A little somethin’-somethin’, written a while back, fairly proud of this, actually.

Chapter One

5th of September, 1948, Lawrence, Kansas

“I can’t believe you dragged me into this, Dean.”

Sam Winchester stood in a sterile white office space, complete with fancy rotating chairs, framed certificates hanging imperiously on the stark wall and the two shiny plaques sitting proudly on two brand-spanking-new cherry oak desks, clean and uniform without a speck of dust on their smooth surfaces. The desk on the left held Sam Winchester’s own plaque, while his brother’s, Dean’s, was placed carefully on the right desk. ‘Paranormal Investigators’ was engraved boldly in italics under each name. He eyed each detail of the room with equal measure of weariness and suspicion, wondering how much his brother had actually spent on this spontaneous refurbishment; he crossed his arms across his chest, and his features were deeply lined with a perturbed exasperation.

Dean Winchester walked the length of the room, twirling a charcoal grey hat in his hand, and beaming with pride. “Look at it, Sammy. Brand new office, brand new suits,” – he brushed imaginary lint off the brim of his hat, only to gesture at his own new attire – “A bottle of whiskey and a place to call our own. The family business, Sammy, cleaned up and polished like it should be.” He sat himself down in his chair – being careful not to crinkle the pin-striped suit that he had just recently had custom made – and lifted his polished, black shoes onto the desk to prop them up: he looked all the more like a confident businessman as his winning smile complemented his new style. “Hell, we even have a pretty secretary to boot. This is the life, I tell you. This is the way we were meant to be working all along.” He crossed his feet and lifted his hands to cradle the back of his head, grinning even wider. “In comfort.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and started pacing, hands in his pockets. “You realise that we are going to have to pay the secretary? With actual money, Dean. No one is going to come to a pair of “Paranormal Investigators”, not if they value their wallets– or integrity. Lawrence is crawling with Private Detectives, why would they need-“

Just then there was a light knock on the door. Dean gave Sam a smug grin, quirking a superior brow as his eyes fell half-lidded. “You were saying?”

Sam gestured gruffly at Dean, indicating at him to shut up and said, “Come in.”

The secretary quickly opened the door, her glossy long nails coming into view before her lovely face did. “There is a Missus Wayward waiting for you, Misters Winchester sirs.” She said softly. She fixed up her bold red glasses, brushing a lock of light hair behind her ear. “She seems in quite a state.”

“Show her in, Charlene.” Dean flashed Sam a wicked grin and sat up straight, straightening his tie. Sam quickly walked over to his desk and sat down before Charlene entered again, followed this time by the Winchesters’ first customer.

“Mrs. Wayward, please,” Dean said smoothly, and indicated to the chair in front of them. A beautiful young woman, who no more than twenty-three years old, sat herself opposite the brothers. She wasn’t a poor lady; she had diamonds sparkling on her ears and neck. Her chestnut hair was tied up in a fashionable bun, held together by a jade clip. A strand of hair had escaped and she put it behind her ear hurriedly. She smiled tentatively at the brothers, and nervously started rubbing her ring finger.

“How can we help, Mrs. Wayward?” Sam smiled gently, noting her apparent discomfort.

“Misters Winchester, I was hoping you could help me with a problem.” She gave a nervous laugh, her Southern accent evident. “I must be out of my mind coming to you, but I know my problem isn’t one that can be fixed by your average PI.”

Dean gave a cocky smile. “We’ll sure as hell do our best, ma’am.”

Mrs Wayward sighed. “My husband died three months ago. My family and I have been absolutely devastated, so we thought it was our imagination at first. But then people started dying.” She lifted her hanky, and wiped away the tears. ‘And the statues started move.’

Sam gave Dean a knowing look. “Ma’am, you better start from the beginning.”

5th of September, Somewhere near the constellation Gragolia, 3015.

‘Um, Doctor?’ Amy was absent-mindedly fiddling with something on the TARDIS’s desktop, daydreaming about her bed at home. ‘Where are we?’

The Doctor slid out from under the desktop and gave Amy a look. ‘How am I suppose to know when I am tinkering under- Amelia Williams-Pond, what are you doing?’

Amy looked down at the thing she was playing with. ‘I don’t really know. Did you say tinkering?’

The Doctor swung up from his spot on the ground. ‘Yes, I tinker. I am a professional tinkerer. Don’t play with that. It’s a very important thingy.’

Amy raised her hands, giving the Doctor a curious look. ‘What does it actually do?’

‘I don’t know, but I am sure it is very important. RORAAAY!’ The Doctor spun around, grabbing Amy by the arm and giving her a twirl. Amy squealed, surprised. ‘Doctor-’ The Doctor froze.

‘Oh. Oh yes. Yes!’ Doctor suddenly let Amy go and lunged for his monitor. Amy, regaining her balance, clutched at the desktop. The Doctor yelled again. ‘RORAAAY, WE ARE ABOUT TO LAND AND YOUR WIFE IS MISSING YOU.’

‘Would you like to explain to me what is going on?’ Amy put her hand on her hip. The TARDIS lurched, and she moved forward, clutching desperately at the railing on the steps.

‘Amy, I just yelled it across five different galaxies, how did you not hear me? We are landing.’ The Doctor pulled down three levers and pressed a few buttons. The TARDIS trembled violently, and Amy held on for a dear life.

‘Yes, but where the hell are we going?!’

The Doctor smiled. Swinging the monitor towards Amy, he started to hum a jazz tune. The monitor showed a picture of River Song, her hair still crazy and her smile still naughty, with a date – The 5th of September, 1948 – and a message. ‘Hello, sweetie.’

‘We are going to pay my wife a visit. Where in God’s name is Rory?’


‘This is it.’ Sam stood under the glare of a streetlamp, squinting his eyes to see the elegant scrawl of Mrs Wayward’s handwriting on a sheet of paper, then turning to look at the street sign on a pole beside the lamp. ‘This is the address she gave us. The place where Mr. Wayward was killed.’

‘I hate New York.’ Dean grumbled, stamping out the cigarette he had just finished smoking.

Sam looked disapprovingly at the smoldering pile of ash on the floor and shook his head. ‘You hate everywhere except your office.’

Dean started to walk down the desolate road, thinking. ‘True, but I really hate New York.’

Sam chuckled and shuddered slightly. ‘Little cold for September, don’t you think?’

Dean smiled and put hands in his long overcoat while walking. ‘That’s why I hate New York.’

They walked down to house number 34. It was an abnormally large house for this part of town, the front yard graced with two guarding angelic statues, and the front door, large and gothic, stood gloomily at the top of a silly amount of steps. There was a small lantern shaped light shining at the top of the stone-cold stairs, and Sam and Dean made their way up.

‘Creepy house, huh?’ Sam shuddered again. ‘Those statues are freaking me out.’

‘We’ve had creepier. Remember Colorado?’ Despite this seemingly reassuring statement, Dean still looked over his shoulder, where the angels still stood, stoic and cold. Shaking his head, he resumed walking up the stairs.

Sam walked up to the door and hammered on it. ‘Hello?’


Sam hammered again, and opened his mouth to yell, but suddenly, the lantern over their heads started to flicker. Dean looked back, and his stomach turned cold.


Sam looked at Dean’s shocked face, and then turned to look at where Dean was staring at. Sam’s jaw dropped.

‘That’s- that’s not possible.’

The angels had turned on their platforms, and, with their arms raised and teeth and nails sharpened, looked at the Winchesters menacingly.

‘Sam, they moved. This is what Mrs Wayward was talking about.’ Dean took out his gun, and fired once. The bullet bounced of the statue as if it was rubber. The angels hadn’t moved, but stared at the Winchesters intensely. ‘Why aren’t they attacking us?’

Dean looked at Sam.

Simultaneously, they both turned and hammered at the door in a burst of panic.




Dean turned again and suddenly the angels were right behind them, an arms’ stretch away. ‘Woah!’

‘Dean-’ The other angel had Sam by the back of his collar. ‘Don’t look away, that’s when they move.’

‘What, like Red Light, Green Light? This is ridiculous.’

‘Just keep looking at my angel and help me loose. I’ll keep an eye on yours.’

‘Right.’ Dean tried to pry Sam’s shirt from the angels hand. ‘Sam, I hate to say this, but I think I have to tear this thing.’

‘Goddamn it, Dean, just tear it off.’ Panic was starting to creep into Sam’s voice as he unblinkingly stared at the angel.

‘But I had this custom made-’


‘Alright, alright. I’m sending you the bill.’ Dean tore the shirt off and Sam spun round, glancing from one angel to another. The angels didn’t move.

‘Keep looking at them. I’m going to kick the door down.’ Dean made to face the door before Sam grabbed his arm, still staring at the angels.

‘Dean, this is at least 18th century door panelling, if not older. They were paranoid in those days, there is no way you can kick down those doors without steroids.’

‘So what, we are going to do this staring match forever? My eyes are getting tired, man.’

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

Dean’s back stood firm against the door. ‘I don’t know man, you’re the genius.’  

‘Gentlemen.’ A sultry, British feminine voice echoed from behind the statues, and it took every ounce of self-restraint for the boys not to look past the angels and see where the hell that voice was coming from.

‘Ma’am, I would step back if I were you-’ Sam tried.

‘What, and leave you boys here to your own devices? I couldn’t do that. Not with those handsome faces.’ The voice moved to Dean’s side, and all Dean could see from the corner of his eye was hair. Lots and lots of hair.

‘If you would be so kind to grab your brother’s arm.’

Dean obeyed, without second thought, and one-third of a second later, they were in a dark musty room, angel-free.

‘What the-’ Dean spun around. ‘Where the-’

‘You’re inside the house.’ The voice came from the corner of the room. ‘One of the bedrooms, I believe.’

‘How the-’ Dean waved his arms, trying to express his confusion.

‘Oh, sweetie.’ The woman moved towards the light, and Dean’s eyes widened slightly. The woman wore a bowler’s hat over her eyes, with a tight black dress and overcoat, with leather gloves and black high heels. She looked up slowly, and he saw the frizzy blonde hair surround a beautiful round face, with eyes that have seen danger and lips that have kissed the devil. She smiled.

Dean was already in love.

‘Who- who are you?’

River Song glanced at the Winchester, and smiled even more dangerously.




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