Chapter 2
“So get this right,” Sam starts as he leans against the counter beside Dean in the shop slash bar across from the town hall. “We definitely aren’t in America, and it’s definitely not 2008 anymore. Welcome to the English summer of 1995, Dean. Somehow it’s still colder than summer has any right to be.”
The bar is barely even a bar, just a counter with a small alcohol cabinet in the corner of the building, hidden mostly behind the shelving inside the store. No one is behind the counter, but there’s an old man behind the register at the entrance of the place, a navy sweater engulfing his small frame as he nods at Sam.
Sam scrunches his nose at the smell of whatever Dean’s got in his cup at the moment, eyeing what looks like a glass of rocket fuel distrustfully before opening his mouth to speak again.
“But what I find really interesting is the fact that Dean and Sam Winchester have never existed. Nor a John Winchester, or even a Mary Campbell.”
That seems to pique Dean's interest, green eyes flicking from his drink to stare at Sam consideringly for a split second.
“That explains why Bobby’s numbers all went to randoms, and why no one else had any clue who I was,” Dean says with a resigned look, broad shoulders hunching inwards slightly.
Sam feels bad for the guy, just looking at the dejected back of his brother's head putting him in a worse mood. He’s sure that if the leather jacket could look depressed, it would. But mostly, it just looks too big for Dean. It fits perfectly but it seems to hang heavy on his shoulders at the moment with the weight of Dad’s memory.
Not wanting to think about John Winchester any more than he has to, Sam sits down on the squeaky bar stool next to Dean, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he does.
“So what then? Alternate timeline? Dimension travel?” he questions. He’s considered them all and done as much research as he could manage with the random books that Eileen kept under the counter in the town hall and the ancient computer that barely ran a birth records site. God, he misses Google.
Dean tilts his head before taking another deep sip of his poison of the day. “I’m thinking it’s biblical. I mean, I told you how Cas threw my ass back in time, right? Maybe this is some angel pulling a mean prank.”
Sam actually hadn’t considered that. He’s avoided thinking too much about the fact that angels actually exist, because it makes him sick. Betrayal sings through him whenever God is brought up, years worth of desperate prayers going unheard leaving him more than a little disillusioned with religion.
Ignoring the pang, he hums contemplatively to let Dean know he heard him while reaching to steal a sip from Dean’s glass.
“Yeah, but why a different universe?” he asks as he flags down the old man at the register for a drink of his own, trying to ignore the bitterness clinging to his throat that has nothing to do with the drink.
“Have you tried calling Cas anyway? He didn’t respond to me, but maybe he’ll hear you better, or something. I don’t know how angel frequencies work.”
Dean raises his eyebrows and frowns, which means he clearly hadn’t thought of that.
“How about you get that drink and then we’ll try it. Mr. Shopkeep here” –Dean gestured to the old man moving towards them at the same speed as a dying sloth “–said that there’s no motel, but if we asked real nice, Eileen might let us crash in the town hall for the night.”
“How kind of her,” Sam remarks plainly as the shopkeep approaches.
“May I help you, gentlemen,” the guy asks, adjusting the thick rimmed glasses perched delicately on his nose. Sam smiles gently at him, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible, despite the blood drying on his collar and hairline.
“Just another of whatever he’s having,” Sam gestures to Dean.
The old man nods and brings out a dodgy bottle from the cabinet, pouring the drink in a questionably clean glass, before handing it with shaky hands to Sam. Not really trusting what he’s drinking but knowing the panic clawing at him will only dissipate with a drink in his hand, Sam skulls down half the glass.
Immediately regretting that decision, Sam coughs abruptly, feeling the drink swirl in his stomach like fire. He can vaguely see the judgemental gaze of the old guy and Dean’s amused one, but is focused on trying not to gag at the aftertaste the drink leaves in his mouth.
“God Dean what is this? Actual rocket fuel?” Sam eventually garbles, mouth feeling looser and his shoulders slowly untensing with the alcohol buzzing through him.
Dean smiles lopsidedly into his glass while he takes another sip. He hands the shopkeep a bill for Sam's drink which must satisfy the guy enough to make him shuffle back to his register.
“It’s a secret English recipe, which was recommended to me since I’m very clearly not from ‘round here. Never thought I had a weird accent til’ I got here and suddenly everyone is looking at me like I’ve got two heads.”
Sam chuckles softly as he continues sipping at his drink. The old guy turned on the old handheld radio sitting next to them on the bar counter before he left, and Sam listens to the distorted, vaguely English sounding drivel with half an ear. He feels warmer now, a drink in hand and his brother by his side.
“Feel free to try and call for Cas whenever,” he eventually intones, nudging Dean’s shoulder with his own.
Dean folds his hands obediently, seemingly choosing to ignore Sam’s snarking and begins whispering his ‘prayer’.
“Hey, uh, Cas. Sam and I are stuck back in time, and apparently we don’t exist wherever we are, so. Maybe you could help us out here? Or at least tell us what’s going on?” he murmurs, eyes closed and head bowed.
With those vivid greens hidden behind long lashes, his head bowed and hands clasped, Dad’s leather jacket sitting heavily on his shoulders, and the necklace Sam got him all those years ago resting snug against Dean’s heart, Sam could almost believe that Dean really is some pillar of righteousness, a pious man indeed. God had never given Sam a chance, but Dean, his downstairs brained dorky big brother, had always been there.
Dean breaks the illusion after a minute, pulling his hands apart with frustration. Sam turns his head to scan behind them, considering Castiel liked to just appear directly behind them instead of being normal and non-threatening by showing up in their line of vision, but is disappointed to find no one.
“No ball. Maybe he’s busy?” Sam tries, but it sounds like a reach, even to him. Dean downs the rest of his drink which means he can feel how fake Sam’s optimism is too. He starts mumbling vague insults towards every higher power out there, which Sam chooses to ignore so he doesn’t get smited alongside him.
As Dean is finishing a particularly colourful insult towards Castiel’s behind, the radio that the shopkeep had turned on before he left begins to crackle and send out oddly high-pitched sounds. Sam startles and turns wide eyes to Dean, hope beginning to crackle in his chest.
Dean’s eyes flick from the radio, to Sam, and to the old man, who doesn't seem to be able to hear the commotion from the other end of the room.
“Is that what I think it–” Dean begins, but doesn’t get to finish as the radio finally begins to make sounds that Sam can actually understand as words.
“–Ean, Sam, can you hear me? Dean, Sam, can you hear me?” it starts, volume lowering and rising at irregular times, making both Sam and Dean lean towards it to try and decipher what it’s saying.
As the message loops and the both of them finally figure out what it’s saying, they turn wide eyes to each other, Dean mouthing Cas’ name at Sam while Sam shrugs in response.
“Yeah, we hear you. Cas?” Sam braves, feeling stupid for whispering into a radio. He’s instantly rewarded when the loop abruptly stops and sends out static for a good five seconds. Then Cas speaks.
“I can’t say much, but it seems you’ve been transported to another dimension for your protection. I have tried to retrieve you, and when that failed, travel there myself, but this world is far from our own, and is outside of my abilities,” Cas says, his voice deep and slightly strained. Sam makes eye contact with Dean, alarm written all over them both. Castiel continues.
“Do not trust anyone, and do not tell them you are not a resident. Do not leave the country, I will need to locate you again. I do not know who sent you. I do not know who sent you. I do not know who se–”
Sam struggles to comprehend what Cas is saying as the last line of the message repeats over and over again, stuck on a loop. Dean is fiddling with the radio almost immediately, trying to get it to continue the message.
“Cas? Castiel, can you hear me? What do you mean you can’t come get us? Cas?” Dean is saying, voice rough and eyes dark.
“Dean,” is the last thing they hear Cas say before the radio switches off entirely, the buzzing sound that had been playing while the message repeated disappearing, leaving the store uncannily quiet. Sam swallows.
“What was that?” Sam asks as he turns to Dean, voice slightly shaky as he waits for his big brother to magically fix the situation.
Dean is quiet for almost too long, green eyes staring past the radio to somewhere Sam can’t reach.
“I guess we’re staying in England,” he says instead of acknowledging the general craziness of Cas’ message.
Sam feels the panic clawing up his throat again, and the bitterness of not being answered resting on his tongue, but ultimately decides to drop it. Sam pushes Dean all the time, over anyone and anything, but decides today isn’t the day to test his luck. He can be nice, he can be diplomatic. If Dean wants to keep giving cryptic and vague half-answers to his questions, then so be it.
He’s just gonna have to learn to trust Dean again.
(-)
Sam yawns as he watches Dean swindle some poor guy out of his drinking money at the other end of the bar, his head resting on his crossed arms in the booth they’ve almost claimed permanent residence in over the past two weeks.
They eventually caught a ride out of… Bigglesburn, and into London. Cas had told them not to leave but Dean argued it wasn’t too far, and they needed more information. A place like Bigglesburn wasn’t going to provide that, so Sam eventually conceded and here they are, in what Sam believes is South-East London somewhere.
Living in a crappy hotel (which both Sam and Dean agree is leagues better than the hostels that seem the popular here), and frequenting all the pubs within range of their room to pay for their board and other necessities, has been wearing down on Sam slightly. While his nights are spent either watching boredly or reluctantly helping Dean con some unsuspecting person of their money, Sam’s days are spent at the local library. He’s read about every book on this side of the city on dimension travel and even has done some research on angels.
He can tell Dean’s growing antsy, with all prayers they’ve sent to Cas going unheard and without a response. Sam guesses they’re working their way up to, God forbid, settling down here while they wait for Cas to come rescue them. There’s no hint of ghosts or supernatural activity in the entire country, which is what Dean started researching after the first three days of sitting with Sam in the library, which kinda puts them out of business.
It’s almost eerie how normal the world is here. Just humans and their horrible choices, no mention of unexplainable deaths anywhere. And without the threat of demons and angels, apocalypses, or even simple ghosts, Sam feels that familiar restlessness infecting him too. He almost feels naked without at least a knife on him, let alone without the Impala and her trunk of guns.
“Sammy? Hello?” Sam snaps back to reality, lifting his head up to look at Dean, who’s waving a hand in front of his face with incredulity. “Seriously dude, are you sleeping?”
Sam shakes his head, feeling the fog clear a bit with the return of his brother.
“Just resting, there’s a difference,” he rolls his eyes as Dean slides into the booth opposite of him, tucking the wad of cash into his pocket securely with a satisfied grin.
“Sure thing. Find anything interesting today?” Dean eventually asks, and in his eyes, there’s an almost manic glint.
Sam recognises that desperation, that desire to do literally anything. Hunting’s in their blood, despite Sam spending the majority of his life running away from that whisper in his veins that calls for something more. Hunting again with Dean after Stanford and all the death and hurt that’s come with it has ruined the cookie cutter life for Sam. There really is no going back.
“No, but, I think I have a lead on a possibly less than legal market where we might be able to pick up some weapons and some better lore books. And before you ask, no I haven’t heard anything from Cas,” Sam put in, sliding his beer over for Dean to finish.
Dean grimaces at the drink before shrugging and drinking it anyway. “Okay. Tomorrow?” he suggests, and Sam nods his head and stands up.
“Big day ahead. It’s on the other end of the city, which is either a lot of walking or spending a lot longer than necessary trying to figure out the public transport system,” he says as Dean looks confused at why they’re leaving so early into the night. He doesn’t look happy, but eventually he just drops a note on the table for a tip, a force of habit, and winks at the pretty lady he’d been chatting up all night with a small grin.
Dean follows him out the door in silence, and doesn’t speak a word all the way back to the motel room. They shower one after another, Dean cleans and reassembles the pistol while Sam reads a library loan, and they do it all in silence. Eventually Sam stumbles into his bed and Dean follows to lay on his own, and the lamp is turned off so that they can lie in the dark in silence.
Sometimes Sam forgets that he fucked up the whole family thing with Dean when he chose to go kill Lilith, had walked out that door with only his rage and the demon blood pumping through him when Dean had told him to never come back, all of the bitterness and hatred that were intrinsic to him disguised as vengeance.
When Dean wipes the blood from his face with gentle hands, or when Dean reassures him with his gruff voice trying to hide his discomfort, or when Dean finishes his drink despite it being half finished and not his usual pick, Sam almost forgets there is something broken with them.
They go through the motions of their interactions like they always have, because it’s just them here, no angels or demons to pull them apart and only each other to rely on, but it feels so empty. It all feels flat.
Sam’s trying, he really is, to trust Dean again, to get over himself and the hurt that’s been accumulating since he was 18 and Dean had said nothing as Sam left for Stanford. But every show of trust is based on necessity. If they hadn’t been stranded in some random world, could he fall back into the role of little brother so easily? Could Dean have slipped into that same older brother who would never push Sam away with such ease, if Sam hadn’t been the only familiar thing in his life?
When he can’t think of an answer that doesn’t end in more hurt, he gives up. He rolls over and stares to the side of the room, his back to Dean’s bed and the door. Thinking himself in circles isn’t new to Sam, and it’s more of a lullabye than counting sheep ever really was.
(-)
Dean has been getting on Sam’s nerves for the past hour or so of walking. He’s been leading them through the streets of London with a handheld map, since neither of them had wanted to attempt the public transport system, and Sam was against calling a cab. They’ve walked longer distances, and besides, they need to save money for buying all the books and materials Sam wants.
It would almost be funny the way Dean has his hands shoved in his pockets as he kicks the sidewalk childishly, but there’s really no reason for him to be acting like this. Sam made sure they ate before they left, and to his knowledge, they both slept fine.
Which is what clues Sam into the real issue behind Dean’s attitude. Dean, like Sam, is probably homesick as hell. It’s not a familiar feeling to either of them. Growing up and living life on the road, paired with the nature of their job, has made them adaptable. Sam’s only constant in life has been his brother, the Impala, and the big bad monsters that were never just under his bed.
So when they’re torn from the car and all the information, resources, and connections they’ve accumulated from the job, left only with each other, he can see why it’s started to grate at Dean. Hell, it’s starting to grate on Sam, which his brother’s mood certainly isn’t helping with. Walking around everywhere is just salt in the wound really, since Dean would definitely rather have the car than Sam.
Probably.
Despite empathising with Dean, irritation is quickly winning the battle on what emotion Sam wants to respond with, so when he turns the corner of the street that their market entrance is located on, he settles for being pissy right back at him.
With his right eye twitching quietly, Sam spins around and pushes the map into Dean’s chest. Dean, caught off guard, flounders for a second before narrowing his eyes at Sam.
“Really man? What?” Dean says, words lined with exasperation.
“We’re here. Keep an eye out for some place called the uh,” Sam snatches the map back from a pissy Dean to check the name of the place he’d written down on it. “‘The Leaky Cauldron’, it should be on this street.”
Dean scoffs and shoves past Sam to begin walking down the busy sidewalk, eyes flicking from the map back up to the signs on the storefronts. Sam keeps his eyes half trained on the shops, half trained on watching his brother’s back. From what, he doesn’t know, but old habits die hard, and Sam slips back into the whole ‘watch each others back thing’ like a fish to water.
“Do you even know what this ‘Leaky Cauldron’ place is supposed to be, or are we walking in blind?” Dean grumbles as he continues walking at a relatively sedated pace. He pauses before turning his head slightly back towards Sam. “Where’d you get this place from anyway?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. The Leaky Cauldron is a pub. Which, I have been assured multiple times, is the entrance to the market we’re checking out,” Sam replies, feeling slightly irked that Dean only just started questioning him on this.
“Wonderful,” Dean replies.
“I told you about that weird couple that I met a few nights ago at that one pub right? The one with the Snoopy paraphernalia everywhere?” Sam asks and Dean nods, a small grimace on his face at the memory. “Well, I overheard this couple saying stuff about a spell, and thought I’d give it a shot. They swore that there’s something magical about this market, so it’s a lead.”
Dean didn’t look much happier at his explanation but seemed placated enough. “If it’s the only lead we’ve got, I’ll try and keep an open mind,” he says, before going back to scanning the street absently.
Sam rolled his eyes as emphatically as he could manage, before his eyes caught on a sign with a cauldron on it. He wouldn’t have even noticed it, had he not been focusing so hard on his surroundings and Dean.
Spelled out in bold black lettering ‘The Leaky Cauldron’ was visible across the street, the sign worn and rusted. The building itself was odd, like it was slipping in and out of existence almost, fuzzy around the edges. Sam struggled to keep his eyes on it, his eyes moving right past it every time he blinked, but eventually settling back on it.
“Dean, there!” he called, grabbing his brother’s shoulder and turning him to face the place.
“What? Where?” Dean was instantly on alert, muscles jumping from under Sam’s hand. He spun his head rapidly before following Sam’s eyes and squinting hard for a minute.
“What the fuck,” Dean mumbled as the place seemingly came into sight for him as well. Sam tore his eyes away from the place to catch his brother’s eye.
He could almost feel the uncertainty radiating from Dean’s face. “That place look weird to you too?” Sam found himself asking, feeling a bit put-off by the building that seemed intent on hiding itself from them.
“Like it can’t make up its mind on whether it’s real or not? Yeah, I see that. Magic wards?” Reassured that his sanity was still intact, Sam took a moment to relax before groaning and bringing a hand up to cover his eyes.
“You think we’re dealing with witches here?” he asks instead of answering. He can almost feel the displeasure radiating from Dean.
“Damn witches,” is all Dean says before Sam can hear him shuffling away. He opens his eyes and jogs slightly to catch up to where Dean is crossing the road.
“It’s the best lead we’ve got,” Sam reminds him quietly as they approach the front door.
Despite the streets having seemed pretty busy before, the closer they get to the entrance of the place, the more Sam notices that the people seem to swerve away from the door, eyes glossing over the pub entirely. Like it’s not there at all, moving from the store to its left, to the one on its right instantly. It’s unnerving. At least he can actually concentrate on the place easier now that he’s standing out front the door, right underneath the swinging sign that reads its name.
Dean gives him one last determined look before reaching for the door handle.
Sam isn’t really sure what he was expecting, maybe some messed up witchy ritual sacrifice with candles and robes and weird diagrams painted on the floor. Surprisingly enough, a bustling pub wasn’t very high on his lists of possibilities.
Like he had told Dean, the Leaky Cauldron turned out to be exactly as advertised. For all intents and purposes, it was a homely pub, if a bit grimy in the corners and outdated with its decor. About three hundred years outdated, if the skirting designs were any indication. Though perhaps that was intentional, considering almost everyone inside was dressed oddly as well.
Spare a few teenagers, almost everyone was either dressed in ridiculously outdated clothes, or weird poncho robe things. Sam could feel Dean tense beside him at the change in atmosphere compared to the dreary outside and the bright and cheery inside, scanning the room perfunctorily.
Finding no immediate threat beyond a few stray stares that end up lingering on Dean as usual, Sam turns an appraising frown to Dean.
“This place seems weird enough that I’m immediately convinced my sources proved true. Fancy a drink?” he says, putting on his most obnoxious British accent that he can manage, before gesturing towards the bartender cleaning a grimy glass with an even dirtier cloth with an innocent smile.
Dean snorts and tries to stifle his smile before removing his hand from where it had been under his jacket, ready to pull his gun if necessary. “Now that is something I’d never say no to,” he smirks while gesturing for Sam to lead the way.