Fic Post: "Leapin' Lizards" (1/4)
Oct. 30th, 2007 08:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwendolyngraceTitle: Leapin’ Lizards (1/4)
Author: Gwendolyn Grace (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gwendolyngrace)
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam Winchester (age 8), Dean Winchester (age 12), Dr. Sam Beckett, Adm. Al Calavicci, OFC.
Pairings: None
Genre: Gen (Quantum Leap / Supernatural Crossover)
Wordcount: 18,560 give or take
Summary: Happy Birthday,ficwriter1966! This is set sometime within the first year or so of Project Quantum Leap (because the first season of QL is the only one I have on DVD currently!). The Leap Date is July 8, 1991. Dr. Sam Beckett Leaps in to save a life, which is not unusual…what’s unusual is that he’s saving it from an angry spirit.
Author’s Notes: About a month after venturing hardcore into the SPN fandom, I got to reading some fics byficwriter1966. I have tremendous respect for her interpretations, and shortly after beginning to comment on and friending her journal, she answered some questions about writing for TV and being a published author. She revealed that she wrote two of the Quantum Leap tie-in novels. And thus this idea was spawned. I feel a little like I’m putting my head in the lion’s mouth—only because she knows the QL-verse much better than I! I’ve spent the last few months surfing QL sites, trying to jumpstart my memories of the show, and borrowing my mother’s Season 1 DVD set (Season One feels way short!). At the time I thought it would be easy to get this written before her birthday; boy, did I underestimate the rate of plot bunny attack in this fandom! Also other commitments, getting into a show…etc. But here it is, and it’s dedicated to Carol.
Crossover Note: As with most of my crossovers, if you are minimally familiar with either fandom, you will be able to enjoy the fic without needing too much knowledge of the other fandom used herein.
Researcher’s Note: The July 11 eclipse, Minnewaukan, Devil’s Lake, the reservation, the drainage project, and the National Guard training facility are all real. The MotW is not. I don’t speak Lakota; I cobbled together some vocabulary found online to create the name of the creature.
Disclaimer: Quantum Leap was created by Don Bellisario and is owned by NBC TV. Supernatural was created by Eric Kripke and is owned by WB / CWTV. I was created by a rare act of silliness on my parents’ part and am (entirely) owned by my obsessions.
The first thing Sam Beckett became aware of, after the all-too familiar tingling of the Leap, was that he was sitting in a parked car, alone. Since Sam so rarely got to enjoy the luxury of peace and quiet and time to orient himself, he indulged in a contented sigh of relief before examining his surroundings. It appeared to be a highway rest stop, and the car was a pretty nice classic car. Not that he knew much about cars—that was more Al’s thing. But was it a classic where he was, or was it new? Sam glanced around at the other cars for any clue as to what year it was.
He glanced at his image in the mirrors and saw a man of about 40 years, with short dark hair cut in long sideburns and a strong, square jaw. Though the eyes that looked back at him were brown, they told him nothing about the man he’d Leapt into—Sam’s own emotions always showed in his host’s eyes.
Using the side mirrors, Sam looked down at muscular arms, dusted with dark hair. His left wrist sported a no-nonsense black watch, and his left ring finger bore a simple gold wedding band. He appeared to be a trim, though not ultra-fit, figure, dressed in working-man’s jeans and layers of t-shirt and solid twill overshirt, cuffs rolled up to the elbows. Sam surveyed the car again for more information. He noted the tape deck (that wasn’t an original feature—couldn’t have been, could it?), and the maps and tapes that littered the front seat.
Since he was by himself and at a rest stop, Sam knew there was only one direction to drive. But where was he going? He decided to wait for Al. He’d be along soon and no doubt would be able to tell Sam all he needed to know. This might even be his easiest Leap ever, he thought, as he leaned back in the seat. The pleasant warmth of the car lulled him and he closed his eyes while he waited.
Before long, he heard two young voices approaching from the restroom building on his right. He listened without really waking himself up.
“Dean! Gimme that back!”
“No way, squirt! You’ll have to take it, if you can!” They must have tussled, because a few seconds later, Sam heard:
“Dean, lemme go!” Sam wondered whether he should intervene, but before he could decide on appropriate action, “Dean” slammed the other boy into the rear passenger door and the car rocked. Sam’s eyes opened a bit. Out the window he could see two boys—brothers, perhaps?—fighting over a book. The older boy looked about eleven, dirty blond and slim as a rail. The younger, darker boy was also chubbier, perhaps nine, maybe not even. He was currently being held in a half nelson.
“What’s so special about this book, anyway?” Dean asked, ignoring his brother’s attempts to grab the book, and dragging him around in a circle next to the car. Sam, figuring they hadn’t seen him asleep, settled back down. These two would get in their parents’ vehicle and leave him in peace, he knew. Any second now.
But they didn’t. Dean opened the rear door and pushed his brother in. “Get in the car,” he said. Sam shut his eyes tight, hoping against hope that this was not really happening. The little boy crawled from the passenger side over to the driver’s while his brother triumphantly opened the book.
SPROING! A large spring-loaded snake popped out of the hollowed book covers. Dean shrieked and jumped away from it, only to immediately realize his foolishness and turn bright red with embarrassment. Meanwhile, his little brother howled with laughter in the back seat.
“Did you see the look on his face? Dean, you screamed like a girl!”
Dean wrenched open the door. “SAM!” he yelled, loud enough to make both occupants jump.
“What, I’m here! What!?” Sam Beckett said reflexively from the driver’s seat, the yell waking him up completely.
Both boys went dead quiet and looked at him in confusion.
“Da-ad?” Dean asked first, settling into the seat. His question was clearly more “What the heck?” than simply, “What?”
Sam looked at the two boys watching him expectantly, swallowed, and said, “Oh, boy.”
~*~*~*~
“Er…Sorry…I was just catching a nap, there. What did…uh, Sam do, Dean?” Sam asked in what he hoped was a sanguine, but not too indulgent, parental way.
“Uh…nothin’, Dad,” Dean said quickly. “It’s okay.” He leaned over to little Sam and growled, “I’ll get you later.”
“Nobody’s getting anybody,” Sam—he guessed he’d better start thinking of himself as…who was he? Well, Dad, for now—said. This much at least he remembered from road trips with his sister: someone was always starting trouble, and his parents constantly had to referee. “You boys buckled up back there?”
The two exchanged another quizzical look, and Sam froze, wondering if he’d screwed up already. Perhaps this car was so old it didn’t have rear seatbelts? Finally, Dean dug the straps out from the crease of the seat and made little Sam buckle his while he fastened his own. “All set, Dad,” he reported.
“Okay,” Sam said. He hesitated. Nothing to do but turn on the car, pull onto the highway, and pray Al showed up before they drove to one end of the country or the other. He twisted the key, getting a jolt from the heavy thrum of the engine, and carefully backed out of the parking space.
There had only been a couple cars parked at the rest area, and they and other cars on the road looked decidedly more modern than the roadster they were in, plus, Sam realized as he picked up a tape at random, these tapes were much newer than the car. But it didn’t help him much in the way of a year, or anything else for that matter. He opted for the radio; at least it would tell him the date, the time, some news, anything to help place him in a context.
“…President Bush reflected on the end of the Persian Gulf War in a press conference this afternoon. It’s been a month since the end of that conflict….”
Sam couldn’t believe his luck, finding a solid date so quickly. So it was probably 1991.
“…Hey, this Thursday, be sure to carve out some time to watch the solar eclipse. This is the first eclipse visible in North America since 1979. The eclipse will be visible from about 10 AM to 1 PM, reaching its peak right about noon. The meteorological society and our own Dan the Weatherman reminds you that even when eclipsed, it is dangerous to look directly at the sun. But it’s not dangerous to go ‘Walking on the Moon,’ so keep it tuned here to WHZT, all the best of the 80s and now. Police, coming up after this break.…”
Sam tuned in and out of the DJ’s patter. It was hard to listen with the young Sam in the back saying, “Whoa, an eclipse!” and his brother telling him he was a geek, but Sam picked up the salient details. The eclipse was the clincher: it was early July 1991. He thought he had a fair idea of what was going on—summer, on the road with his kids—camping trip, maybe?—and what he might be here to do. Probably there was an accident to be avoided, or something equally identifiable. Now all he needed was Al to confirm it. Where the hell was Al?
“Dad, can I ride shotgun after dinner?” Dean called up to the front seat. “Sammy’s cruisin’ for a little special time alone with his homework.”
“Dean’s cruisin’ for…for a little special time running behind the car,” “Sammy” piped up.
“Nobody’s cruisin’ for anything,” Sam said, surprised at how much deeper this voice was than his own.
Dean slumped in his seat. “Can we at least listen to Mötorhead instead of this bubblegum fake-rock stuff?”
“What’s wrong with the Police?” Sam asked, and realized he’d made another mistake. “I mean…this isn’t so bad.” Inspired, he added, “And it’s not something we’ve heard over and over.”
“Yeah, ’cause it sucks,” Dean muttered, eyeing his father skeptically, but subsided. Sammy looked up from his book.
“Driver picks the music, Dean,” he said in a singsong voice. “Everyone else shuts his cakehole.” He rocked back against the seat and buried his nose in the pages.
“Gonna shut your cakehole,” Dean said darkly.
“What?” Sam demanded. He was getting the impression that their real father was somewhat free on the discipline end, but nevertheless he didn’t think any parent would let that kind of threat go unchecked.
“Nothing, sir,” Dean said hastily, subsiding. “How much farther tonight, Dad?”
Sam didn’t know how to answer, since he didn’t quite know where they were going. He decided to play professor and buy himself time—maybe even answers.
“Well, do you remember the name of the place we’re going?” he asked in teacher-voice.
Dean looked a little offended. “Blue Earth?” he said, as if his father knew it as well as he did. Probably right, normally.
“Okay,” Sam said genially, and picked up a few of the maps. He passed them back. “See if you can find it on one of these. We’re….” he paused to look at a convenient mile-marker sign, with distances to the next major cities… “forty miles away from Sandusky.” Ohio! Sam felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He knew where he was, he knew where he was going, and he thought he knew why….
“Why’d you give me the map for Tennessee, Dad?” Dean asked.
“Wasn’t looking. Anyway, I’m driving—you’re navigating,” Sam said, and it worked. Dean was instantly on-task and stopped asking questions.
When he moved the maps, Sam noticed a battered leather journal in the seat. Faded paper and yellowing newsprint protruded from its edges. Sam made a note to leaf through it when they stopped, certain that it would help tremendously with figuring out his mission for the Leap.
Suddenly his view of the journal was obscured by a pair of fire-engine red trousers, encasing Admiral Al Calavicci’s crotch. Sam groaned.
“Boy, what a beauty this car is, huh?” Al asked without introduction. “I had a 1958 Chevy Bel-Air when I was in the academy—man, these old babies, they really—”
“Did you find where we’re going yet?” Sam asked loudly, jerking his head at the backseat to make Al shut up and turn around.
“Oh, you’re not alone—hey—they must be the kids he’s talking about!” Al grinned.
Sam glared at him, grateful both boys had their heads down. He twitched his palms open against the wheel, as if to say, “So?”
“Right…Sam, I gotta tell you, this may be your weirdest Leap yet. He’s hopping mad—just keeps demanding to know what we did with his boys…. I can’t get anything else out of him right now. Sorry, Sam—I’m working on it. Give us an hour or two and see if you can find a place where we can talk.” Al took a longing look at the dashboard, and running a hand over the upholstery, stepped out of the moving car.
~*~*~*~
Sam drove toward the setting sun, keeping track of time. But the boys were getting hungry and more and more antsy. After ninety minutes, they all needed a break. Sam aimed for an off-ramp that promised a Denny’s and followed the signs to the restaurant.
As he got out of the car, he felt a hard object against the small of his back. Reaching into his waistband, he felt the unmistakable imprint of a pistol.
“Oh, boy,” he said again.
Sammy and Dean climbed out and let off a little pent-up energy on the way to the door. “Triple Grand Slam, here I come!” Dean announced to the world at large. “Hey, Sammy—race you to that flagpole?” He pointed to the giant monolith out by the road, a good hundred yards from their side of the lot.
Sammy grinned. As fast as he could he said, “Onetwothreego!” and sprinted away, Dean in hot pursuit.
Sam took advantage of the respite to check his wallet. He drew it out carefully, avoiding the gun pressed to his spine, and flipped the leather bi-fold open. His borrowed face smiled back at him from an Ohio license. “Frank Peters,” it proclaimed him to be. Great! He knew who he was now, even if Al didn’t. A few credit card tops stuck out from pocket compartments: Visa, AmEx, nothing particular. He opened the billfold and eyeballed perhaps a hundred dollars, maybe a little more, in twenties and smaller bills. Definitely on vacation, he decided. And no mother around, so probably divorced. Recent, if so—he still wore the wedding ring.
Armed with this new information, and feeling pretty pleased with himself, Sam waited for the two kids to run back to the door. Dean won, but Sammy was right on his heels. “Let’s go, Dad, I’m starving,” Dean told him, as if only eleven-year old boys ever got hungry between meals. In the boys’ haste to go in and eat, Sam forgot to leave the gun, or take the journal.
They were seated by a plump waitress whose uniform did nothing for her, and whose orthopaedic shoes indicated a life on her feet. She smiled at Sammy in a grandmotherly way and offered them drinks or appetizers. Sam ordered coffee, Dean asked for Coke, and Sammy looked at his father.
“Chocolate milk?” he asked.
“Uh…yeah, sure,” Sam said, nodding at the waitress. “And water, please,” he added, knowing he’d want to wash down the coffee with something.
Sam leafed through the menu, wondering whether “Frank” was a steak and eggs or a burger sort of guy. Somehow, he knew that the chef salad he craved would be right out—an obvious tipoff to the two boys who believed themselves his sons. He decided on the burger, just around the time their waitress returned.
He let the boys order for themselves, pleasantly surprised that they seemed to have no trouble picking from the options. As promised, Dean ordered half the breakfast menu—eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, and hash browns--and Sam mentally adjusted the kid’s age—probably more like twelve than eleven, and about to hit his growth spurt any day now. Sammy asked for chicken fingers but wanted bleu cheese instead of honey mustard, and added a side order baked potato.
“Sammy, you’re such a freak,” Dean declared.
“Me? I’m not the one eating a whole farm for dinner, Dean.”
“Sam? Now’s a good time to excuse yourself,” Al said at his elbow.
“You boys stay put,” Sam said in his most authoritative tone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir!” both chorused with almost-military fervor, and Sam, surprised by the response, slid out of the booth to follow Al’s projection in search of the men’s room.
“Any luck?” he asked under his breath.
“Sam, I’m telling you, this one is making Ziggy tear his hair out. If…he had any hair. Jeez, Sam, way to pick the venue,” Al commented with a disdainful look at the surroundings.
“Two kids, in Northern Indiana, not exactly gonna go to the Savoy, Al,” Sam said quietly, but testily. The Leap process may have made swiss cheese out of his memory, but the good thing was that he seemed to be retaining the tidbits he regained each time. So he knew the reason “Ziggy” had no hair was that he was not a person, but an elaborate, hyper-intelligent computer program. And the idea that this Leap might have the computer worried was not an encouraging prospect.
He pushed open the men’s room door and looked around. Urinals stood unused along the wall. The two cubicle stalls appeared empty. Good. “I made a little headway on my own, though. Let me tell you what’s going on for a change.” He leaned against the sink, because even after nearly a year of Leaping, it was disturbing to look at someone else’s reflection for too long. Besides, Al wasn’t visible in the mirror, anyway. “It’s 1991, probably about July 7th or 8th? And my name is Frank Peters. I’m on summer vacation with my sons Dean and Sam and we’re going camping in a place called Blue Earth. I figure he’s divorced, probably recently,” Sam held up his left hand, “and maybe there’s an accident we need to avoid. How’m I doing?”
Al puffed his cigar and fixed narrowed eyes on Sam. “How’d you figure Frank Peters?” he asked.
“Driver’s license,” Sam told him proudly. “See, I’m getting better at this, much as I hate to say it. You’re not the only source of information I can use.”
“Hm,” said Al, not nearly as impressed as Sam had hoped. “Well, in this case, you’re off by a bit. Yes, those boys are this guy’s sons. But his name’s not Frank Peters.” Al pulled up his computer interface. “It’s John Winchester.”
“What?” Sam frowned. “But, Al, look--” he fished the wallet out, brushing the gun again. “Wait--first tell me why a man on vacation with his kids is walking around with a .45?”
“Yeah, Sam…that’s the thing. This guy…he’s nuts.”
The restroom door swung open and a man came in, walked to the urinal. Sam immediately ran some water and combed wet fingers through his hair, washed his face and hands, stalled until the intruder left and he could ask Al:
“What do you mean, ‘nuts?’”
“I mean he’s crazy, Sam. Certifiable. Look, I got him to give me name, rank, and serial number. Gooshie ran it through Ziggy.” Al punched up the readout, courtesy of their programmer’s data and the supercomputer’s memory banks. “Winchester, John Ephraim. Born 1954, joined the Marines in ’72. He was a Corporal in the rifle corps and worked as a mechanic in a motor pool until his honorable discharge in 1976. With his experience as a mechanic he worked for and became part-owner of an auto repair shop in Lawrence, Kansas until…” Al’s eyebrows worked as he read ahead. He puffed his stoagie. “Oh, jeez, Sam, his wife, Mary, was killed in a house fire in 1983. Their son (also Sam, weird) was only six months old. Older brother Dean was four. Wow,” Al shook his head sympathetically. “After that…he drops off the grid, Sam, there’s nothing. But the kids…they have school transcripts from dozens of different places. Looks like he took them on the road with him.” Al pocketed his handheld. “Let me tell you, the John Winchester I have out here in the waiting room is completely nuts, Sam. I asked him why he’s traveling around the country with his kids, and he told me that he’s looking for his wife’s murderer.”
Sam frowned. “Ziggy said she was killed in a house fire.”
“That’s right!” Al poked the air with his cigar to emphasize the point. “But this Winchester says that something caused that fire, something malignant, evil or something. Nuts, I tell ya. Sam…he swears that he hunts ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yeah, and he’s insisting that if he’s not brought back, something awful will happen to his kids.”
“Al,” Sam said, shaking his head. “This doesn’t make any sense. If he’s John Winchester, then why do I have a license that says Frank Peters?” He pulled out the wallet. “And why the hell am I wearing a--” he broke off when the door opened again.
Dean and Sam were standing in the doorway. Sam took one look at his father and rushed to a urinal. “You okay, Dad?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just a little…tired,” Sam told him.
“Sam, I’m gonna have Ziggy run Frank Peters through and see if it turns anything up,” Al said. “Meanwhile, just…just hang on until we figure out what you’re doing here.”
“I’ll be back…at our table,” Sam said, half to Al and half to Dean, and left the men’s room hurriedly. He didn’t notice the two youngsters exchanging a confused look as he walked away.
Back at his table, Sam pulled out the wallet again and gave it a thorough examination. Behind the Ohio license for “Frank Peters” there was an insurance card in the name “Jasper Hufnagle.” The Visa card belonged to “Edward Nugent,” the AmEx was for someone named “Sean Jenner,” and the MasterCard bore the name “Judah Botwin.” Sam shoved the cards back in as the kids turned up, almost at the same time as their food. At least, he reflected gratefully, the meal meant he didn’t have to talk right away.
…Or not, he amended, when he noticed that both boys were watching him closely. Sammy said to Dean, “Ask him.”
“You ask him,” Dean replied.
“Ask me what?” Sam heard himself saying.
Sammy glared at Dean, then back at his “father.” He leaned forward across the booth, and Sam leaned in as well, careful to avoid the plates. “Christo,” he said slowly.
“Er…. What?” Sam asked.
“Told ya,” Dean said, punching his brother in the arm. “Sammy thinks you’re possessed. I told him that’s stupid.”
“Dean…” Sammy said through clenched teeth, eyes wide and rebuking.
Sam gulped. He fiddled with his burger, just to have something to do with his hands. “I’m not possessed, S—uh—Sammy,” Sam said.
“Are you sick?” Sammy asked.
“No,” Sam said, smiling. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”
Sammy shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and picked up a chicken finger.
“Mme Summff, nffng’s wrff wff Dad,” Dean said, mouth full of pancake. “Prffly juff nffs a breaff.”
“Dean, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sam said, horrified.
Sammy punched Dean’s arm.
“Boys, let’s just…eat,” Sam said. Amazingly, both of them became more serious about their meals, and the rivalry reached a truce. Ex-Marine, Sam thought. Maybe that explained the crisp, military “Yessir” they had both given earlier. Maybe it explained why they seemed to follow his orders fairly quickly—way more quickly than he’d have expected of kids their ages. Sam began to think he might be able to handle two kids for…however long he had to be here. But it didn’t give him any more help as to the nature of his Leap.
~*~*~*~
Al hadn’t reappeared before the waitress cleared the remains of their meal. Sam dug out cash for the tip, hesitating over whether to pay the whole bill in cash. Since his only alternative was using what was certainly a fake or stolen credit card, he plucked out two twenties before replacing the wallet.
“Dad, want me to drive?” Dean asked when Sam gestured for them all to slide out of the booth.
“What? No, of course not,” Sam said indignantly.
“But you said you were tired.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam answered. He paid the bill at the register and shepherded the boys out to the lengthening shadows of the lot.
Dean put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder as they walked a little ahead of Sam toward the black classic parked on the far end. Sammy wrapped his hand around Dean’s waist and Sam smiled at the sight. Until they started kicking each other in the butt. Then they separated almost at the same time and raced to the car.
“Shotgun!” Dean called immediately.
“Dean, why don’t you ride in the back with Sammy for now,” Sam said before either brother could start an argument.
“Yes, sir,” came the response. Sam unlocked his door and opened it, feeling a wave of sun-warmed air escape from the interior. He reached in and back to unlock the rear door and the boys clambered in one after the other. Dean grabbed the map and scanned it quickly. “Do you want to stop outside of Gary tonight, Dad, or get past it?”
“Gary’s fine,” Sam said quickly. He didn’t want to contemplate getting any closer to Chicago before he had more information.
Sam found a hotel just on the outskirts of town, about two and a half hours later. He desperately wanted to get two rooms, but felt wrong about charging more than necessary on Winchester’s stolen credit cards. Besides, there was a bar just down the street from the motel, so he had a thought that perhaps he could go out later if Al was able to get back to him tonight.
“Here,” he said, handing the room key to Dean. “Why don’t you and Sammy go…find something to watch on TV and I’ll move the car around to the room.”
“Sure, Dad,” Dean said. “C’mon, Sammy,” he instructed and took off down the hall, his brother trailing him.
Sam walked back to the car to park it on the side of the building near their room. He opened the trunk and began to figure out which bag was whose. There were two army-issue duffel bags and two black gym bags, along with an assortment of cassettes, empty paper coffee cups, bottles of motor oil, and a small toolbox. One duffel turned out to have clean clothes for himself; the other was decidedly laundry. It couldn’t have been anything else, the way it was covered in dirt and reeking of smoke. Odd, because he didn’t have any cigarettes, so he didn’t think John Winchester smoked. The two gym bags had the boys’ clothes. Sam pulled the three clothing bags out and pushed the laundry bag up against the back of the trunk. Then he noticed that there was a piece of paper sticking up out of the carpeted bottom of the trunk. Sam set down the bags and picked at the paper. It slid out of a crack in the upholstery. Sam ran his hand around the crack. A false bottom? He lifted up and jumped back with a surprised cry.
“What the….” Sam leaned over again and lifted up the false bottom slowly. The sight before him hadn’t changed. An array of weapons filled the box set into the trunk. Shotguns, handguns, and a variety of bladed weapons nestled next to more innocuous but less self-explanatory items, including vials of liquid, a rosary and crucifix, amulets of unclear origin, and even what appeared to be a dreamcatcher. There were also other mundane objects, like a spade, a crowbar, half a bag of rock salt, and a small leather roll that revealed a set of lockpick tools.
“Al, what the heck have I Leaped into?” Sam breathed. He remembered the journal in the front seat. Shutting the false bottom and the trunk, Sam shouldered the bags and opened up the passenger seat. He pulled the journal out and tucked it under his arm while he locked up the car and went back inside.
The boys were camped on the bed furthest from the door. They had turned on the TV and were watching “MacGyver” when Sam knocked. Dean opened the door for him and immediately took the bags from him.
“Can I have the keys, Dad? Sammy forgot his backpack.”
“Uh…yeah,” Sam said distractedly. He dug the car keys out of his jacket pocket. This part seemed fairly low-key, he figured. Surely Al would have something for him by morning.
Sam settled himself on the other bed and opened up the journal. He leafed through the pages, jumping around at first, and slowly becoming absorbed in the intimacies of John Winchester’s notes and reflections. He barely noticed when Dean supervised Sammy brushing his teeth and taking a shower before bed.
“Dad?” Dean appeared at his elbow. “It’s time for Sammy to go to bed.”
“O—oh,” Sam said, brain going into third gear. “Well…it’s summer. You two can stay up a little later if you want.”
Dean’s eyes flicked down to the journal in Sam’s lap and back up to his face. He looked about to say something, but before he formed the words, the air behind him shimmered and Al stepped through, dressed in a typically outrageous lime green jacket and yellow trousers. “Sam, we gotta talk,” he said as he came into the room.
“I’m going out for a little while,” Sam said to Dean. He stood up and grabbed his coat.
“What is it, Dad?” Dean asked.
“Just…stay here, okay?” Sam confirmed. He grabbed the room key on his way out the door. “What’s going on, Al?” Sam muttered as he walked down the hall, one finger still marking his place in what was probably the most unusual reading he’d done since the research for his fifth dissertation.
“Sam, I’m telling you, this Winchester…he’s—”
“Nuts?” Sam whispered. He walked out the door toward the Impala. When he put his hand in the jacket pocket for the keys, he came up empty. Dean must have set them down. Unable to sit inside it for privacy, Sam leaned against the trunk. “Do you know what’s inside here?” he asked.
“Yeah, uh, I got him to tell me what he’s working on…. He says he was driving the kids to a friend’s place in Blue—”
“Blue Earth, Minnesota,” Sam interrupted. “I got Dean to play navigator so I could find out where we were going. Al, why do I get the feeling I’m getting as much information out of Dean as you are out of John?”
“Hey, Sam, I’m trying, okay?” Al shot back. “This Winchester is a handful. Fake licenses, fake credit card trails, no steady address, not a lot to get our hands on…. Anyway, he said this friend, Jim Murphy, sometimes lets Sammy and Dean stay, when he’s got, and I quote, a ‘dangerous hunt.’”
“Hunt…Dean asked…when we were leaving just now, he asked if it was a hunt. What does that mean? Does he actually hunt ghosts and stuff?”
“Apparently, yeah, Sam. If you can believe that.”
“No, Al, I don’t believe it. I mean…scientifically, it’s just not possible.”
“Well, Sam, now, honestly. That’s never been proven. The point is that whether we believe it or not, John Winchester certainly believes it.”
Sam sighed. “Okay…so what’s going to happen? Is someone going to lock him up in an insane asylum?”
Al’s eyebrows worked toward his hairline and then back down toward the bridge of his nose. “Uh, not this time. Ziggy’s still having a lot of trouble figuring that out. Right now there’s a…62% probability that Dean and Sam will go into protective custody, but we’re not sure why. I’m trying to get Winchester to tell us more about what’s going on, but he’s not very forthcoming.”
“Imagine that,” Sam muttered. “Al,” Sam brought up the journal. “Can Ziggy get a look at some of these pages? It’s simply incredible stuff. I mean this guy really believes in ghosts and demons and….” He leafed through to a page about three before the one he’d been reading. “Look. Reapers.” He held up the journal so Al could see it then flipped to another page. “Poltergeists. Banshees. I mean…where did he dig up this information?”
“Hey, Sam, that gives me an idea. Lemme go back and talk to him a little more. Maybe I can figure out what his next move would have been, if…you know…if he’d been here.” Al made a little switching motion with his hands to indicate what he meant.
“Great,” Sam sighed. “Meanwhile, Al, what do I do with these kids?”
Al squinted in thought. “Yeah, uh…about that. He said…well, I won’t go into what he actually said, but he seemed to think that his sons would be able to tell that you’re not him.”
“I think he’s right,” Sam said with a grimace. “Did he say what to do about it?”
“He said, ‘Don’t let them kill you.’”
Sam shook his head sadly. “Thanks,” he said, spreading his arms in helplessness.
Go on to Chapter Two
Author: Gwendolyn Grace (
gwendolyngrace)Rating: PG
Characters: Sam Winchester (age 8), Dean Winchester (age 12), Dr. Sam Beckett, Adm. Al Calavicci, OFC.
Pairings: None
Genre: Gen (Quantum Leap / Supernatural Crossover)
Wordcount: 18,560 give or take
Summary: Happy Birthday,
ficwriter1966! This is set sometime within the first year or so of Project Quantum Leap (because the first season of QL is the only one I have on DVD currently!). The Leap Date is July 8, 1991. Dr. Sam Beckett Leaps in to save a life, which is not unusual…what’s unusual is that he’s saving it from an angry spirit.Author’s Notes: About a month after venturing hardcore into the SPN fandom, I got to reading some fics by
ficwriter1966. I have tremendous respect for her interpretations, and shortly after beginning to comment on and friending her journal, she answered some questions about writing for TV and being a published author. She revealed that she wrote two of the Quantum Leap tie-in novels. And thus this idea was spawned. I feel a little like I’m putting my head in the lion’s mouth—only because she knows the QL-verse much better than I! I’ve spent the last few months surfing QL sites, trying to jumpstart my memories of the show, and borrowing my mother’s Season 1 DVD set (Season One feels way short!). At the time I thought it would be easy to get this written before her birthday; boy, did I underestimate the rate of plot bunny attack in this fandom! Also other commitments, getting into a show…etc. But here it is, and it’s dedicated to Carol. Crossover Note: As with most of my crossovers, if you are minimally familiar with either fandom, you will be able to enjoy the fic without needing too much knowledge of the other fandom used herein.
Researcher’s Note: The July 11 eclipse, Minnewaukan, Devil’s Lake, the reservation, the drainage project, and the National Guard training facility are all real. The MotW is not. I don’t speak Lakota; I cobbled together some vocabulary found online to create the name of the creature.
Disclaimer: Quantum Leap was created by Don Bellisario and is owned by NBC TV. Supernatural was created by Eric Kripke and is owned by WB / CWTV. I was created by a rare act of silliness on my parents’ part and am (entirely) owned by my obsessions.
The first thing Sam Beckett became aware of, after the all-too familiar tingling of the Leap, was that he was sitting in a parked car, alone. Since Sam so rarely got to enjoy the luxury of peace and quiet and time to orient himself, he indulged in a contented sigh of relief before examining his surroundings. It appeared to be a highway rest stop, and the car was a pretty nice classic car. Not that he knew much about cars—that was more Al’s thing. But was it a classic where he was, or was it new? Sam glanced around at the other cars for any clue as to what year it was.
He glanced at his image in the mirrors and saw a man of about 40 years, with short dark hair cut in long sideburns and a strong, square jaw. Though the eyes that looked back at him were brown, they told him nothing about the man he’d Leapt into—Sam’s own emotions always showed in his host’s eyes.
Using the side mirrors, Sam looked down at muscular arms, dusted with dark hair. His left wrist sported a no-nonsense black watch, and his left ring finger bore a simple gold wedding band. He appeared to be a trim, though not ultra-fit, figure, dressed in working-man’s jeans and layers of t-shirt and solid twill overshirt, cuffs rolled up to the elbows. Sam surveyed the car again for more information. He noted the tape deck (that wasn’t an original feature—couldn’t have been, could it?), and the maps and tapes that littered the front seat.
Since he was by himself and at a rest stop, Sam knew there was only one direction to drive. But where was he going? He decided to wait for Al. He’d be along soon and no doubt would be able to tell Sam all he needed to know. This might even be his easiest Leap ever, he thought, as he leaned back in the seat. The pleasant warmth of the car lulled him and he closed his eyes while he waited.
Before long, he heard two young voices approaching from the restroom building on his right. He listened without really waking himself up.
“Dean! Gimme that back!”
“No way, squirt! You’ll have to take it, if you can!” They must have tussled, because a few seconds later, Sam heard:
“Dean, lemme go!” Sam wondered whether he should intervene, but before he could decide on appropriate action, “Dean” slammed the other boy into the rear passenger door and the car rocked. Sam’s eyes opened a bit. Out the window he could see two boys—brothers, perhaps?—fighting over a book. The older boy looked about eleven, dirty blond and slim as a rail. The younger, darker boy was also chubbier, perhaps nine, maybe not even. He was currently being held in a half nelson.
“What’s so special about this book, anyway?” Dean asked, ignoring his brother’s attempts to grab the book, and dragging him around in a circle next to the car. Sam, figuring they hadn’t seen him asleep, settled back down. These two would get in their parents’ vehicle and leave him in peace, he knew. Any second now.
But they didn’t. Dean opened the rear door and pushed his brother in. “Get in the car,” he said. Sam shut his eyes tight, hoping against hope that this was not really happening. The little boy crawled from the passenger side over to the driver’s while his brother triumphantly opened the book.
SPROING! A large spring-loaded snake popped out of the hollowed book covers. Dean shrieked and jumped away from it, only to immediately realize his foolishness and turn bright red with embarrassment. Meanwhile, his little brother howled with laughter in the back seat.
“Did you see the look on his face? Dean, you screamed like a girl!”
Dean wrenched open the door. “SAM!” he yelled, loud enough to make both occupants jump.
“What, I’m here! What!?” Sam Beckett said reflexively from the driver’s seat, the yell waking him up completely.
Both boys went dead quiet and looked at him in confusion.
“Da-ad?” Dean asked first, settling into the seat. His question was clearly more “What the heck?” than simply, “What?”
Sam looked at the two boys watching him expectantly, swallowed, and said, “Oh, boy.”
~*~*~*~
“Er…Sorry…I was just catching a nap, there. What did…uh, Sam do, Dean?” Sam asked in what he hoped was a sanguine, but not too indulgent, parental way.
“Uh…nothin’, Dad,” Dean said quickly. “It’s okay.” He leaned over to little Sam and growled, “I’ll get you later.”
“Nobody’s getting anybody,” Sam—he guessed he’d better start thinking of himself as…who was he? Well, Dad, for now—said. This much at least he remembered from road trips with his sister: someone was always starting trouble, and his parents constantly had to referee. “You boys buckled up back there?”
The two exchanged another quizzical look, and Sam froze, wondering if he’d screwed up already. Perhaps this car was so old it didn’t have rear seatbelts? Finally, Dean dug the straps out from the crease of the seat and made little Sam buckle his while he fastened his own. “All set, Dad,” he reported.
“Okay,” Sam said. He hesitated. Nothing to do but turn on the car, pull onto the highway, and pray Al showed up before they drove to one end of the country or the other. He twisted the key, getting a jolt from the heavy thrum of the engine, and carefully backed out of the parking space.
There had only been a couple cars parked at the rest area, and they and other cars on the road looked decidedly more modern than the roadster they were in, plus, Sam realized as he picked up a tape at random, these tapes were much newer than the car. But it didn’t help him much in the way of a year, or anything else for that matter. He opted for the radio; at least it would tell him the date, the time, some news, anything to help place him in a context.
“…President Bush reflected on the end of the Persian Gulf War in a press conference this afternoon. It’s been a month since the end of that conflict….”
Sam couldn’t believe his luck, finding a solid date so quickly. So it was probably 1991.
“…Hey, this Thursday, be sure to carve out some time to watch the solar eclipse. This is the first eclipse visible in North America since 1979. The eclipse will be visible from about 10 AM to 1 PM, reaching its peak right about noon. The meteorological society and our own Dan the Weatherman reminds you that even when eclipsed, it is dangerous to look directly at the sun. But it’s not dangerous to go ‘Walking on the Moon,’ so keep it tuned here to WHZT, all the best of the 80s and now. Police, coming up after this break.…”
Sam tuned in and out of the DJ’s patter. It was hard to listen with the young Sam in the back saying, “Whoa, an eclipse!” and his brother telling him he was a geek, but Sam picked up the salient details. The eclipse was the clincher: it was early July 1991. He thought he had a fair idea of what was going on—summer, on the road with his kids—camping trip, maybe?—and what he might be here to do. Probably there was an accident to be avoided, or something equally identifiable. Now all he needed was Al to confirm it. Where the hell was Al?
“Dad, can I ride shotgun after dinner?” Dean called up to the front seat. “Sammy’s cruisin’ for a little special time alone with his homework.”
“Dean’s cruisin’ for…for a little special time running behind the car,” “Sammy” piped up.
“Nobody’s cruisin’ for anything,” Sam said, surprised at how much deeper this voice was than his own.
Dean slumped in his seat. “Can we at least listen to Mötorhead instead of this bubblegum fake-rock stuff?”
“What’s wrong with the Police?” Sam asked, and realized he’d made another mistake. “I mean…this isn’t so bad.” Inspired, he added, “And it’s not something we’ve heard over and over.”
“Yeah, ’cause it sucks,” Dean muttered, eyeing his father skeptically, but subsided. Sammy looked up from his book.
“Driver picks the music, Dean,” he said in a singsong voice. “Everyone else shuts his cakehole.” He rocked back against the seat and buried his nose in the pages.
“Gonna shut your cakehole,” Dean said darkly.
“What?” Sam demanded. He was getting the impression that their real father was somewhat free on the discipline end, but nevertheless he didn’t think any parent would let that kind of threat go unchecked.
“Nothing, sir,” Dean said hastily, subsiding. “How much farther tonight, Dad?”
Sam didn’t know how to answer, since he didn’t quite know where they were going. He decided to play professor and buy himself time—maybe even answers.
“Well, do you remember the name of the place we’re going?” he asked in teacher-voice.
Dean looked a little offended. “Blue Earth?” he said, as if his father knew it as well as he did. Probably right, normally.
“Okay,” Sam said genially, and picked up a few of the maps. He passed them back. “See if you can find it on one of these. We’re….” he paused to look at a convenient mile-marker sign, with distances to the next major cities… “forty miles away from Sandusky.” Ohio! Sam felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He knew where he was, he knew where he was going, and he thought he knew why….
“Why’d you give me the map for Tennessee, Dad?” Dean asked.
“Wasn’t looking. Anyway, I’m driving—you’re navigating,” Sam said, and it worked. Dean was instantly on-task and stopped asking questions.
When he moved the maps, Sam noticed a battered leather journal in the seat. Faded paper and yellowing newsprint protruded from its edges. Sam made a note to leaf through it when they stopped, certain that it would help tremendously with figuring out his mission for the Leap.
Suddenly his view of the journal was obscured by a pair of fire-engine red trousers, encasing Admiral Al Calavicci’s crotch. Sam groaned.
“Boy, what a beauty this car is, huh?” Al asked without introduction. “I had a 1958 Chevy Bel-Air when I was in the academy—man, these old babies, they really—”
“Did you find where we’re going yet?” Sam asked loudly, jerking his head at the backseat to make Al shut up and turn around.
“Oh, you’re not alone—hey—they must be the kids he’s talking about!” Al grinned.
Sam glared at him, grateful both boys had their heads down. He twitched his palms open against the wheel, as if to say, “So?”
“Right…Sam, I gotta tell you, this may be your weirdest Leap yet. He’s hopping mad—just keeps demanding to know what we did with his boys…. I can’t get anything else out of him right now. Sorry, Sam—I’m working on it. Give us an hour or two and see if you can find a place where we can talk.” Al took a longing look at the dashboard, and running a hand over the upholstery, stepped out of the moving car.
~*~*~*~
Sam drove toward the setting sun, keeping track of time. But the boys were getting hungry and more and more antsy. After ninety minutes, they all needed a break. Sam aimed for an off-ramp that promised a Denny’s and followed the signs to the restaurant.
As he got out of the car, he felt a hard object against the small of his back. Reaching into his waistband, he felt the unmistakable imprint of a pistol.
“Oh, boy,” he said again.
Sammy and Dean climbed out and let off a little pent-up energy on the way to the door. “Triple Grand Slam, here I come!” Dean announced to the world at large. “Hey, Sammy—race you to that flagpole?” He pointed to the giant monolith out by the road, a good hundred yards from their side of the lot.
Sammy grinned. As fast as he could he said, “Onetwothreego!” and sprinted away, Dean in hot pursuit.
Sam took advantage of the respite to check his wallet. He drew it out carefully, avoiding the gun pressed to his spine, and flipped the leather bi-fold open. His borrowed face smiled back at him from an Ohio license. “Frank Peters,” it proclaimed him to be. Great! He knew who he was now, even if Al didn’t. A few credit card tops stuck out from pocket compartments: Visa, AmEx, nothing particular. He opened the billfold and eyeballed perhaps a hundred dollars, maybe a little more, in twenties and smaller bills. Definitely on vacation, he decided. And no mother around, so probably divorced. Recent, if so—he still wore the wedding ring.
Armed with this new information, and feeling pretty pleased with himself, Sam waited for the two kids to run back to the door. Dean won, but Sammy was right on his heels. “Let’s go, Dad, I’m starving,” Dean told him, as if only eleven-year old boys ever got hungry between meals. In the boys’ haste to go in and eat, Sam forgot to leave the gun, or take the journal.
They were seated by a plump waitress whose uniform did nothing for her, and whose orthopaedic shoes indicated a life on her feet. She smiled at Sammy in a grandmotherly way and offered them drinks or appetizers. Sam ordered coffee, Dean asked for Coke, and Sammy looked at his father.
“Chocolate milk?” he asked.
“Uh…yeah, sure,” Sam said, nodding at the waitress. “And water, please,” he added, knowing he’d want to wash down the coffee with something.
Sam leafed through the menu, wondering whether “Frank” was a steak and eggs or a burger sort of guy. Somehow, he knew that the chef salad he craved would be right out—an obvious tipoff to the two boys who believed themselves his sons. He decided on the burger, just around the time their waitress returned.
He let the boys order for themselves, pleasantly surprised that they seemed to have no trouble picking from the options. As promised, Dean ordered half the breakfast menu—eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, and hash browns--and Sam mentally adjusted the kid’s age—probably more like twelve than eleven, and about to hit his growth spurt any day now. Sammy asked for chicken fingers but wanted bleu cheese instead of honey mustard, and added a side order baked potato.
“Sammy, you’re such a freak,” Dean declared.
“Me? I’m not the one eating a whole farm for dinner, Dean.”
“Sam? Now’s a good time to excuse yourself,” Al said at his elbow.
“You boys stay put,” Sam said in his most authoritative tone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir!” both chorused with almost-military fervor, and Sam, surprised by the response, slid out of the booth to follow Al’s projection in search of the men’s room.
“Any luck?” he asked under his breath.
“Sam, I’m telling you, this one is making Ziggy tear his hair out. If…he had any hair. Jeez, Sam, way to pick the venue,” Al commented with a disdainful look at the surroundings.
“Two kids, in Northern Indiana, not exactly gonna go to the Savoy, Al,” Sam said quietly, but testily. The Leap process may have made swiss cheese out of his memory, but the good thing was that he seemed to be retaining the tidbits he regained each time. So he knew the reason “Ziggy” had no hair was that he was not a person, but an elaborate, hyper-intelligent computer program. And the idea that this Leap might have the computer worried was not an encouraging prospect.
He pushed open the men’s room door and looked around. Urinals stood unused along the wall. The two cubicle stalls appeared empty. Good. “I made a little headway on my own, though. Let me tell you what’s going on for a change.” He leaned against the sink, because even after nearly a year of Leaping, it was disturbing to look at someone else’s reflection for too long. Besides, Al wasn’t visible in the mirror, anyway. “It’s 1991, probably about July 7th or 8th? And my name is Frank Peters. I’m on summer vacation with my sons Dean and Sam and we’re going camping in a place called Blue Earth. I figure he’s divorced, probably recently,” Sam held up his left hand, “and maybe there’s an accident we need to avoid. How’m I doing?”
Al puffed his cigar and fixed narrowed eyes on Sam. “How’d you figure Frank Peters?” he asked.
“Driver’s license,” Sam told him proudly. “See, I’m getting better at this, much as I hate to say it. You’re not the only source of information I can use.”
“Hm,” said Al, not nearly as impressed as Sam had hoped. “Well, in this case, you’re off by a bit. Yes, those boys are this guy’s sons. But his name’s not Frank Peters.” Al pulled up his computer interface. “It’s John Winchester.”
“What?” Sam frowned. “But, Al, look--” he fished the wallet out, brushing the gun again. “Wait--first tell me why a man on vacation with his kids is walking around with a .45?”
“Yeah, Sam…that’s the thing. This guy…he’s nuts.”
The restroom door swung open and a man came in, walked to the urinal. Sam immediately ran some water and combed wet fingers through his hair, washed his face and hands, stalled until the intruder left and he could ask Al:
“What do you mean, ‘nuts?’”
“I mean he’s crazy, Sam. Certifiable. Look, I got him to give me name, rank, and serial number. Gooshie ran it through Ziggy.” Al punched up the readout, courtesy of their programmer’s data and the supercomputer’s memory banks. “Winchester, John Ephraim. Born 1954, joined the Marines in ’72. He was a Corporal in the rifle corps and worked as a mechanic in a motor pool until his honorable discharge in 1976. With his experience as a mechanic he worked for and became part-owner of an auto repair shop in Lawrence, Kansas until…” Al’s eyebrows worked as he read ahead. He puffed his stoagie. “Oh, jeez, Sam, his wife, Mary, was killed in a house fire in 1983. Their son (also Sam, weird) was only six months old. Older brother Dean was four. Wow,” Al shook his head sympathetically. “After that…he drops off the grid, Sam, there’s nothing. But the kids…they have school transcripts from dozens of different places. Looks like he took them on the road with him.” Al pocketed his handheld. “Let me tell you, the John Winchester I have out here in the waiting room is completely nuts, Sam. I asked him why he’s traveling around the country with his kids, and he told me that he’s looking for his wife’s murderer.”
Sam frowned. “Ziggy said she was killed in a house fire.”
“That’s right!” Al poked the air with his cigar to emphasize the point. “But this Winchester says that something caused that fire, something malignant, evil or something. Nuts, I tell ya. Sam…he swears that he hunts ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yeah, and he’s insisting that if he’s not brought back, something awful will happen to his kids.”
“Al,” Sam said, shaking his head. “This doesn’t make any sense. If he’s John Winchester, then why do I have a license that says Frank Peters?” He pulled out the wallet. “And why the hell am I wearing a--” he broke off when the door opened again.
Dean and Sam were standing in the doorway. Sam took one look at his father and rushed to a urinal. “You okay, Dad?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just a little…tired,” Sam told him.
“Sam, I’m gonna have Ziggy run Frank Peters through and see if it turns anything up,” Al said. “Meanwhile, just…just hang on until we figure out what you’re doing here.”
“I’ll be back…at our table,” Sam said, half to Al and half to Dean, and left the men’s room hurriedly. He didn’t notice the two youngsters exchanging a confused look as he walked away.
Back at his table, Sam pulled out the wallet again and gave it a thorough examination. Behind the Ohio license for “Frank Peters” there was an insurance card in the name “Jasper Hufnagle.” The Visa card belonged to “Edward Nugent,” the AmEx was for someone named “Sean Jenner,” and the MasterCard bore the name “Judah Botwin.” Sam shoved the cards back in as the kids turned up, almost at the same time as their food. At least, he reflected gratefully, the meal meant he didn’t have to talk right away.
…Or not, he amended, when he noticed that both boys were watching him closely. Sammy said to Dean, “Ask him.”
“You ask him,” Dean replied.
“Ask me what?” Sam heard himself saying.
Sammy glared at Dean, then back at his “father.” He leaned forward across the booth, and Sam leaned in as well, careful to avoid the plates. “Christo,” he said slowly.
“Er…. What?” Sam asked.
“Told ya,” Dean said, punching his brother in the arm. “Sammy thinks you’re possessed. I told him that’s stupid.”
“Dean…” Sammy said through clenched teeth, eyes wide and rebuking.
Sam gulped. He fiddled with his burger, just to have something to do with his hands. “I’m not possessed, S—uh—Sammy,” Sam said.
“Are you sick?” Sammy asked.
“No,” Sam said, smiling. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”
Sammy shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and picked up a chicken finger.
“Mme Summff, nffng’s wrff wff Dad,” Dean said, mouth full of pancake. “Prffly juff nffs a breaff.”
“Dean, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sam said, horrified.
Sammy punched Dean’s arm.
“Boys, let’s just…eat,” Sam said. Amazingly, both of them became more serious about their meals, and the rivalry reached a truce. Ex-Marine, Sam thought. Maybe that explained the crisp, military “Yessir” they had both given earlier. Maybe it explained why they seemed to follow his orders fairly quickly—way more quickly than he’d have expected of kids their ages. Sam began to think he might be able to handle two kids for…however long he had to be here. But it didn’t give him any more help as to the nature of his Leap.
~*~*~*~
Al hadn’t reappeared before the waitress cleared the remains of their meal. Sam dug out cash for the tip, hesitating over whether to pay the whole bill in cash. Since his only alternative was using what was certainly a fake or stolen credit card, he plucked out two twenties before replacing the wallet.
“Dad, want me to drive?” Dean asked when Sam gestured for them all to slide out of the booth.
“What? No, of course not,” Sam said indignantly.
“But you said you were tired.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam answered. He paid the bill at the register and shepherded the boys out to the lengthening shadows of the lot.
Dean put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder as they walked a little ahead of Sam toward the black classic parked on the far end. Sammy wrapped his hand around Dean’s waist and Sam smiled at the sight. Until they started kicking each other in the butt. Then they separated almost at the same time and raced to the car.
“Shotgun!” Dean called immediately.
“Dean, why don’t you ride in the back with Sammy for now,” Sam said before either brother could start an argument.
“Yes, sir,” came the response. Sam unlocked his door and opened it, feeling a wave of sun-warmed air escape from the interior. He reached in and back to unlock the rear door and the boys clambered in one after the other. Dean grabbed the map and scanned it quickly. “Do you want to stop outside of Gary tonight, Dad, or get past it?”
“Gary’s fine,” Sam said quickly. He didn’t want to contemplate getting any closer to Chicago before he had more information.
Sam found a hotel just on the outskirts of town, about two and a half hours later. He desperately wanted to get two rooms, but felt wrong about charging more than necessary on Winchester’s stolen credit cards. Besides, there was a bar just down the street from the motel, so he had a thought that perhaps he could go out later if Al was able to get back to him tonight.
“Here,” he said, handing the room key to Dean. “Why don’t you and Sammy go…find something to watch on TV and I’ll move the car around to the room.”
“Sure, Dad,” Dean said. “C’mon, Sammy,” he instructed and took off down the hall, his brother trailing him.
Sam walked back to the car to park it on the side of the building near their room. He opened the trunk and began to figure out which bag was whose. There were two army-issue duffel bags and two black gym bags, along with an assortment of cassettes, empty paper coffee cups, bottles of motor oil, and a small toolbox. One duffel turned out to have clean clothes for himself; the other was decidedly laundry. It couldn’t have been anything else, the way it was covered in dirt and reeking of smoke. Odd, because he didn’t have any cigarettes, so he didn’t think John Winchester smoked. The two gym bags had the boys’ clothes. Sam pulled the three clothing bags out and pushed the laundry bag up against the back of the trunk. Then he noticed that there was a piece of paper sticking up out of the carpeted bottom of the trunk. Sam set down the bags and picked at the paper. It slid out of a crack in the upholstery. Sam ran his hand around the crack. A false bottom? He lifted up and jumped back with a surprised cry.
“What the….” Sam leaned over again and lifted up the false bottom slowly. The sight before him hadn’t changed. An array of weapons filled the box set into the trunk. Shotguns, handguns, and a variety of bladed weapons nestled next to more innocuous but less self-explanatory items, including vials of liquid, a rosary and crucifix, amulets of unclear origin, and even what appeared to be a dreamcatcher. There were also other mundane objects, like a spade, a crowbar, half a bag of rock salt, and a small leather roll that revealed a set of lockpick tools.
“Al, what the heck have I Leaped into?” Sam breathed. He remembered the journal in the front seat. Shutting the false bottom and the trunk, Sam shouldered the bags and opened up the passenger seat. He pulled the journal out and tucked it under his arm while he locked up the car and went back inside.
The boys were camped on the bed furthest from the door. They had turned on the TV and were watching “MacGyver” when Sam knocked. Dean opened the door for him and immediately took the bags from him.
“Can I have the keys, Dad? Sammy forgot his backpack.”
“Uh…yeah,” Sam said distractedly. He dug the car keys out of his jacket pocket. This part seemed fairly low-key, he figured. Surely Al would have something for him by morning.
Sam settled himself on the other bed and opened up the journal. He leafed through the pages, jumping around at first, and slowly becoming absorbed in the intimacies of John Winchester’s notes and reflections. He barely noticed when Dean supervised Sammy brushing his teeth and taking a shower before bed.
“Dad?” Dean appeared at his elbow. “It’s time for Sammy to go to bed.”
“O—oh,” Sam said, brain going into third gear. “Well…it’s summer. You two can stay up a little later if you want.”
Dean’s eyes flicked down to the journal in Sam’s lap and back up to his face. He looked about to say something, but before he formed the words, the air behind him shimmered and Al stepped through, dressed in a typically outrageous lime green jacket and yellow trousers. “Sam, we gotta talk,” he said as he came into the room.
“I’m going out for a little while,” Sam said to Dean. He stood up and grabbed his coat.
“What is it, Dad?” Dean asked.
“Just…stay here, okay?” Sam confirmed. He grabbed the room key on his way out the door. “What’s going on, Al?” Sam muttered as he walked down the hall, one finger still marking his place in what was probably the most unusual reading he’d done since the research for his fifth dissertation.
“Sam, I’m telling you, this Winchester…he’s—”
“Nuts?” Sam whispered. He walked out the door toward the Impala. When he put his hand in the jacket pocket for the keys, he came up empty. Dean must have set them down. Unable to sit inside it for privacy, Sam leaned against the trunk. “Do you know what’s inside here?” he asked.
“Yeah, uh, I got him to tell me what he’s working on…. He says he was driving the kids to a friend’s place in Blue—”
“Blue Earth, Minnesota,” Sam interrupted. “I got Dean to play navigator so I could find out where we were going. Al, why do I get the feeling I’m getting as much information out of Dean as you are out of John?”
“Hey, Sam, I’m trying, okay?” Al shot back. “This Winchester is a handful. Fake licenses, fake credit card trails, no steady address, not a lot to get our hands on…. Anyway, he said this friend, Jim Murphy, sometimes lets Sammy and Dean stay, when he’s got, and I quote, a ‘dangerous hunt.’”
“Hunt…Dean asked…when we were leaving just now, he asked if it was a hunt. What does that mean? Does he actually hunt ghosts and stuff?”
“Apparently, yeah, Sam. If you can believe that.”
“No, Al, I don’t believe it. I mean…scientifically, it’s just not possible.”
“Well, Sam, now, honestly. That’s never been proven. The point is that whether we believe it or not, John Winchester certainly believes it.”
Sam sighed. “Okay…so what’s going to happen? Is someone going to lock him up in an insane asylum?”
Al’s eyebrows worked toward his hairline and then back down toward the bridge of his nose. “Uh, not this time. Ziggy’s still having a lot of trouble figuring that out. Right now there’s a…62% probability that Dean and Sam will go into protective custody, but we’re not sure why. I’m trying to get Winchester to tell us more about what’s going on, but he’s not very forthcoming.”
“Imagine that,” Sam muttered. “Al,” Sam brought up the journal. “Can Ziggy get a look at some of these pages? It’s simply incredible stuff. I mean this guy really believes in ghosts and demons and….” He leafed through to a page about three before the one he’d been reading. “Look. Reapers.” He held up the journal so Al could see it then flipped to another page. “Poltergeists. Banshees. I mean…where did he dig up this information?”
“Hey, Sam, that gives me an idea. Lemme go back and talk to him a little more. Maybe I can figure out what his next move would have been, if…you know…if he’d been here.” Al made a little switching motion with his hands to indicate what he meant.
“Great,” Sam sighed. “Meanwhile, Al, what do I do with these kids?”
Al squinted in thought. “Yeah, uh…about that. He said…well, I won’t go into what he actually said, but he seemed to think that his sons would be able to tell that you’re not him.”
“I think he’s right,” Sam said with a grimace. “Did he say what to do about it?”
“He said, ‘Don’t let them kill you.’”
Sam shook his head sadly. “Thanks,” he said, spreading his arms in helplessness.
Go on to Chapter Two
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no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 11:20 pm (UTC)I loved QL when it first came on - and I think you've caught Sam & Al perfectly so far. Love little Dean & Sammy too.
On to Ch 2!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-06 12:25 pm (UTC)You have captured both shows beautifully. Especially considering you've only seen the first season of QL! I love wee!Dean and wee!Samm, their voices are excellent.
Great job, off to read the rest now!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-06 02:18 pm (UTC)Just a clarification, though: I've *seen* all of QL; I used to watch it when it aired on broadcast TV. But I set the fic in S1 or thereabouts only because I only had access to the first season on DVD - I haven't *bought* the other seasons yet.
Anyway, I'm thrilled that you've found this and you're enjoying it. Thanks for reviewing!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-11 05:43 am (UTC)I don't really remember anything about QL except that he, you know, leaped into people, but I love how their SOP goes all haywire with the Winchesters involved.
Sammy and Dean are really great, very in character and I love how they know something's up. "Don't let them kill you"--great advice, but a little late now, maybe, because Dean's been in the car and QL!Sam doesn't know why.
Onto chapter two!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-11 01:58 pm (UTC)Utterly joss'd by "A Very Supernatural Christmas" but whatever. Written well before then, so we had know way to know that they weren't both "raised" with full knowledge of what was out there.
Keeping Sam and Sammy separate was the first thing I knew I had to figure out. The other big decision was whether Sammy, with his "special" abilities, would be able to see Sam instead of Sam-in-John, if that makes sense (Kids up to about 5, animals, and the insane and/or mentally disabled can sometimes see Sam instead of his host).
But yeah, the minute I thought about crossing these two, I knew it *had* to be John and I knew he would *have* to give Al the hardest time EVAR.
Glad you're enjoying it!
no subject
Date: 2017-01-19 10:38 pm (UTC)