be something we can use.
Love, Sam
P.S. Your dreams are gonna give me nightmares. I can’t unsee that. Jerk.
P.S.S. Merry Christmas! Hopefully they’ll let us spend some time together tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 19, 1995 - The Angel Program Special Kids Facility
“Is this seat taken?”
Dean’s jaw dropped in surprise as the young redhead plopped down her tray across from his and sat with a toss of her long hair. Once he’d discovered his empathic ability, he’d realized the best way to hide it was to pretend that he didn’t care about anyone or anything (other than Sam, but he’d already set the precedent for that.) As a result, he had a pretty clear reputation around the facility as, well, an asshole. No one had approached his table at lunch in years other than the occasional girl who found his bad boy rep alluring. He gave her a quick once over; she was a kind of casual pretty. Dean automatically flashed the girl a charming grin, which faltered as she rolled her eyes.
“Oh please, as if,” she snorted as she seated herself across from him. “I know you think you’re God’s gift to women, Dean Winchester, but newsflash: I am.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she extended a hand in greeting. “Charlie Bradbury, new girl. In case you hadn’t heard.”
“New girl,” he repeated as he took her hand, noting her firm grip. “Don’t often get newbies that are so...mature.” She made that unladylike snorting sound again.
“I’m sure. This place likes to start the brainwashing young,” she noted bitterly. “Most of the kids I’ve met have totally drunk the Kool-aid.” She shook her head absently as she scanned the room before fixing her gaze on him. “But not you. Or your brother from what I hear. That’s why we’re gonna be best friends.”
“You think we’re gonna be friends?” Dean challenged.
“Yep,” Charlie said smugly taking a bite from her sandwich. “See, you’re going to give me the lowdown on this place, and I’m gonna let you in on what’s been happening in the outside world.”
“Like what?”
“Nuh-uh. You first, dude. Angel Program 101, Unabridged Edition.”
“Sure. Okay, what’s up with the A.P.? Well, most everybody here is somebody’s castoff, plus some hospital kids and their siblings. Sammy found out they don’t take anyone under four, we’re not sure why. They put you in quarantine?”
“Um, here. What? Quarantine? What?”
“Okay, right, they didn’t do that because you already had a gift,” Dean stated flatly, it wasn’t a question. “That’s how they refer to powers. You’ve got a power?” Charlie nodded, her brow still furrowed in confusion. She continued chewing and her next response came directly into Dean’s head.
“You mean the mind talking and the technowhatzit. Yeah, it’s how Mom and I were avoiding these goons.” After he stared at her for a second, she added, “Oh, you have to talk, I’m just a sender, can’t pick up people’s thoughts back. My mom said it’s because I’m a talker not a listener.”
“Gotcha. Sam’s the opposite. He’s a catcher, you’re a pitcher, so as long as you only want one side of a conversation…” He turned his attention to his lunch for a second before adding softly, “So they know you can do that, right?”
“Yes,” Charlie said aloud and grumpily. “I was one of those hospital kids. Long story short, these people apparently offered to cure me, but only if my mom would give me up. She signed the contract but once I was healthy we ran. We managed for years to keep ahead of them. Until I screwed up. They sent a bunch of cattle into the road, no gadgets in cows for me to mess with and that made us have an accident and my mom was hurt and I guess I...I screamed into their minds some. And I might have blown all the transformers nearby.” That last bit was mumbled around another bite of sandwich. Dean nodded, understanding.
“That was the techno-techno-“
“Technowhatzit,” she finished helpfully. “I think they’re calling it technopathy here. Get me near gizmos and I can crack them with my brain. Neat, right?”
“Totally,” Dean answered sincerely, returning her grin. They directed their attention to their lunches as a guard strolled by. Dean was surprised at the easy camaraderie he felt with this newcomer. He tentatively reached out and found nothing in her emotions that would lead him to think she wasn’t sincere about wanting to be his friend. He was therefore surprised when she suddenly poked him in the chest. Hard.
“Hey, you haven’t finished the lowdown.”
“You’re the one who started showing off,” Dean grumbled. “So. Where was I...Quarantine. Quarantine’s where they send most kids to start. Sam and I didn’t go but our guess is they monitor you, run lots of tests, ask lots of questions and try to figure out if you’re ‘special.’ Most kids aren’t, so after six months they move the Norms out to the ‘official’ Angel Program. The rest come here.
“Norms? That’s what they call them?”
“Nah, that’s what we call them,” Dean shrugged. “Sam says the Paragons call them Nulls. Whatever, tomato, potato. They do their time and then go do whatever Norms do, I guess. They call us ‘Special Kids’ and we get hidden back here in superhero school. They classify us by number of gifts, they’re kind of obsessed with that. Like right now you’re a Two.” His lunchmate nodded absently as she absorbed this news. “There’s maybe a couple hundred of us here. Mostly Ones, some Twos, only a handful of Threes. They watch us all, but they’re most interested in the Threes. Most of them get to be ‘mentored’ by one of the ‘Angels’ - also known as hot shot rich guys,” Dean sneered, poking his fork at something vaguely healthy looking on his plate. Most of the meals they were served were disgustingly well balanced.
“Yeah, there was something about that on the Web, without the superpowers bit. They call the kids that get mentored ‘Vessels,’ which is basically uber-creepy if you ask me,” she said with a shudder that Dean couldn’t help but echo. “So Three is the highest? No Fours or Fives?”
“Well...that’s the official story, but it might not be true. Sam picked up some thought chatter about some other kids they think of as Maxers. Not sure if that’s because they’re maxing out the number of gifts or because of what happened to Max Miller.”
“What happened to him?”
“Officially? He was a Three who became a Vessel. According to Sam, Max Miller had more than three powers and he couldn’t handle it. He went insane and killed his sponsor because his brain short circuited. It all happened before we got here, but we think he’s the reason for all the signs everywhere,” Dean stated gesturing to the sign on the wall near their table that stated in simple block letters “TELL SOMEONE ABOUT YOUR NEW GIFT”
“So the Threes all win the grand prize. What happens to the Twos like me and...” She gestured at him questioningly.
“Me? I’m just a One, but I’m awesome,” Dean chuckled, and Charlie frowned at him.
”That’s the first time you’ve lied to me, Dean,” Charlie’s voice in his head said solemnly. Then she winked. ”But I’m gonna let it go because I get that if you’re keeping a secret it’s probably not the best idea ever to discuss it in the lunch room.” She gave him a ‘go on’ gesture and Dean couldn’t help but like this girl.
“Right, well near as I can tell they let some of them out into society, some join the security forces,” he gestured towards a tall young black man standing at the wall. “Like Jake there, he was one of us till Brother Uriel recruited him right before he turned eighteen. Dude’s gift is kind of lame, he’s just super strong, not like we’re not all stronger than Norms. He’s also an supreme asshole but Sam says that’s not a gift.”
“So what you’re telling me is you’re not a fan?” Charlie drily asked.
“He picked on Sam,” Dean shrugged. “So I had to TK him into a hot stove, but hey, no hard feelings, right Jake?” Dean raised his voice and waved, the other man returning a scowl. “He’s got some extra super healing mojo too, so it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“Still, he’s a dick,” Charlie mused. “You and your brother are pretty close, then?”
“As close as they’ll let us be. They keep us apart, say it’s ‘detrimental’ for us to spend too much time together. We manage, though.” He pointed out a petite blonde girl wearing the traditional Paragon robes. “That girl there, I never knew her but I hear she was a special kid before. So apparently some of us are asked to become Paragons, too,” he sighed, then added softly, “At least I hope they ask.” The two new friends shuddered in unison. “So, how bout you share, what does the outside world think about us?
“Probably half of them don’t know the Angel Program exists at all,” Charlie informed him. “Not because they’re keeping it a secret, just because they don’t really care. Everyone that knows about it seems to think it’s a wonderful charity thing, they’ve let people see the normal kids and everyone thinks that’s all this is. I mean, they’re curing sick kids and helping disadvantaged youth, of course everyone thinks it’s brilliant.” Charlie gestured around her. “No one knows this place exists, or if they do they aren’t talking about it.”
“Well that sucks,” Dean summarized, not really surprised. “If they don’t know we’re here...”
“They aren’t going to help us,” Charlie sighed morosely. Feeling a wave of grief and melancholy from her, he put his hand on her arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, he was out of practice with acting nice to people other than Sam.
“I don’t want to upset you, but is your mom...?”
“She’s not dead. But she’s in a coma, When she wakes up, I know she’ll find me, but...she may never do that.” Charlie frowned at the robed brothers and sisters passing nearby. “These people did that to her, they just expect me to forget that?”
“Yes,” Dean answered simply. “Charlie, you have to keep your head down here. I worry about Sam all the time because he’s always asking questions, but he does this puppy eye thing and I guess he’s cute enough still to get away with it. If they think you’re not under their control, they will deal with you. If we’re gonna be friends, I need to know you’ll be okay.” Charlie bit her lip and nodded, and he felt her push the anger and sadness down for now.
“What do you mean, if?” she snorted in mock indignation. “We’re already best friends, Dean Winchester, and don’t you forget it!”
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Journal entry by Dean Winchester, decoded
7/5/95
Dear Sammy,
We thought your dream thing was strange, you won’t guess what I can do now. Thank God when it happened Charlie was the only one there, because I’m definitely keeping this to just us, and Charlie won’t tell. So she and I were talking, and I started telling her that story about you and Andy and I’m saying what you said and then she’s staring at me like weird (weirder than normal for Charlie) and I look in the mirror and dude, I was you! I mean I was still me, but I looked like you, sounded like you.
Charlie said I’m like Mystique in the comic books, except not a hot chick. So then we decided to try to see if I could be a hot chick, and it turns out I can only be someone I know well, but I did manage to pull off a good Lydia Prince which got a little weird cause Charlie said I was even hotter than her. But then I tried to be Sister Rebecca and it wasn’t very good, because I don’t go to class enough to know her, according to Charlie. I tried just making someone up and that didn’t work at all, but maybe I can learn to do that someday. Still, kind of awesome, right? I mean, not as good as TK but better than that emotional bullshit.
I might have “the flu” for a few days while I work on getting this one under control, so don’t worry.
Dean
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