[AU] two worlds, a lot of demons, and a new set of problems

[gavemea_45]

It's still hard to believe it's over; that the yellow-eyed demonic bastard they'd spent their whole lives hunting is finally dead.

Sam figures it'll sink in eventually. Given everything else -- right now he's still pretty numb.

He's also desperately tired, but that doesn't matter. There's something he needs to do, and he can't afford to delay.

He waits until they've settled in for the night, and then waits still longer. Once Dean's been asleep for half an hour, Sam picks up his messenger bag -- already stuffed with books and his computer -- and heads straight for the bar.

He orders black coffee and snags a table with a good view of both doors and the stairs, then pulls out the first of the old texts and starts to search through it.

There's work to do.

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[gavemea_45]

“What do you want to know?” It’s not that he’s unwilling, he just isn’t sure how to start.

[pacificator]

She shrugs, slight.

"What's something you like about him?"

[gavemea_45]

“He’s always got my back,” Sam tells her, even as something twists deep in his gut. “No matter what. He’s great with kids. And really committed to keeping people safe.”

[pacificator]

She nods, fiddling with her glass.

"Your big brother, yeah?"

[gavemea_45]

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

[pacificator]

"Yeah."

Her mind goes not to Waverly, the little sister she's trying so damn hard to protect, but to the big sister she should have had. Willa. "Must be nice."

[gavemea_45]

“Most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, he can be a jerk, but not when it counts.”

Sam glances back at the notes. There has to be a way to save Dean. There just has to.

[pacificator]

"What are siblings for huh?" The waitrat scuttles back with a tray of snacks, a fresh mug of coffee, and a few rounds of salt-rimmed tequila shots. Wynonna snags one and upends it, grimacing as it goes down, then sets the empty glass back on the tray.

"I had a big sister."

[gavemea_45]

His gaze snaps up and locks on her face. Had.

“You did?” Sam reaches for a shot himself.

[pacificator]

"Willa."

Soft as a prayer. Willa in her white dress, dancing and laughing. Willa dragged through a window, kicking and screaming. "The good one."

[gavemea_45]

He tosses back the tequila. Somehow the burn helps.

“How much older?” It’s easier to ask that than the question that hangs silent between them.

[pacificator]

"Two years."

She reaches for another shot. Her head's getting fuzzy, but not fuzzy enough for this. "She used to call me 'Nona.'"

[gavemea_45]

He feels sick to the pit of his stomach, but he can’t stop himself from asking. “How old were you when you lost her?”

[pacificator]

"Almost eleven."

Screams and shattering glass. And then the thunder of Peacemaker discharging. She tips back the tequila and reaches for a pretzel. "Her and Daddy, gone on the same night."

[gavemea_45]

The picture she’d showed him before flashes across his mind. “Oh, fuck.” Sam stares at her. “I’m sorry.”

[pacificator]

She makes a wry face and toys with another pretzel. "I was never supposed to be the heir. It was Willa. Until they took her."

[gavemea_45]

“They were trying to break the curse their way?” Sam takes another shot for himself, and sets another in easy reach of her. He’ll have to slow down soon or get a room here for a few hours, but this is the kind of conversation that’s better faced with alcohol.

[pacificator]

"I don't know. I've never known. They weren't even supposed to be able to get onto the Homestead."

She appreciates the way he's matching her shot for shot. This hangover will suck a little less knowing someone else is feeling it, too. "They grabbed Willa and pulled her through the window. And Daddy – "

She stops, abrupt, shaking her head, and reaches for the shot he'd set there for her.

[gavemea_45]

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.” It’s not, none of this is, but he wants her to know he’s not going to try to make her explain more than she’s willing to say.

“That left you and your mom and little sister, I guess?”

[pacificator]

"Oh, Mama was long gone by then."

Whether she'd wanted to go or not, Wynonna's never known. "Our aunt did her best to bring us up."

[gavemea_45]

A faint suspicion stirs. Sam reaches for another shot. “Does your aunt know about the curse?”

[pacificator]

"She knows. But we don't talk about it."

She takes a deep breath and mirrors his gesture, picking up a shot of her own. "Didn't talk about it. No one did. Nobody in Purgatory wanted to believe that there were demons, or curses, or that I was anything but crazy."

[gavemea_45]

“Most people don’t want to believe any of it.” In some ways he can understand that. Most of them don’t have to. Don’t need to. But when you do—-

“So they just think they have a high rate of violent crimes for unknown reasons?” It’s dry as dust.

[pacificator]

"A lot of stuff gets blamed on wolves," she says. "Getting lost in the woods. Redneck hillbillies going after each other. Shit like that."

She shrugs. "People will believe anything, as long as you don't say 'demons'."

[gavemea_45]

Sam sighs, slow and weary. "Don't I know it." Not for the first time, he wonders how things would have been different if Dad hadn't been as hard on them as he had. Would he have not been Yellow-Eyes' "favorite"? Or would he have just been dead earlier and gone for good?

"When did you start learning about -- about everything? That you weren't crazy? That what had happened to, to you family... that it was real?"