In Medias Res (1/6)

[dime_liora]

Time present and time past/ Are both perhaps present in time future,/

And time future contained in time past./ If all time is eternally present/ All time is unredeemable./

What might have been is an abstraction/ Remaining a perpetual possibility/ Only in a world of speculation./

What might have been and what has been/ Point to one end, which is always present./ Footfalls echo in the memory/

Down the passage which we did not take/ Towards the door we never opened/ Into the rose-garden"-T.S. Eliot

Eaton, Colorado October 1^st, 2008


Dean stares at his own crabbed handwriting for a moment before pulling his jacket tighter and crossing the flagstones up to the front door. The house is quaint if not grand, and the old brick is set off by the fading daylight. The yard sprawls around it, and it hasn't escaped his notice that there isn't a neighbor anywhere closer than a mile. It's the kind of place someone goes to hole up, and Dean knows the look all too well. The glass in the front door is ornate, and he gives it some consideration even as he pushes the doorbell and holds. He's not worried about pissing off the occupant because he's got a gun in his other hand and there's a bullet waiting for her if she doesn't give him the right answers. He waits until he hears the footsteps, slides the gun behind his back, and puts his best "just passing by" smile on while he waits for her to open the door. It's probably a useless gesture, but Dean's willing to cover all his bases.

He knows just enough about her to know that she'll be cautious, but it's probably not a gun she's worried about greeting her. Whatever she is though Dean's got a weapon for it, and he's ready to work the information from her piece by piece if that's what it takes. What he's not ready for is the sight of her when the door opens. She's small. Smaller than the pictures suggested and for half a second he imagines how she'd measure up to Sam. She'd barely reach his chest, and her delicate hands clutch a Bible and a flask as she stares at him curiously. She's certainly pretty, but Dean was prepared for that. Her lips are a dark red, and generous on her elfin face. Black hair hangs gracefully to either side of eyes a shade of blue so dark they could almost be the night sky. Dean doesn't miss that it's long enough to have not seen scissors in years. Tiny, maybe a bit too skinny, but if Dean had met her in a bar months ago he would have tried to take her back to her place and explore every line of her. Before he can open his mouth and start with something reassuring or calming her eyes widen and then she drops the Bible and covers her mouth.

"He did it." Her voice isn't so much shocked as horrified, and then she pulls back a few steps and Dean sees her going for the door even as he's moving instinctually to put his foot in the way and raising the gun to aim at her forehead. She's not slamming it very forcefully because it barely thunks against his boot even as he takes aim. She stares down the barrel without speaking, and Dean expects to see a new kind of terror but it never appears.

"Yeah. He did it. Now you're gonna tell me how to fix it, and what it is." He keeps the gun trained on her even as he steps cautiously across her salt line. Sam's in the car, but Dean will go get him as soon as he's sure she won't be calling the cops, or pulling some kind of mojo. She lets herself be led down the entrance hallway and into a large living room. Dean gestures with the gun and she sits in the armchair and holds perfectly still while he attaches one loop of the handcuffs to the metal bars in the footrest and the other to her hand. She doesn't look like she can drag the thing. He searches her pockets but doesn't find a cellphone. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

She doesn't respond, but he imagines a woman like her could come up with some pretty sarcastic shit in response to a cliche like that. Instead of waiting to see if she'll get her voice back he goes outside again and then collects Sam from the passenger seat of the Impala. His brother's eyes remain on the ground as he allows himself to be herded like the world's biggest fucking sheep along those flagstones and up the steps. Sam pauses for a breath on the threshold and then crosses in when Dean reaches for him. His subconscious avoidance of Dean's touch doesn't hurt as much as it did in the beginning, but it still leaves a bad taste in Dean's mouth. The woman's eyes follow Sam as he crosses the plush carpet, rest on his face as Sam sits in front of the fireplace as close as he can get to the grate without getting burned. Dean makes sure of that at least, because he knows from experience that Sam will climb into the fire if he's left to his own devices. Sam doesn't look up, but his bandaged fingers slide through the carpet and pluck at it idly as Dean watches to make sure he's comfortable before he walks around the bottom floor of the house.

The rooms are all filled with the kind of antique furniture indicative of a person intimately familiar with estate sales and restoration. He lets his fingers trail over a cherry bar before he steps into the kitchen. She's been baking, and he eyes the pies on the counter before making the rest of his rounds. There's a master bedroom down here with an ensuite, and the decorations present in the rest of the house are missing in these two rooms. It has the feel of a brochure picture instead of a real house, and he can't help but wonder if that's in contradiction to the rest of it, or if the other rooms are set dressing for a normal life. Dean knows from his research though that no one comes here, and who she'd be trying to fool is beyond him. He makes a trip up the stairs and finds another bathroom and three bedrooms. One is painted in hospital issue beige and the windows have blackout curtains over them. There's a desk set-up with a large computer and a webcam, and against the wall it faces there's a dry-erase board with a full compliment of colored markers but nothing written on it. He finds a cabinet set into the wall with the router and several other tech pieces he can't immediately identify.

Dean crosses into the second bedroom and finds something much like the one downstairs. Carefully made king-size bed, lack of pictures, and a standard dresser. It's obvious no one has slept here in a long time, but the place is immaculate. He steps into the last bedroom and finds what he's been looking for. The walls are covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, and the collection here rivals Bobby's for eccentricity. If there's an order to them Dean can't discern it, but he ignores that and focuses on the nest of blankets set behind a devil's trap in the corner. There are two books in the nest and he studies each of them carefully before dropping them both back onto the blankets. He can't read the writing, but he's fairly certain it's Sanskrit. It makes sense because it's in the long list of languages she's supposed to be able to translate. This is where she really lives, and the rest of it is just for show. The five locks on the door would give it away if she'd had time to hide the blankets, water, and jerky. He can see a closet door behind one of the shelves, and he considers trying to get to it before scrapping the idea as a waste of time. He may be here a while and there's time to go exploring later. Instead he goes back downstairs and sits across from her. He takes his time pulling the tools from his duffel. Lays each piece out with precision and care. Silver, salt, holy water, and she watches him the whole time without moving or reacting.

Her eyes move over to Sam as he starts, and her gaze stays steady when he tilts the bottle of holy water to her lips. She drinks without complication, and then holds still for his cutting her, and for the salt. Dean pays attention to the work. Her blood is red, she doesn't smoke or hiss, and there's no change in her facial expression or the color of her eyes.

Dean sees that her attention is still on Sam, and her expression suggests a kind of sorrow Dean can understand. Which doesn't mitigate his anger at all, but she's human. Responsible somehow for what's happened to his baby brother, but human.

"Start with what he did, and then tell me how to fix it." He knows he sounds intimidating, but she doesn't flinch or try to get away from his focus. Instead her head swivels in his direction and she licks those dark lips before biting the bottom one.

"Time is a funny thing. We rely so much on it but in reality it's only another thing we perceive, and give reality to with our perception. That was my big mistake. Not understanding that time isn't a given, a truth, and that everything can happen all at once and never stop happening."

"Lady I'm real goddamn tired, and I'd like to get my brother out of the vegetable garden so you need to get to the point." She wiggles her hand in the cuff and then leans back as best she can while taking in Sam.

"That is the point. Time is not a linear concept that can be tracked easily and ordered by minutes and seconds and hours. Time is not a thing that flows in one direction or another. Time Dean. That's what your brother did, and until you understand that everything you know about it is faulty there's not much I can tell you."

He bites viciously at the inside of his cheek and then lowers the gun and dry scrubs his face until the urge to curse at her is gone. "Let's say I understand that. Go to the next part."

"There was this English professor at Stanford-"





Eaton, Colorado  May 4^th, 2008



An English professor at Stanford once told Sam that all good stories begin with a misunderstanding. At the time Dr. Clewsky was ridiculously drunk, and Sam was on his way there. Jess had abandoned him two hours earlier, and he was fairly certain that he'd never forgive her for it. Unless she wore that one set of heels he loved so much with that little skirt, because Sam was only human and some things had to be let go of for the greater good of getting laid. He remembers thinking all of those things even if he can't remember what brand of beer it was that Clewsky kept buying him, or the books Clewsky used to prove his point. Whatever they were Sam remembers what he finally said when Clewsky stopped rambling, and right at this moment it sits at the top of his list of regrets. Clewsky had been a big man, balding, and he would sweat no matter what the temperature was. He was wearing blue. He asked Sam if he understood misunderstandings. Sam had leaned forward and gripped the professor's hairy wrist in one hand even as he realized he may have gone way over drunk at some point he couldn't precisely remember.

"I misunderstood the meaning of goodbye."

Clewsky had laughed. Sam remembers that even if Clewsky's response was more important than his mood. He knows that Clewsky took his meaning to be about a girl, some girl any girl, and that Clewsky started waxing philosophic on women in general. Sam hadn't meant a woman, wasn't even sure he'd meant a person really, but he had meant what he said. Even if in the harsh light of sobriety it didn't seem to have any meaning at all. So now here he was standing in front of a door in Nowhere, Colorado with a piece of paper clutched in one hand and no idea at all how to broach the subject he's about to ask. He can't see inside the house because the window in the doorway is a stained glass depiction of the Fall of Lucifer. It's well done, and Sam studies it for a bit as he tries to put his pitch in order. He'll start with his name, and then go from there, but the next step is the one he can't quite figure out. Despite spending his life talking to strangers Sam has never been very good at begging, and ultimately that's what he's going to do. He's going to beg, and if the woman inside tells him to fuck off then Sam's got nothing else. No other recourse, and despite spending the last ten months looking everywhere there's nothing else left to him. Ruby has been a dead end at best, and Sam is honestly starting to question whether she has any intention of helping them at all. Dean's just started to really fight for some new option, but Sam's not depending on that either. Because if it comes down to it the last person Dean's ever cared about saving is himself.

This though. This could be a total dead end, but it was Clewsky who told him about it. Clewsky who indirectly has led Sam's feet to this house in the middle of nowhere. He stares at the brick wall for a bit, wonders how old the house is and how many people have died in it, and then the door opens and he's greeted by a serious looking woman who clutches a flask in one hand and a book in the other. She eyes Sam for a long time, but doesn't bother dousing him with holy water or reading out of the Bible she's clutching. Instead she tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

"What." Sam gets the distinct feeling she doesn't want to know, so she makes it clear that this isn't a question.

"I'm Sam. I came because-"

Her head is already shaking, dark hair falling into equally dark eyes as she shifts her grip on the flask and takes a half-step back. "Don't bother. It isn't true."

Which is what he's afraid of, but her knowing what he wants before he says it gives him hope. "It's my brother. He's only got two months left. Please."

There's silence, dragging on until Sam's aware of every pebble in the treads of his boots and every hair on his head blowing softly in the spring wind. She simply studies him, and then her fingers snap the Bible shut and she closes her eyes. "Who sent you?"

"Dr. Porter Clewsky. Please." He's willing to go to his knees. Willing to clasp his hands, cry, scream, rend his clothing and tear his hair, or whatever it will take to convince her that he's not some tourist and that her help isn't just appreciated it's vital. Because Dean has two months and Sam can't watch it happen. Can't watch his brother be ripped apart by hellhounds and dragged into the Pit. Can't live with the possibility that all he had to do was give into Ruby's temptations and exercise Azazel's power to kill Lilith. Time is running out and they have no back-up plans left.

The name is like a switch, and her dark eyes go from flat to lively in half a second even as her mouth tightens to a thin line. "He's a pompous windbag with delusions of grandeur."

Sam nods once, unsure if this is a test or not, and then pushes hair out of his face. "He liked my interpretation of The Sun Also Rises."

If something else has to be said he's not sure what. It's apparently good enough though because she steps back and Sam carefully crosses her salt line and glances upwards at the devil's trap once before crossing through it. She leads him into a well-lit kitchen that smells like chocolate. The source of the scent becomes obvious when he eyes the huge platter of chocolate-chip cookies and feels the same pang he always does in relation to Jess and her last night on earth. She gestures at them before digging in the fridge and pulling out two bottles of beer and dropping one in front of Sam without asking. He studies the label as she deposits the Bible and the flask into a cabinet and then comes back to the table. There's a picture of a map he doesn't instantly recognize and the title, La Fin du Monde, brings a smile to his face that he can't seem to stop. He glances up to see if that puts her off but it doesn't seem to affect her one way or the other. She's studying him though, and Sam holds still and lets her before she places one heavily scarred hand in front of him. Almost touching but not quite. He looks at the thick white lines and how they twist over her fingers and the back of her hand in lines and shapes that would seem random to anyone not as familiar as he is with magic sigils and ideograms.

"It won't work for you and your brother. That isn't how it works Sam." The fingers twitch, and then pull back before making contact. "What did Clewsky tell you?"

"That you wrote the seminal work on the meaning of goodbye."

Long lashes flutter shut over eyes that are only a shade or two away from being black. "Tell me your story."

-------



Union Springs, Alabama July 10^th, 1999


Summer in the South is a vicious and living thing, and even the rare breezes remind him of living in a dryer. Sam's decided there's nothing worse, and if he has to live this way then the least they could do is service the AC unit in the motel rooms. It's not like Union Springs has much to offer tourists, and comfort seems like such a small thing. Instead the air that comes out of the little grate is probably as thick as oatmeal. Or grits if he's being regionally correct. In a few days they'll be headed to Florida, because Sam's picked up the trail of something killing tourists there and he's pretty sure that at this point the only time he and Dad don't fight is when he's giving the man potential hunts. Which is ok right now, because what Sam really wants at the moment is to have some time alone. He can only do so much of the non-supernatural research without getting caught.

His dad specializes in pattern recognition, is probably one of the best hunters in the world because he can use bits and pieces of information to create long and intricate stories that lead to resolution and celebration. That's Dad, and Sam has long since come to terms with it. The man's not very good with computers though, and Sam has taken over that aspect of the whole thing. Give Dad a couple small town papers and he can ferret out even the smallest hint of an unnatural death. Which is great for Sam, because that means his dad has yet to see any hint that his son is planning an escape. It's not that Sam doesn't appreciate the whole thing, but vengeance isn't really what he's after. He loves his father, loves his brother, but he didn't know his mom. Doesn't want to do this anymore, because the price is always bigger than the reward. At least that's what it seems like after 16 years of being moved from city to city. Sixteen years of watching Dad and/or Dean limp back to whatever crappy motel or rundown shack they're staying in looking like death.

Most importantly, sixteen years has been enough to teach him that if he keeps waiting around one day Dean won't come back. That's the one thing Sam will not learn to live with, and it may not make much sense but he's not going to. Sure, the idea of leaving is terrifying, but it'll be easier. Easier on Dean and Dad if they don't have to put up with his complaints and holding them back. Easier on him if he's not so close to Dean when the inevitable happens. They've discussed it before, but Dean won't bend. Won't even consider the possibility that this whole thing isn't worth his life. If Sam can't talk the stubborn asshole into considering himself then fuck him.

Which is an easy way to wave off what is actually a whole ocean of guilt and fear. But Sam just can't. He can't be asked to wait for Dean to die. Can't be asked to sit around and imagine what is waiting for them in the next town and the next. Most importantly he can't be asked to grow any closer to Dean before it ends bloody. So Sam's planning escape routes, and he has the grades to do it. If he can just finish school then he's sure he can get out.

When the door slams open he shuts the browser window and closes the laptop. It was a simple salt and burn they ran into on the way, but that never promises anything in the way of avoiding pain. He's expecting to see one man leaning on the other, but instead he sees Dean looking trashed even though it's ten in the morning and his brother is a year too young to be legally drinking. Not that legalities have ever stopped the Winchesters before.

"Where's Dad?"

"Aww Sammy you care. Such a sweet little guy." Dean squints at him as he closes and locks the door behind him. Plastered or not his older brother checks the integrity of the salt line before he stumbles his way to the bed closest to the door. "Maybe not so little."

"You're drunk."

"Always knew you were the smart one." Dean's grin is easy, casual, and Sam wants to punch it off his face.

"It's ten in the morning Dean. Why are you drunk?"

"Five o'clock somewhere Sammy. Dad'll be back tomorrow."

Dean's eyes drift half-closed, and then flutter open again to narrow at Sam. It always amazes him how green they are. As if every time they leave his sight they get a little more intense. It's that or the human brain isn't equipped to keep that shade in it.


--------

Eaton, Colorado  October 1^st, 2008


"The human brain isn't equipped to handle the vast expanses of eternity. Did you know that?" Her eyes are on Sam again, and she rubs half-heartedly at the handcuff before shutting off her own gaze. She looks pained, and Dean traces the weird swirls of scars on her hands. They match the cuts Sam has under his bandages, and Dean wants to ask but she's in some bizarre trance and he's afraid to break it. "Did you see what my field of study was?"

It pops up behind his eyes, the memory of the websites and journal articles. "You got three degrees, and the majority of 'em have something to do with religion or philosophy. You've written seven books, more than thirty articles, and your thesis is taught as classes at most of the bigwig schools." Her lips curl a bit before she settles back into the chair. "They called you a genius until your breakdown."

"You didn't look up the police reports? That was kind of lax of you."

That's a wrinkle he didn't expect. There were rumors about what caused her break. How she came back from a sabbatical changed, and soon afterwards locked herself away and refused to see people. Taught courses long-distance from her home, and finding her had been a bitch and a half. He imagines it took Sam less than a third of the time it took him.

"You get popped for all the usuals? Narrowly avoid a nice stay in a place with padded walls?"

Her eyes open again and focus on him. "No. I managed to keep my psychosis in check for the remainder of my stay with society. It was the attack I was referring to. My students began to show up with black eyes. Shortly afterwards one nice doomed young man figured out my secret, and took me to a warehouse. Tried to scare the answers out of me. He didn't get much." She looks back to Sam. "He wouldn't have been able to repeat the process even if I did."

"So they started sending demons to finish you off after you got someone out?" Dean watches her jerk as if she'd forgotten he was there and then turn back in his direction.

"What? No. They sent them to remind me not to share. I was warned that a young man was going to come asking for my knowledge, and that if I shared it I'd pay the price. Which is why I had the alarm installed in the room you went into upstairs."

"Fuck." Dean's already starting to get up when she waves a hand to slow him down.

"It isn't calling the police. You wanted to know what he did and how to fix him. I can tell you the first part because it's mine to tell, but the second? I have no idea. On the other hand the man that alarm brings does. It works out in your favor actually." She studies her hands for a second and then looks at some point a few inches to the right of Dean's face. As if she can't meet his eyes anymore but she wants to pretend she can. "I wouldn't leave the cuffs on when he gets here. You probably have six or seven hours."

There's a lot to consider there. Dean could take the cuffs off, and she probably wouldn't try to fight him. She doesn't seem interested in fighting him, but that doesn't mean she won't. She certainly won't leave the house, because it's got all her protection built into it, and out there she'd be a sitting duck. He engages the safety on his Beretta and tucks it in the back of his pants before uncuffing her. Whatever he's expecting the woman to do she doesn't. She gets up immediately and crosses to Sam. He wants to tell her not to reach out. Doesn't want to see the way Sam'll flinch and shudder, but he keeps his mouth shut. Let her see the damage she's caused.

Except Sam doesn't try to get away from her. He sits like an obedient child while she takes his bandaged hands in hers and looks into his eyes. For half a second Dean actually believes Sam's gaze focuses, and then the belief is gone as she lets go and sits beside him. She runs her fingers over the scars on her own hands for a moment before leaning her shoulder against Sam's. It strikes Dean then how alike they are. Sure she's tiny, and wholly feminine, but they both have the same hollow look underneath everything. As if any second now she may check out and join Sam in La La Land without warning. Which scares Dean a fucking lot because this is his only chance to save Sam.






"Hey. Hey I need you to focus here." She looks up then and her eyes are so dark with the fire behind her Dean shudders once and barely avoids grabbing his weapon.

"Sorry. It's very strange to have Sam back here and like this. It's hard to remember if he just left or if he's leaving." She pushes a lock of Sam's hair out of his face, and Dean watches as Sam leans towards her scarred fingers.

Asking her to clarify what that means seems like an exercise in futility. "You said reports. Multiple. One was for the kid that nabbed you, but what was the other one?"

"I was in a car crash. The driver was drunk, and he fled the scene. The man we hit called the police, and they tracked us down." She rubs absently at her ribs before lifting her shirt to show Dean a thick puckered scar underneath her left breast. Her eyes catch his this time, as if she's pleading with him to understand without making her really say it. "They found us at an old dirt crossroads twenty miles away, and I was taken to the hospital while he was arrested. Ten years later I took my sabbatical and the rest you know."

A deal. The guy not only made a deal he knew instantly how to get to a crossroads and make one. That answers a lot of questions at once even while it makes more. "Was he an academic or a hunter?"

"A hunter. Raised as one. Just like you two."

"And that's who's coming to dinner?"

Her lips twitch once. "Yes. Which is good because I just baked in case he did. Not that he ever does."

"How long did you live after the crash?"

"He told me later it was just a few minutes. I don't really remember dying, but that's not surprising. I just remember arguing before the crash and then waking up in the dirt next to him. I thought I saw a woman walking off, but that may have been my imagination."

"How long 'til you figured out what he did?"

"A year. Then I had nine left to find out how to save him." She shrugged once, and Dean got the feeling she was going for casual even if she didn't pull it off. "Sam told me you didn't get the standard contract though. He was out of options when he came here, and then he told me his story."

"And you helpfully told him how to get his ass in bigger trouble than he could have imagined." She's not able to look at him when she answers.

"You don't know what it's like to be left behind by the person you love more than anything. To carry all that weight and guilt, and know that in the end you only breathe because he's being tortured in Hell." He goes to argue and her glare cuts him off. "Your dad doesn't count. Remember how you felt when Sam died? That was what he was facing, but a million times worse. He did what he had to do, and I understood what he meant when he told me that he wouldn't make it without you. Stow your judgments Dean, because you're lacking a moral high ground on this one."

He wants to argue. He really does, but there's nothing left for him to say. So he stuck to nodding his head and gesturing for her to go on.

"I told him it wouldn't work for him. His response? 'But-'"

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Comments

[sleepyprince19.livejournal.com]

"Easier on Dean and Dad if they don't have to put up with his complaints and holding them back. Easier on him if he's not so close to Dean when the inevitable happens." Oh hun 🥺

I,,, love her??? Omg