Plan B or C or Whatever... 3/6
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Chapter 2
Alexei lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the first light of dawn began to creep past the top of the curtains, and tried to remember what day it was and how long he’d been there. He could count only four actual sunrises, including this one, but he had too many memories for only three full days. Some were sharp and clear—proposing to Alison at the door of the inn, getting married in the church with Rozanov as their best man despite the Palmers’ objections, buying this house on the cliff overlooking the island’s eastern shore, saving Jeffrey Maxwell from drowning. But others seemed stretched and hazy. How long had he worked on Luther Grilk’s farm to save up enough to buy the house? How long had it taken Gromolsky and Brodsky to help them modernize it, and where had they gotten the generator? Alexei’s English was too fluent, his Russian too faded, the feeling of Alison in his arms too familiar.
How could this be only their fourth day?
“’Lyoshka?” Alison’s sleepy voice asked.
And yet—Alexei didn’t feel any older, and neither he nor Alison looked any older. However many meals they ate, their panty never seemed to hold less than full American abundance. And most of the people in town still seemed to be learning everyone’s names, except Rozanov’s. His they knew best not only because he’d been their spokesman but also because he’d taken up residence at the inn, watching over a man named Whittaker who was apparently the only other Jewish person on the island. (Rozanov was the only person on the Sprut who knew Alexei was a Christian; Alexei was the only one who knew Rozanov was Jewish. It made a good basis for friendship.) If they had been on the island for years and years, wouldn’t things have changed more?
“’Lyoshenka?” Triple diminutive. Alison was worried.
Alexei finally looked at her with as much of a smile as he could muster. “Good morning, Alyshka.”
Satisfied that he wasn’t locked in his head anymore, she smiled back and snuggled closer against his side just as a wave of vertigo and nausea washed over him. It had passed by the time she said, “Think we’ve stopped.”
That was the other strange thing: that sense of being wrenched through time and space without moving an inch. It happened every morning—and Alexei and Alison seemed to be the only people who noticed it.
“What day is it?” he asked.
She thought for a moment before answering. “Wednesday… I think.”
He hummed in disappointment. “I wish it could be Saturday.”
“Well, the ferry doesn’t run until 10. If we get any guests, which I kind of hope we won’t, it won’t be until closer to lunchtime.”
He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Good.”
They took their time getting up and getting ready for the day. In fact, the clock said it was just after 10 when they finally went out on the porch to enjoy their second cup of coffee on the porch swing. He didn’t know how long they sat there, savoring the sunshine and sea breeze and each other’s company, before the peace was interrupted by a surprisingly foreign noise: the sound of a car engine. Some time later—maybe a minute, maybe a year—a big black car pulled off the road in front of the house and parked, and two men got out of it.
The taller closed the car door and drew his right arm over his stomach, revealing the cast poking out of the sleeve. “Talk about back in time, dude....”
“Yeah, no kidding,” replied the other, then turned to smile at the couple on the porch.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Alexei called.
“Good morning!” the taller smiled, revealing dimples. “We’re looking for a Mr. Whittaker.”
“Oh, sorry, he doesn’t live here,” Alison said. “He’s at the inn in town. But he’s very sick—I don’t know if he can have visitors.”
“Well,” he gave a kind of a half-laugh, half-chuff, “could you please direct us?”
“Sure! But as long as you’re here, won’t you come in and have some coffee? I’d hate for you to have come all this way for nothing.”
“Coffee sounds great,” the smaller man grinned.
Alexei grinned back and stood. “Good, please do! I am Alexei Kolchin, and this is my wife Alison.”
“I’m Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam.” He ignored Sam’s surprised blink and followed Alison into the house.
After Sam followed his brother, he pulled him aside. “Dean, we need to be off by dark, remember? We don’t have time to waste.”
Dean just smiled at him. “Coffee is never a waste of time, Sammy. Especially not when it smells like that.”
Sam huffed, exasperated, and pulled a small rectangular device out of his pocket. A small screen on it lit up when he pushed a button.
“What is that, please?” Alexei asked, curious.
Sam blinked in visible surprise. “Uh... it’s a phone.”
“A telephone with no wires?” Alexei looked at Alison, who seemed just as baffled as he was.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, they’ve been out for a while....”
Trying to hide his unease, Alexei asked, “May I look more closely, please?”
“Sure.” Sam handed him the phone. “I can’t get a signal anyway. Tower must be down.”
Alexei accepted the little thing, smaller than a handheld radio, and looked it over carefully. There were buttons on the front with numbers and Latin letters, plus other buttons with icons he didn’t quite understand—one looked like a green phone handset picked up off the hook, another like a red phone hung up, and a third like a camera. The little screen displayed the time (10:30) in large numbers, and below that....
His blood ran cold.
September 14, 2006
“No...” he breathed, his heart beginning to race as he shook his head. “No, is... is not true, is trick, Amerikanski trick!”
His wife ran over, hearing his distress. “What? What’s wrong?”
Alexei showed her the phone. “Forty years, Alyshka! Forty years!”
Her jaw dropped and she snatched the phone. “No! This...” She thrust it toward Sam, making the young man take a step back in reflex. “Is this true?”
Dean raised his chin, looking at them narrowly. “It’s true. And you’re Alison Palmer and... you’re one of the guys off the Russian sub.” When Alexei opened his mouth, unsure whether to deny it or plead for mercy, Dean raised his hand. “Relax. The Cold War’s over. It’s not gonna cause World War III for anyone to find out that you’re here.”
“Over?” Alexei gasped. “... that’s....”
Alison took his hand. “Everything we’ve worked for.... we can live in peace.”
Tears welled up in Alexei’s eyes as he squeezed her hand. “Da. In peace.” Then he looked at their guests again. “Please... tell us what we have missed.”
The brothers looked at each other, then Sam said, “You know you’ve missed time? You can sense it?”
Alexei nodded as Alison answered, “Here on the edge of the island—it’s like time moves too slowly. I don’t feel it in town so much.”
Dean curled his hand over Sam’s shoulder. “Come on. We still need to get that coffee and you need some pain pills for that arm.”
Sam didn’t look happy about staying, but Alison gave back his phone and plied the brothers with coffee and cake while Alexei asked questions about the state of the world and answered what few questions he could about the state of the island. It felt like they’d talked for hours when Dean finally gave in to Sam’s insistence that they needed to go back to town to find Whittaker.
“We’ll go with you,” Alexei offered. “Easier to help you find inn, and there are some few things we need to buy at market.”
Alison nodded, and the brothers gave in, though Sam looked slightly pinched, which might have been pain. But his pained look gave way to astonishment when he stood and caught sight of the clock.
It was only 10:45.
Both Alison and Alexei gushed over the car, which had Dean preening.
“We don’t see many cars on the island,” Alison explained as they got in the back seat. “I’ve got a bike, but most people still get around on foot or on horseback.”
“So we’re really going to stick out,” Sam said gloomily.
“Well, yes, but so do we. They’re more used to tourists in town, though—it’s less common for anyone to come out this way unless they want to look out at the actual sea instead of the bay between here and Cape Cod.” Alison laughed wryly and took Alexei’s hand again. “I don’t know what we were thinking, trying to turn the Selwyn place into a bed-and-breakfast. It’s not like we want overnight guests to be stuck here like we are.”
“Maybe just a restaurant?” Sam put in.
“That would be better idea if there were more traffic on this road,” Alexei admitted. “But was only house for sale when we were ready to buy.”
They lapsed into silence then, broken only by directions. Dean put a tape in the tape deck—very different from the 8-tracks Alexei had seen in a few American movies, and the music was a different form of rock ’n’ roll than he was used to. The album played all the way through before they got back to town.
“So... this is where we’ll find Whittaker?” Sam asked as he got out of the car.
“Aw, come on, Sammy,” Dean complained. “We’ve got plenty of time until the ferry runs again. Let’s go help Alexei and Alison get their groceries, huh?”
Sam suggested they split up because he wouldn’t be much help one-handed, but Dean just got louder and more immature acting until Sam gave in just to shut him up.
Just then Alexei caught sight of Rozanov at the front desk of the inn. “You go ahead, please,” he told the brothers. “I see someone I must speak to for a moment.”
Alison went with Sam, talking to him, and Dean lingered a bit behind so he could try to overhear.
Alexei noticed and ducked inside. “Gospodin Rozanov,” he said.
Rozanov’s smile dimmed as he noticed the non-Soviet honorific. “Gospodin Kolchin,” he returned.
“I have incredible news,” Alexei said in Russian. “I have confirmation that it is the year 2006 and that the Cold War is past.”
Rozanov’s eyes went wide. “Where did you hear this?” he asked in the same language.
“From the men who brought us into town in their car. They are asking for your patient.”
Rozanov glanced toward the door and drew Alexei further toward the door to the bar. “Who are they?” he demanded quietly.
Alexei shrugged. “Americans. Sam and Dean Winchester. They seem to know something about what’s going on here, but they had a lot of questions Alison and I couldn’t answer.”
Rozanov blew the air out of his cheeks and glanced upward, toward Whittaker’s room. “He’s not awake yet. But this morning, he said he thought something was changing. When he wakes up, I’ll ask if he’s willing to see them, but I can’t promise anything.”
“We may have another problem. Sam is very anxious to get back to the mainland before dark—but Dean acts like he doesn’t want to leave.”
Rozanov swore under his breath.
“I’m convinced they both know what might happen if they stay, which makes the one’s actions most puzzling indeed.”
“He must be hiding from something, or trying to protect the other.”
“Both make sense, but what would they want with Whittaker?”
Rozanov shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask him. In the meantime, stay with them. I’ll get word to you as soon as I know anything.”
“Spasiba.”
“Prozhalyista. Do svedanya.” And Rozanov headed back upstairs.
“Do svedanya,” Alexei whispered, turning and heading back to Dean. “I am going to assume you do not speak Russian.”
Dean shrugged. “I have enough trouble with English. What’d your pal say?”
“He is uncertain whether Whittaker will be able to see you. He has gone to see how the old man is faring.”
Dean nodded, looked around, and sighed. “Listen, Alexei... we don’t have a lot of money, but... there’s some bad stuff gunnin’ for me an’ my brother right now, and... well, Alison said you guys wanna turn your house into a bed-and-breakfast, so I was wonderin’ if... maybe we could stay for a few nights.”
“I... would not advise it. But should you require it... ask Alison.”
“I know what I’m askin’, dude. But there’s... there’s some stuff goin’ on that I can’t tell Sammy about. I just...” Dean broke off, shaking his head. “I gotta keep him safe, y’know?”
“Ah, you are the older brother.” Alexei smiled knowingly.
Dean nodded. “Ever since our mom died, he’s been my responsibility. That’s my one job, ‘Look after Sammy.’ And now... I-I can’t really explain, but a place like this—did—did you ever see Brigadoon?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, no.”
Dean chuckled. “No, it’s a movie. Gene Kelly and Cyd Cherisse.”
“No, we didn’t get a lot of cinema where... where I grew up.”
“It’s about a town like this, that... kinda exists outside the normal stream of time. People were tryin’ to escape witches, an’ that was the result. And I just think... the stuff that’s after us, after Sam... maybe if we disappear completely for a few decades, it’ll throw ‘em off the trail.”
Alexei opened his mouth, but then Alison returned with Sam, their arms full of groceries.
Dean opened the trunk. “Here you go.”
The purchases fit handily in the car’s spacious trunk, and the two families drove back to the house in comfortable silence.
No sooner had they unloaded, however, than Sam insisted on returning to town. Dean insisted on staying for lunch. Alexei had to forestall a fight by admitting that Whittaker might not even be awake yet. Alison looked as worried as Alexei felt, but there was little they could do beyond trying to be gracious hosts.
The brothers talked quietly in the corner about what they would talk to Whittaker about while Alison made lunch. Alexei listened as best he could without appearing to eavesdrop. The things they said sounded crazy—but then again, there were the time discrepancies to deal with. Who was Alexei to say what the whole truth was?
Something was wrong. Sam knew Dean wasn’t dealing well with Dad’s death, and he’d been kind of off for the last few weeks even beyond that, but the way he was acting today... it was like he wanted to stay on the island but wouldn’t tell Sam that or tell him why. It was even more irritating than Sam’s broken wrist.
Alison smiled as she sat down next to him and handed him a pencil. “For the itch.”
Sam smiled sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“You seem upset. Can I help?”
Sam sighed. “I don’t know. We have to get back to the mainland, but we need to talk to Whittaker, and... Dean’s just goofing around.”
She nodded. “It’s frustrating. I know how I felt when my parents brought me here. All I could think of was I needed to get back to Stanford, and now....”
“At least you got a husband out of the deal.” Sam shook his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to Stanford myself, even if we do get off the island. I just wish Dean would talk to me.”
“I’m an only child, but Alexei had a brother. I’m sure you can talk to him about your frustrations and he’d listen.”
“I dunno. It’s pretty specific to our situation.” Sam paused. “There is one thing you could tell me, though. Is there anyplace else on the island where you sense anything weird?”
Alison chuckled. “Define weird.”
“Cold spots, strange smells... just anything that makes your hair stand on end. It might not even be something you can define.”
Alison thought for a moment. “Well... there’s this one spot in the church that gives me the willies. Not that we’ve been back to the church since Sunday, but when we were there to get married... even Lt. Rozanov noticed it. But we never asked anybody about it.”
Sam stood. “Show me.”
Alison nodded and got up but poked her head into the kitchen, where Alexei and Dean were still talking. “Hey, Dean, can we borrow your car? I need to show Sam something in town.”
Dean stood up. “I’ll come with you.”
“As will I,” said Alexei, looking worried.
She nodded and led the little parade out.
Sam would have been glad that Dean was so quick to volunteer to go with them... but the first thing he did after starting the car was to swap the AC/DC tape he’d played earlier for a Beatles mixtape—one that had “Hey Jude” on it.
“Dean,” Sam whined. Then he cringed at his own whine. Then he sighed because he hated whining and why did he always seem to be the little brother lately?
Dean shot Sam a look that was hard to interpret before snapping, “Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole.” And before Sam could protest again or explain himself, Dean put the car in gear and drove away.
“Seems you always drive,” Sam growled.
“Shut up, Sam.”
The Kolchins looked at each other, visibly uncomfortable. Sam huffed and looked out the window at the too-calm sea, flexing his aching hand.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Dean said softly, “Painkillers in the glove box, Sammy. No need for you to hurt.”
“I need my mind clear if we’re gonna figure out what’s up with this place.”
“Tylenol, Sammy. I know you need your mind clear.”
Sam grimaced and dug the bottle of Tylenol out of the glove compartment, shook a couple of Tylenol into his hand, and dry-swallowed them.
Dean snorted. “Brothers. Alison, there’s a water bottle in the cooler. Can you hand it to Sammy, please?”
“Uh, sure,” said Alison, rummaged in the cooler, and passed the water to Sam.
“What a country,” Alexei murmured.
Sam mumbled a thanks but rolls his eyes at his brother.
The car was quiet after that, aside from the music, until they reached the church. Once they’d parked, however, Sam went to the trunk to get an EMF meter.
Dean squinted up against the sun at the steeple. “This is where it all started, isn’t it?”
Sam looked at him. “What makes you say that?”
“Can’t you feel it? It’s like... it’s like we’re in the center of a whirlwind.”
Sam thought about it, and Dean was right. There was that dead-calm sense about the place that usually went with the eye of a hurricane. He switched on the EMF meter, and the needle swung toward the high end of the scale. The reading increased as he followed Alison inside, and when he scanned the place behind the back pews that she pointed out to him, the meter went crazy.
“That’s it,” he murmured as Dean came up beside him. “That’s the exact point where the spell was cast.”
“So... think we need to go talk to Whittaker.” His brother frowned, eyes canting upward in a way that made him look very young. “Whittier? Whitehead?”
“Whittaker,” Sam corrected. “What’s wrong with you, Dean?”
“I forgot the name—big deal.”
Sam huffed, but before he could say anything else, a man in very old-fashioned clerical garb walked in through another door and looked at them in surprise. “May I help you gentlemen?” the pastor asked.
“Yes,” Sam said. “We’re looking for a Mr. Whittaker.”
The pastor’s face clouded. “For what reason?”
“Information,” Sam said. “We... we know about the spell and were wondering if we could help.”
The pastor blinked in confusion. “You know—are—are you Men of Letters, then?”
Dean shook his head. “Never heard of them.”
“Well, if you’re not Men of Letters, who are you?”
“I’m Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam. It’s our job to take care of things like this.”
“Winchester,” the pastor murmured. “And yet... can it be....” He drew a deep breath and seemed to come to a decision. “Please sit down, gentlemen, and you too, Mr. and Mrs. Kolchin. I don’t know if Mr. Whittaker will be well enough to see you today, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
The four sat down and waited.
“I should introduce myself, first of all,” the pastor said as he joined them. “I’m Rev. Hawthorne. I’ve been the parson here since 1793.”
Alexei gasped.
Rev. Hawthorne smiled wryly. “Yes, Mr. Kolchin, I’m aware it’s been nearly two hundred years in the outside world. I’m one of the few people in town who does know that. To everyone else, it’s still 1814, and we’re still at war with England.”
“So what happened?” Dean asked.
Rev. Hawthorne sighed. “I’m afraid the particulars you want will have to come from Mr. Whittaker himself. I can give you only the context. There had been strange occurrences on the island ever since it was first settled, and Mr. Whittaker, as a Man of Letters, had come to study them. The Men of Letters are… were… a society dedicated to the study of the supernatural. They describe themselves as ‘preceptors, beholders, chroniclers of all that man does not understand.’ They have also made a study of the more arcane forms of magic, following the path of scholars like Albertus Magnus. I don’t ordinarily approve of the practice of magic, of course, but then… then the storm came.
“We had no warning until the storm was almost upon us, and by then, the sea was too rough for any of our vessels to make it to the mainland safely. No one had any ideas of what to do until Mr. Whittaker proposed performing a spell here in the church at dawn. He seemed to think this wasn’t the best place, but it was already raining too hard to do it outside. I didn’t understand the words he said; they weren’t in Latin, Greek, or Hebrew. The spell seemed to drain him physically, though.”
Sam hummed thoughtfully. That still left a wide spectrum of possibilities. “Do go on, Reverend.”
Rev. Hawthorne sighed. “Well, whatever the spell was meant to do, it worked. The storm vanished. Then moments later, a blizzard struck. No one was prepared for winter weather—it was August! A panic started, and certain of the town leaders threatened Mr. Whittaker with grievous harm unless he did the spell again. He tried to protest that it was too soon, that he needed a week to recover, but no one would heed him. So he did the spell again… and it nearly killed him.
“That was almost a month ago, by our reckoning. Every morning since, the spell has reactivated. Mr. Whittaker revives slowly over the course of the day, and people pass freely to and from the mainland, but most people from the island don’t know that another ten years has slipped away. They notice only how oddly mainlanders dress and the occasional new piece of kit, like the automobile.” Rev. Hawthorne shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happened to the Men of Letters, but if you gentlemen can help, we’d all be most grateful.”
Sam nodded slowly. “We’ll have to talk to Whittaker, find out exactly what he did. Then we have resources on the mainland that should be able to help. At the very least, we can tell you whether or not the spell can be broken.”
“Yeah, but Sammy, I’m starvin’,” said Dean. “We should get some supper ’fore we talk to Whittaker.”
“No,” Sam said, whirling to face him. “You’ve been delaying all day and I won’t have it anymore! We’ll talk first and get food on the mainland! In the meantime, you can grab a snack from the Impala.”
“We have until dawn!” Dean thundered. “And we haven’t had a real day off in months—hell, even this is a working vacation! So you can just chill, all right?!” And he stormed out.
“What the hell?” Sam growled. He turned to the priest and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father, but honestly, what the hell?”
“How long has he been like this?” Rev. Hawthorne asked.
“Define ‘this,’” Sam snarled.
Rev. Hawthorne sighed. “I’m only trying to help, Mr. Winchester.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I just... he’s only like this when he’s trying to protect me.”
“What might he be trying to protect you from by staying here?”
Sam ran his good hand through his hair. “I don’t know. He’s been like this since our dad passed.”
Rev. Hawthorne nodded slowly. “And how did that happen?”
“Officially, injuries from a car crash.”
“And unofficially?”
“He made some kind of deal—his life for Dean’s.”
Rev. Hawthorne looked alarmed. “How do you know?”
“He’s not hurt bad, Dean’s all broken up. Suddenly Dean’s completely well and Dad drops dead.”
“Did anything else happen immediately before your father’s death?”
“No, I don’t think... wait... he sent me for coffee.”
“And who else was in the room?”
“No one.” Sam shook his head. “Just Dad and Dean.”
Rev. Hawthorne nodded. “So perhaps your brother is trying to shield you from something that passed between them while you were out of the room.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like my family.”
Alexei shifted uncomfortably. “What should we do, then?”
Sam spread his hands. “I don’t know till we talk to Whittaker.”
Alison turned to him. “Sam, you said you had friends on the mainland. Should you contact them now in case... well, in case Dean refuses to leave?”
He blinked at her. “I was under the impression that you couldn’t get a signal to the mainland.”
“We’ve never tried, but... maybe someone could row you out just far enough to get a signal.”
Sam nodded.
Rev. Hawthorne directed them to a boat rental at the harbor. Alison volunteered to keep an eye on Dean, while Alexei rowed Sam out of the harbor about half a mile. There Sam got a signal and instantly dialed Bobby’s number.
Bobby answered on the second ring. “Sam?”
“Bobby, what year is it?” Sam asked.
“It’s still 2006, boy. Somethin’ wrong?”
“I think Dean is going to try to trap us here.”
“WHAT?!”
So Sam told him everything he knew—which wasn’t much.
Bobby sighed heavily. “All right. I’ll get to workin’ on the leads you got so far. Maybe Rufus’ll know somethin’. You run into any o’ the Russians yet?”
“Alexei is in the boat with me.” Sam smiled.
“Good. At least Rufus can tell the captain his men are all right.” Bobby paused. “Listen, Sam... look after your brother, all right?”
Sam nodded. “I will. And if you don’t hear from us by morning... we’ll see you in ten years.”
“Hope to hell I talk to you tomorrow.” And he hung up.
Sam blew the air out of his cheeks and looked at Alexei again. “Okay. Let’s go see if Whittaker’s awake.”
Alexei nodded and reversed course. They found Dean pacing the beach as they landed.
“What the hell, Sam?” Dean exploded.
“Made a phone call, that’s all. I didn’t leave you.”
“Phone call?”
“To Bobby. Keeping him in the loop.”
Dean turned away and ran his hand over his mouth before turning back to Sam. “You shoulda told me where you were goin’.”
“Yeah, I should have.” The quiet admission short-circuited the argument.
Dean already had his mouth open to continue fussing, but instead he simply huffed. “C’mon. Let’s get some grub.”
“Dean....”
“Look, Whittaker’s at the inn, right? And the inn has a pub.”
“And we still haven’t heard from Rozanov,” Alison added.
“Exactly,” said Dean. “So unless you wanna leave now and come back in ten years to talk to Whittaker, we may as well eat at the pub.”
Sam opened his mouth to answer, but his stomach made a low grumble instead.
Dean gave him a See, I told you so smirk and asked Alexei to lead them back to the inn. Once they arrived and were seated at a table, Dean ordered a huge meal.
Sam started to protest, but Dean cut him off with, “I’m hungry, you’re hungry, and you’re regrowing bone. Besides, how often do we get seafood this fresh?”
Sam slumped back in his seat with a huff—but his attitude changed when the food started to arrive. Oyster soup, perch and potatoes fried in butter, perfectly broiled steaks, even a lobster big enough to split four ways... Alexei looked ready to cry at so much bounty, and Sam didn’t blame him. And just when Sam thought he couldn’t possibly eat any more, Dean ordered a blackberry pie. Sam tried some and was immediately glad he did.
“You can say what you want about French food,” Dean stated, helping himself to a second slice of pie. “Nothin’ beats old-school American cooking.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed as he helped himself to a piece half the size of his brother’s. “I have to agree with that.” He switched to his left hand to eat, a sure sign his arm was twinging again. “Jess would try to get me interested in ‘haute cuisine,’ as she put it, but I never really liked it very much.”
“Can’t remember last time I ate so much,” Alexei murmured and pushed his dessert plate toward Alison. “Would wish for blini, but don’t have room.”
Alison chuckled and kissed him.
Just then, the pub’s regulars started filtering in, and Dean made his way over to the bar to introduce himself, ask questions, and accept a few beers. Sam couldn’t follow all of the conversations; either the food, the pain in his arm, or the nature of the place was fogging his mind. But it wasn’t long before Dean, plainly (to Sam’s eyes) acting more drunk than he really was, accepted an invitation to play darts.
“And here we go,” Sam couldn’t stop the fond grin as he raised his beer bottle to his lips to hide the smile.
Dean had just gone through the “miss easy shots” and “induce the marks to bet on the next game” stages when Sam heard a male voice with a Russian accent—not Alexei’s—say, “Excuse me, please. You are Mr. Winchester, yes?”
Sam stood. “Yes, sir?”
“Yuri Rozanov.” The dark-haired man shook hands with Sam. “Please forgive this interruption, but my friend Whittaker Walter wishes to speak with you immediately.”
“Thank you.” Sam stepped forward and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Another time, guys. Dean, come on.”
Dean shrugged him off, his movement exaggerated to keep up the illusion that he was three sheets to the wind. “You make it anovver time, Shammy. Me an’— hic!—my friensh here, we got a bish... bish... we got a deal. Shook on it an’ ev’rything.” He spun back toward the target and threw his first dart straight into the bullseye. Two others joined it, then he swayed and grinned drunkenly at his brother. “Toldja....”
“Okay, dead-eye, let’s go.” Sam reached for Dean again.
But Dean smacked Sam’s hand away, and this time the belligerence was real when he slurred, “Dammit, Sham, quit throw’n’ off my aim!”
“We need to go talk to—”
“You talk to ’im!” Dean turned unsteadily to one of the other men. “Been naggin’ me all day. ’S worse’n my wife.” He punctuated that with another bullseye.
The other men laughed, but Rozanov caught Sam’s arm. “We do not have time,” he murmured to Sam. “You are the one Whittaker Walter wishes to speak to.”
“Fine,” Sam snarled, addressing both Dean and Rozanov, and left Dean to his hustling.
At a nod from Rozanov, the Kolchins followed as Sam and Rozanov made their way up to the second floor of the inn. Sam could sense strong magic in the air that grew stronger as they went down the hall, so it was no surprise that he was battling a low-grade headache when Rozanov stopped in front of a door, gave a coded knock, and opened the door to reveal a cramped room that held several trunks, a table piled high with books, and a very sick-looking man in the bed.
“C’min, c’min,” the man—Whittaker—said weakly. “Spasiba, Yuri Grigorovich.”
“Prozhalyista,” Rosanov replied and ushered Sam and the Kolchins inside.
“Mr. Whittaker?” Sam asked, approaching the bed.
Whittaker nodded and coughed. “So you’re Sam Winchester,” he wheezed. “Don’t look anything like I’d imagined. Guess you favor one of your foremothers more than your however-many-greats Grandfather William.”
Astonished, Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. “You knew my ancestors?”
Whittaker nodded again but didn’t answer until Rozanov had helped him drink some water. “I knew William and his father Henry, anyway. They were Men of Letters. You should be, too, you and your brother—you’re legacies.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t understand. We’d never heard of the Men of Letters until today. But you sound like you’ve heard of us.”
“There are old prophecies about the Winchesters.” Whittaker sighed and coughed again. “I’m not sure anymore what I’ve read, what’s a vision, or what’s just a fever dream. And I’ve been out of contact with the outside world for nearly two hundred years now. What I do know is that you and your brother have some role to play in the Apocalypse—and I’ve heard you referred to as the Boy King of Hell.”
Sam swallowed hard. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“Partly—just… curiosity. Even if I were a hunter, there’s not a whole lot I could do about you like this.”
“And the rest?”
Whittaker closed his eyes for a moment before looking at Sam again. “You told Rev. Hawthorne you wanted to help me.”
Sam nodded. “Yes, sir. If you could tell us what spell you used, maybe we could break it and get everyone out of this timeskip loop.”
“That won’t be as easy as you think.” Whittaker looked at Rozanov, who helped him drink again. “As far as I know, the only copy of the spellbook is in the Men of Letters’ archive. Thaddeus Sinclair was in charge of moving that archive when the Redcoats got too close, but I have no idea where he moved it to or whether it’s been moved again in the centuries since. And even if you found it, I’m positive the book doesn’t cover this sort of emergency.”
“What makes you so sure, Mr. Whittaker?” Alison asked, drifting closer to the bed.
“It’s an Enochian spell, fueled by the power of the caster’s soul. Only a human soul or an angel’s grace has the power to bend time this way. And it was never meant to be performed twice in one week, let alone twice in one hour. It takes the soul seven days to recover from a spell like that. Worse still, I don’t know what caused us to leap nearly two years the first time—I was trying to move the island only a week forward to make sure we missed the storm. The second time, they wouldn’t even let me think long enough to find a target.”
Rozanov chuckled wryly. “Is wild magic, this place, and nobody notices. Could see Snegurochka walk down street in middle of summer and think she was tourist.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Alexei. “To do a spell in place of wild magic with no target, is… is like taking submarine too close to shore when the maps and tide charts are too old.”
Sam nodded. “And that’s what’s causing the loop. The island ‘runs aground’ every time your soul runs out of ‘fuel,’ but as soon as it’s had enough time to build a partial charge—when the ‘tide’ comes in—it triggers the spell again.”
Whittaker and Rozanov exchanged a look, as if the analogy had never occurred to either of them.
“If that is so,” Rozanov said slowly, “we need equivalent of power-motorboat to get soul out of loop. But what is this equivalent?”
Sam shook his head. “An angel would presumably be stronger than human souls, but I don’t have any idea how to summon an angel or even whether one can.”
“If you go to mainland now,” Alexei asked, “would your friend Bobby have answer before sunrise?”
“I—m-maybe. I dunno. But is the ferry even running this late, and if it is, how do I get Dean to go with me?”
“I… I think… it’s a moot question,” Whittaker gasped.
Sam looked at him again in horror.
“Yuri… I can’t… hold it off… until dawn….”
Rozanov barked something in Russian. “Shield eyes!” he repeated in English for Alison and Sam.
Sam turned his head and threw his arm across his eyes a split second before Whittaker screamed and a blinding light flooded the room for a moment. The force of the spell’s activation threw Sam off the bed. He managed to land on his back so as not to reinjure his broken wrist or break his other arm, but the fall still knocked the wind out of him. Rozanov helped him up once the light had faded, but when he looked at the bed again, Whittaker was unconscious again and barely breathing.
A second later, the door burst open and a wild-eyed Dean stumbled in. “What the hell was that?!” he demanded, not sounding drunk at all.
Sam took a deep breath and let it out again. “Welcome to 2016.”
Next
Alexei lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the first light of dawn began to creep past the top of the curtains, and tried to remember what day it was and how long he’d been there. He could count only four actual sunrises, including this one, but he had too many memories for only three full days. Some were sharp and clear—proposing to Alison at the door of the inn, getting married in the church with Rozanov as their best man despite the Palmers’ objections, buying this house on the cliff overlooking the island’s eastern shore, saving Jeffrey Maxwell from drowning. But others seemed stretched and hazy. How long had he worked on Luther Grilk’s farm to save up enough to buy the house? How long had it taken Gromolsky and Brodsky to help them modernize it, and where had they gotten the generator? Alexei’s English was too fluent, his Russian too faded, the feeling of Alison in his arms too familiar.
How could this be only their fourth day?
“’Lyoshka?” Alison’s sleepy voice asked.
And yet—Alexei didn’t feel any older, and neither he nor Alison looked any older. However many meals they ate, their panty never seemed to hold less than full American abundance. And most of the people in town still seemed to be learning everyone’s names, except Rozanov’s. His they knew best not only because he’d been their spokesman but also because he’d taken up residence at the inn, watching over a man named Whittaker who was apparently the only other Jewish person on the island. (Rozanov was the only person on the Sprut who knew Alexei was a Christian; Alexei was the only one who knew Rozanov was Jewish. It made a good basis for friendship.) If they had been on the island for years and years, wouldn’t things have changed more?
“’Lyoshenka?” Triple diminutive. Alison was worried.
Alexei finally looked at her with as much of a smile as he could muster. “Good morning, Alyshka.”
Satisfied that he wasn’t locked in his head anymore, she smiled back and snuggled closer against his side just as a wave of vertigo and nausea washed over him. It had passed by the time she said, “Think we’ve stopped.”
That was the other strange thing: that sense of being wrenched through time and space without moving an inch. It happened every morning—and Alexei and Alison seemed to be the only people who noticed it.
“What day is it?” he asked.
She thought for a moment before answering. “Wednesday… I think.”
He hummed in disappointment. “I wish it could be Saturday.”
“Well, the ferry doesn’t run until 10. If we get any guests, which I kind of hope we won’t, it won’t be until closer to lunchtime.”
He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Good.”
They took their time getting up and getting ready for the day. In fact, the clock said it was just after 10 when they finally went out on the porch to enjoy their second cup of coffee on the porch swing. He didn’t know how long they sat there, savoring the sunshine and sea breeze and each other’s company, before the peace was interrupted by a surprisingly foreign noise: the sound of a car engine. Some time later—maybe a minute, maybe a year—a big black car pulled off the road in front of the house and parked, and two men got out of it.
The taller closed the car door and drew his right arm over his stomach, revealing the cast poking out of the sleeve. “Talk about back in time, dude....”
“Yeah, no kidding,” replied the other, then turned to smile at the couple on the porch.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Alexei called.
“Good morning!” the taller smiled, revealing dimples. “We’re looking for a Mr. Whittaker.”
“Oh, sorry, he doesn’t live here,” Alison said. “He’s at the inn in town. But he’s very sick—I don’t know if he can have visitors.”
“Well,” he gave a kind of a half-laugh, half-chuff, “could you please direct us?”
“Sure! But as long as you’re here, won’t you come in and have some coffee? I’d hate for you to have come all this way for nothing.”
“Coffee sounds great,” the smaller man grinned.
Alexei grinned back and stood. “Good, please do! I am Alexei Kolchin, and this is my wife Alison.”
“I’m Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam.” He ignored Sam’s surprised blink and followed Alison into the house.
After Sam followed his brother, he pulled him aside. “Dean, we need to be off by dark, remember? We don’t have time to waste.”
Dean just smiled at him. “Coffee is never a waste of time, Sammy. Especially not when it smells like that.”
Sam huffed, exasperated, and pulled a small rectangular device out of his pocket. A small screen on it lit up when he pushed a button.
“What is that, please?” Alexei asked, curious.
Sam blinked in visible surprise. “Uh... it’s a phone.”
“A telephone with no wires?” Alexei looked at Alison, who seemed just as baffled as he was.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, they’ve been out for a while....”
Trying to hide his unease, Alexei asked, “May I look more closely, please?”
“Sure.” Sam handed him the phone. “I can’t get a signal anyway. Tower must be down.”
Alexei accepted the little thing, smaller than a handheld radio, and looked it over carefully. There were buttons on the front with numbers and Latin letters, plus other buttons with icons he didn’t quite understand—one looked like a green phone handset picked up off the hook, another like a red phone hung up, and a third like a camera. The little screen displayed the time (10:30) in large numbers, and below that....
His blood ran cold.
September 14, 2006
“No...” he breathed, his heart beginning to race as he shook his head. “No, is... is not true, is trick, Amerikanski trick!”
His wife ran over, hearing his distress. “What? What’s wrong?”
Alexei showed her the phone. “Forty years, Alyshka! Forty years!”
Her jaw dropped and she snatched the phone. “No! This...” She thrust it toward Sam, making the young man take a step back in reflex. “Is this true?”
Dean raised his chin, looking at them narrowly. “It’s true. And you’re Alison Palmer and... you’re one of the guys off the Russian sub.” When Alexei opened his mouth, unsure whether to deny it or plead for mercy, Dean raised his hand. “Relax. The Cold War’s over. It’s not gonna cause World War III for anyone to find out that you’re here.”
“Over?” Alexei gasped. “... that’s....”
Alison took his hand. “Everything we’ve worked for.... we can live in peace.”
Tears welled up in Alexei’s eyes as he squeezed her hand. “Da. In peace.” Then he looked at their guests again. “Please... tell us what we have missed.”
The brothers looked at each other, then Sam said, “You know you’ve missed time? You can sense it?”
Alexei nodded as Alison answered, “Here on the edge of the island—it’s like time moves too slowly. I don’t feel it in town so much.”
Dean curled his hand over Sam’s shoulder. “Come on. We still need to get that coffee and you need some pain pills for that arm.”
Sam didn’t look happy about staying, but Alison gave back his phone and plied the brothers with coffee and cake while Alexei asked questions about the state of the world and answered what few questions he could about the state of the island. It felt like they’d talked for hours when Dean finally gave in to Sam’s insistence that they needed to go back to town to find Whittaker.
“We’ll go with you,” Alexei offered. “Easier to help you find inn, and there are some few things we need to buy at market.”
Alison nodded, and the brothers gave in, though Sam looked slightly pinched, which might have been pain. But his pained look gave way to astonishment when he stood and caught sight of the clock.
It was only 10:45.
Both Alison and Alexei gushed over the car, which had Dean preening.
“We don’t see many cars on the island,” Alison explained as they got in the back seat. “I’ve got a bike, but most people still get around on foot or on horseback.”
“So we’re really going to stick out,” Sam said gloomily.
“Well, yes, but so do we. They’re more used to tourists in town, though—it’s less common for anyone to come out this way unless they want to look out at the actual sea instead of the bay between here and Cape Cod.” Alison laughed wryly and took Alexei’s hand again. “I don’t know what we were thinking, trying to turn the Selwyn place into a bed-and-breakfast. It’s not like we want overnight guests to be stuck here like we are.”
“Maybe just a restaurant?” Sam put in.
“That would be better idea if there were more traffic on this road,” Alexei admitted. “But was only house for sale when we were ready to buy.”
They lapsed into silence then, broken only by directions. Dean put a tape in the tape deck—very different from the 8-tracks Alexei had seen in a few American movies, and the music was a different form of rock ’n’ roll than he was used to. The album played all the way through before they got back to town.
“So... this is where we’ll find Whittaker?” Sam asked as he got out of the car.
“Aw, come on, Sammy,” Dean complained. “We’ve got plenty of time until the ferry runs again. Let’s go help Alexei and Alison get their groceries, huh?”
Sam suggested they split up because he wouldn’t be much help one-handed, but Dean just got louder and more immature acting until Sam gave in just to shut him up.
Just then Alexei caught sight of Rozanov at the front desk of the inn. “You go ahead, please,” he told the brothers. “I see someone I must speak to for a moment.”
Alison went with Sam, talking to him, and Dean lingered a bit behind so he could try to overhear.
Alexei noticed and ducked inside. “Gospodin Rozanov,” he said.
Rozanov’s smile dimmed as he noticed the non-Soviet honorific. “Gospodin Kolchin,” he returned.
“I have incredible news,” Alexei said in Russian. “I have confirmation that it is the year 2006 and that the Cold War is past.”
Rozanov’s eyes went wide. “Where did you hear this?” he asked in the same language.
“From the men who brought us into town in their car. They are asking for your patient.”
Rozanov glanced toward the door and drew Alexei further toward the door to the bar. “Who are they?” he demanded quietly.
Alexei shrugged. “Americans. Sam and Dean Winchester. They seem to know something about what’s going on here, but they had a lot of questions Alison and I couldn’t answer.”
Rozanov blew the air out of his cheeks and glanced upward, toward Whittaker’s room. “He’s not awake yet. But this morning, he said he thought something was changing. When he wakes up, I’ll ask if he’s willing to see them, but I can’t promise anything.”
“We may have another problem. Sam is very anxious to get back to the mainland before dark—but Dean acts like he doesn’t want to leave.”
Rozanov swore under his breath.
“I’m convinced they both know what might happen if they stay, which makes the one’s actions most puzzling indeed.”
“He must be hiding from something, or trying to protect the other.”
“Both make sense, but what would they want with Whittaker?”
Rozanov shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask him. In the meantime, stay with them. I’ll get word to you as soon as I know anything.”
“Spasiba.”
“Prozhalyista. Do svedanya.” And Rozanov headed back upstairs.
“Do svedanya,” Alexei whispered, turning and heading back to Dean. “I am going to assume you do not speak Russian.”
Dean shrugged. “I have enough trouble with English. What’d your pal say?”
“He is uncertain whether Whittaker will be able to see you. He has gone to see how the old man is faring.”
Dean nodded, looked around, and sighed. “Listen, Alexei... we don’t have a lot of money, but... there’s some bad stuff gunnin’ for me an’ my brother right now, and... well, Alison said you guys wanna turn your house into a bed-and-breakfast, so I was wonderin’ if... maybe we could stay for a few nights.”
“I... would not advise it. But should you require it... ask Alison.”
“I know what I’m askin’, dude. But there’s... there’s some stuff goin’ on that I can’t tell Sammy about. I just...” Dean broke off, shaking his head. “I gotta keep him safe, y’know?”
“Ah, you are the older brother.” Alexei smiled knowingly.
Dean nodded. “Ever since our mom died, he’s been my responsibility. That’s my one job, ‘Look after Sammy.’ And now... I-I can’t really explain, but a place like this—did—did you ever see Brigadoon?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, no.”
Dean chuckled. “No, it’s a movie. Gene Kelly and Cyd Cherisse.”
“No, we didn’t get a lot of cinema where... where I grew up.”
“It’s about a town like this, that... kinda exists outside the normal stream of time. People were tryin’ to escape witches, an’ that was the result. And I just think... the stuff that’s after us, after Sam... maybe if we disappear completely for a few decades, it’ll throw ‘em off the trail.”
Alexei opened his mouth, but then Alison returned with Sam, their arms full of groceries.
Dean opened the trunk. “Here you go.”
The purchases fit handily in the car’s spacious trunk, and the two families drove back to the house in comfortable silence.
No sooner had they unloaded, however, than Sam insisted on returning to town. Dean insisted on staying for lunch. Alexei had to forestall a fight by admitting that Whittaker might not even be awake yet. Alison looked as worried as Alexei felt, but there was little they could do beyond trying to be gracious hosts.
The brothers talked quietly in the corner about what they would talk to Whittaker about while Alison made lunch. Alexei listened as best he could without appearing to eavesdrop. The things they said sounded crazy—but then again, there were the time discrepancies to deal with. Who was Alexei to say what the whole truth was?
Something was wrong. Sam knew Dean wasn’t dealing well with Dad’s death, and he’d been kind of off for the last few weeks even beyond that, but the way he was acting today... it was like he wanted to stay on the island but wouldn’t tell Sam that or tell him why. It was even more irritating than Sam’s broken wrist.
Alison smiled as she sat down next to him and handed him a pencil. “For the itch.”
Sam smiled sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“You seem upset. Can I help?”
Sam sighed. “I don’t know. We have to get back to the mainland, but we need to talk to Whittaker, and... Dean’s just goofing around.”
She nodded. “It’s frustrating. I know how I felt when my parents brought me here. All I could think of was I needed to get back to Stanford, and now....”
“At least you got a husband out of the deal.” Sam shook his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to Stanford myself, even if we do get off the island. I just wish Dean would talk to me.”
“I’m an only child, but Alexei had a brother. I’m sure you can talk to him about your frustrations and he’d listen.”
“I dunno. It’s pretty specific to our situation.” Sam paused. “There is one thing you could tell me, though. Is there anyplace else on the island where you sense anything weird?”
Alison chuckled. “Define weird.”
“Cold spots, strange smells... just anything that makes your hair stand on end. It might not even be something you can define.”
Alison thought for a moment. “Well... there’s this one spot in the church that gives me the willies. Not that we’ve been back to the church since Sunday, but when we were there to get married... even Lt. Rozanov noticed it. But we never asked anybody about it.”
Sam stood. “Show me.”
Alison nodded and got up but poked her head into the kitchen, where Alexei and Dean were still talking. “Hey, Dean, can we borrow your car? I need to show Sam something in town.”
Dean stood up. “I’ll come with you.”
“As will I,” said Alexei, looking worried.
She nodded and led the little parade out.
Sam would have been glad that Dean was so quick to volunteer to go with them... but the first thing he did after starting the car was to swap the AC/DC tape he’d played earlier for a Beatles mixtape—one that had “Hey Jude” on it.
“Dean,” Sam whined. Then he cringed at his own whine. Then he sighed because he hated whining and why did he always seem to be the little brother lately?
Dean shot Sam a look that was hard to interpret before snapping, “Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole.” And before Sam could protest again or explain himself, Dean put the car in gear and drove away.
“Seems you always drive,” Sam growled.
“Shut up, Sam.”
The Kolchins looked at each other, visibly uncomfortable. Sam huffed and looked out the window at the too-calm sea, flexing his aching hand.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Dean said softly, “Painkillers in the glove box, Sammy. No need for you to hurt.”
“I need my mind clear if we’re gonna figure out what’s up with this place.”
“Tylenol, Sammy. I know you need your mind clear.”
Sam grimaced and dug the bottle of Tylenol out of the glove compartment, shook a couple of Tylenol into his hand, and dry-swallowed them.
Dean snorted. “Brothers. Alison, there’s a water bottle in the cooler. Can you hand it to Sammy, please?”
“Uh, sure,” said Alison, rummaged in the cooler, and passed the water to Sam.
“What a country,” Alexei murmured.
Sam mumbled a thanks but rolls his eyes at his brother.
The car was quiet after that, aside from the music, until they reached the church. Once they’d parked, however, Sam went to the trunk to get an EMF meter.
Dean squinted up against the sun at the steeple. “This is where it all started, isn’t it?”
Sam looked at him. “What makes you say that?”
“Can’t you feel it? It’s like... it’s like we’re in the center of a whirlwind.”
Sam thought about it, and Dean was right. There was that dead-calm sense about the place that usually went with the eye of a hurricane. He switched on the EMF meter, and the needle swung toward the high end of the scale. The reading increased as he followed Alison inside, and when he scanned the place behind the back pews that she pointed out to him, the meter went crazy.
“That’s it,” he murmured as Dean came up beside him. “That’s the exact point where the spell was cast.”
“So... think we need to go talk to Whittaker.” His brother frowned, eyes canting upward in a way that made him look very young. “Whittier? Whitehead?”
“Whittaker,” Sam corrected. “What’s wrong with you, Dean?”
“I forgot the name—big deal.”
Sam huffed, but before he could say anything else, a man in very old-fashioned clerical garb walked in through another door and looked at them in surprise. “May I help you gentlemen?” the pastor asked.
“Yes,” Sam said. “We’re looking for a Mr. Whittaker.”
The pastor’s face clouded. “For what reason?”
“Information,” Sam said. “We... we know about the spell and were wondering if we could help.”
The pastor blinked in confusion. “You know—are—are you Men of Letters, then?”
Dean shook his head. “Never heard of them.”
“Well, if you’re not Men of Letters, who are you?”
“I’m Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam. It’s our job to take care of things like this.”
“Winchester,” the pastor murmured. “And yet... can it be....” He drew a deep breath and seemed to come to a decision. “Please sit down, gentlemen, and you too, Mr. and Mrs. Kolchin. I don’t know if Mr. Whittaker will be well enough to see you today, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
The four sat down and waited.
“I should introduce myself, first of all,” the pastor said as he joined them. “I’m Rev. Hawthorne. I’ve been the parson here since 1793.”
Alexei gasped.
Rev. Hawthorne smiled wryly. “Yes, Mr. Kolchin, I’m aware it’s been nearly two hundred years in the outside world. I’m one of the few people in town who does know that. To everyone else, it’s still 1814, and we’re still at war with England.”
“So what happened?” Dean asked.
Rev. Hawthorne sighed. “I’m afraid the particulars you want will have to come from Mr. Whittaker himself. I can give you only the context. There had been strange occurrences on the island ever since it was first settled, and Mr. Whittaker, as a Man of Letters, had come to study them. The Men of Letters are… were… a society dedicated to the study of the supernatural. They describe themselves as ‘preceptors, beholders, chroniclers of all that man does not understand.’ They have also made a study of the more arcane forms of magic, following the path of scholars like Albertus Magnus. I don’t ordinarily approve of the practice of magic, of course, but then… then the storm came.
“We had no warning until the storm was almost upon us, and by then, the sea was too rough for any of our vessels to make it to the mainland safely. No one had any ideas of what to do until Mr. Whittaker proposed performing a spell here in the church at dawn. He seemed to think this wasn’t the best place, but it was already raining too hard to do it outside. I didn’t understand the words he said; they weren’t in Latin, Greek, or Hebrew. The spell seemed to drain him physically, though.”
Sam hummed thoughtfully. That still left a wide spectrum of possibilities. “Do go on, Reverend.”
Rev. Hawthorne sighed. “Well, whatever the spell was meant to do, it worked. The storm vanished. Then moments later, a blizzard struck. No one was prepared for winter weather—it was August! A panic started, and certain of the town leaders threatened Mr. Whittaker with grievous harm unless he did the spell again. He tried to protest that it was too soon, that he needed a week to recover, but no one would heed him. So he did the spell again… and it nearly killed him.
“That was almost a month ago, by our reckoning. Every morning since, the spell has reactivated. Mr. Whittaker revives slowly over the course of the day, and people pass freely to and from the mainland, but most people from the island don’t know that another ten years has slipped away. They notice only how oddly mainlanders dress and the occasional new piece of kit, like the automobile.” Rev. Hawthorne shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happened to the Men of Letters, but if you gentlemen can help, we’d all be most grateful.”
Sam nodded slowly. “We’ll have to talk to Whittaker, find out exactly what he did. Then we have resources on the mainland that should be able to help. At the very least, we can tell you whether or not the spell can be broken.”
“Yeah, but Sammy, I’m starvin’,” said Dean. “We should get some supper ’fore we talk to Whittaker.”
“No,” Sam said, whirling to face him. “You’ve been delaying all day and I won’t have it anymore! We’ll talk first and get food on the mainland! In the meantime, you can grab a snack from the Impala.”
“We have until dawn!” Dean thundered. “And we haven’t had a real day off in months—hell, even this is a working vacation! So you can just chill, all right?!” And he stormed out.
“What the hell?” Sam growled. He turned to the priest and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father, but honestly, what the hell?”
“How long has he been like this?” Rev. Hawthorne asked.
“Define ‘this,’” Sam snarled.
Rev. Hawthorne sighed. “I’m only trying to help, Mr. Winchester.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I just... he’s only like this when he’s trying to protect me.”
“What might he be trying to protect you from by staying here?”
Sam ran his good hand through his hair. “I don’t know. He’s been like this since our dad passed.”
Rev. Hawthorne nodded slowly. “And how did that happen?”
“Officially, injuries from a car crash.”
“And unofficially?”
“He made some kind of deal—his life for Dean’s.”
Rev. Hawthorne looked alarmed. “How do you know?”
“He’s not hurt bad, Dean’s all broken up. Suddenly Dean’s completely well and Dad drops dead.”
“Did anything else happen immediately before your father’s death?”
“No, I don’t think... wait... he sent me for coffee.”
“And who else was in the room?”
“No one.” Sam shook his head. “Just Dad and Dean.”
Rev. Hawthorne nodded. “So perhaps your brother is trying to shield you from something that passed between them while you were out of the room.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like my family.”
Alexei shifted uncomfortably. “What should we do, then?”
Sam spread his hands. “I don’t know till we talk to Whittaker.”
Alison turned to him. “Sam, you said you had friends on the mainland. Should you contact them now in case... well, in case Dean refuses to leave?”
He blinked at her. “I was under the impression that you couldn’t get a signal to the mainland.”
“We’ve never tried, but... maybe someone could row you out just far enough to get a signal.”
Sam nodded.
Rev. Hawthorne directed them to a boat rental at the harbor. Alison volunteered to keep an eye on Dean, while Alexei rowed Sam out of the harbor about half a mile. There Sam got a signal and instantly dialed Bobby’s number.
Bobby answered on the second ring. “Sam?”
“Bobby, what year is it?” Sam asked.
“It’s still 2006, boy. Somethin’ wrong?”
“I think Dean is going to try to trap us here.”
“WHAT?!”
So Sam told him everything he knew—which wasn’t much.
Bobby sighed heavily. “All right. I’ll get to workin’ on the leads you got so far. Maybe Rufus’ll know somethin’. You run into any o’ the Russians yet?”
“Alexei is in the boat with me.” Sam smiled.
“Good. At least Rufus can tell the captain his men are all right.” Bobby paused. “Listen, Sam... look after your brother, all right?”
Sam nodded. “I will. And if you don’t hear from us by morning... we’ll see you in ten years.”
“Hope to hell I talk to you tomorrow.” And he hung up.
Sam blew the air out of his cheeks and looked at Alexei again. “Okay. Let’s go see if Whittaker’s awake.”
Alexei nodded and reversed course. They found Dean pacing the beach as they landed.
“What the hell, Sam?” Dean exploded.
“Made a phone call, that’s all. I didn’t leave you.”
“Phone call?”
“To Bobby. Keeping him in the loop.”
Dean turned away and ran his hand over his mouth before turning back to Sam. “You shoulda told me where you were goin’.”
“Yeah, I should have.” The quiet admission short-circuited the argument.
Dean already had his mouth open to continue fussing, but instead he simply huffed. “C’mon. Let’s get some grub.”
“Dean....”
“Look, Whittaker’s at the inn, right? And the inn has a pub.”
“And we still haven’t heard from Rozanov,” Alison added.
“Exactly,” said Dean. “So unless you wanna leave now and come back in ten years to talk to Whittaker, we may as well eat at the pub.”
Sam opened his mouth to answer, but his stomach made a low grumble instead.
Dean gave him a See, I told you so smirk and asked Alexei to lead them back to the inn. Once they arrived and were seated at a table, Dean ordered a huge meal.
Sam started to protest, but Dean cut him off with, “I’m hungry, you’re hungry, and you’re regrowing bone. Besides, how often do we get seafood this fresh?”
Sam slumped back in his seat with a huff—but his attitude changed when the food started to arrive. Oyster soup, perch and potatoes fried in butter, perfectly broiled steaks, even a lobster big enough to split four ways... Alexei looked ready to cry at so much bounty, and Sam didn’t blame him. And just when Sam thought he couldn’t possibly eat any more, Dean ordered a blackberry pie. Sam tried some and was immediately glad he did.
“You can say what you want about French food,” Dean stated, helping himself to a second slice of pie. “Nothin’ beats old-school American cooking.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed as he helped himself to a piece half the size of his brother’s. “I have to agree with that.” He switched to his left hand to eat, a sure sign his arm was twinging again. “Jess would try to get me interested in ‘haute cuisine,’ as she put it, but I never really liked it very much.”
“Can’t remember last time I ate so much,” Alexei murmured and pushed his dessert plate toward Alison. “Would wish for blini, but don’t have room.”
Alison chuckled and kissed him.
Just then, the pub’s regulars started filtering in, and Dean made his way over to the bar to introduce himself, ask questions, and accept a few beers. Sam couldn’t follow all of the conversations; either the food, the pain in his arm, or the nature of the place was fogging his mind. But it wasn’t long before Dean, plainly (to Sam’s eyes) acting more drunk than he really was, accepted an invitation to play darts.
“And here we go,” Sam couldn’t stop the fond grin as he raised his beer bottle to his lips to hide the smile.
Dean had just gone through the “miss easy shots” and “induce the marks to bet on the next game” stages when Sam heard a male voice with a Russian accent—not Alexei’s—say, “Excuse me, please. You are Mr. Winchester, yes?”
Sam stood. “Yes, sir?”
“Yuri Rozanov.” The dark-haired man shook hands with Sam. “Please forgive this interruption, but my friend Whittaker Walter wishes to speak with you immediately.”
“Thank you.” Sam stepped forward and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Another time, guys. Dean, come on.”
Dean shrugged him off, his movement exaggerated to keep up the illusion that he was three sheets to the wind. “You make it anovver time, Shammy. Me an’— hic!—my friensh here, we got a bish... bish... we got a deal. Shook on it an’ ev’rything.” He spun back toward the target and threw his first dart straight into the bullseye. Two others joined it, then he swayed and grinned drunkenly at his brother. “Toldja....”
“Okay, dead-eye, let’s go.” Sam reached for Dean again.
But Dean smacked Sam’s hand away, and this time the belligerence was real when he slurred, “Dammit, Sham, quit throw’n’ off my aim!”
“We need to go talk to—”
“You talk to ’im!” Dean turned unsteadily to one of the other men. “Been naggin’ me all day. ’S worse’n my wife.” He punctuated that with another bullseye.
The other men laughed, but Rozanov caught Sam’s arm. “We do not have time,” he murmured to Sam. “You are the one Whittaker Walter wishes to speak to.”
“Fine,” Sam snarled, addressing both Dean and Rozanov, and left Dean to his hustling.
At a nod from Rozanov, the Kolchins followed as Sam and Rozanov made their way up to the second floor of the inn. Sam could sense strong magic in the air that grew stronger as they went down the hall, so it was no surprise that he was battling a low-grade headache when Rozanov stopped in front of a door, gave a coded knock, and opened the door to reveal a cramped room that held several trunks, a table piled high with books, and a very sick-looking man in the bed.
“C’min, c’min,” the man—Whittaker—said weakly. “Spasiba, Yuri Grigorovich.”
“Prozhalyista,” Rosanov replied and ushered Sam and the Kolchins inside.
“Mr. Whittaker?” Sam asked, approaching the bed.
Whittaker nodded and coughed. “So you’re Sam Winchester,” he wheezed. “Don’t look anything like I’d imagined. Guess you favor one of your foremothers more than your however-many-greats Grandfather William.”
Astonished, Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. “You knew my ancestors?”
Whittaker nodded again but didn’t answer until Rozanov had helped him drink some water. “I knew William and his father Henry, anyway. They were Men of Letters. You should be, too, you and your brother—you’re legacies.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t understand. We’d never heard of the Men of Letters until today. But you sound like you’ve heard of us.”
“There are old prophecies about the Winchesters.” Whittaker sighed and coughed again. “I’m not sure anymore what I’ve read, what’s a vision, or what’s just a fever dream. And I’ve been out of contact with the outside world for nearly two hundred years now. What I do know is that you and your brother have some role to play in the Apocalypse—and I’ve heard you referred to as the Boy King of Hell.”
Sam swallowed hard. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“Partly—just… curiosity. Even if I were a hunter, there’s not a whole lot I could do about you like this.”
“And the rest?”
Whittaker closed his eyes for a moment before looking at Sam again. “You told Rev. Hawthorne you wanted to help me.”
Sam nodded. “Yes, sir. If you could tell us what spell you used, maybe we could break it and get everyone out of this timeskip loop.”
“That won’t be as easy as you think.” Whittaker looked at Rozanov, who helped him drink again. “As far as I know, the only copy of the spellbook is in the Men of Letters’ archive. Thaddeus Sinclair was in charge of moving that archive when the Redcoats got too close, but I have no idea where he moved it to or whether it’s been moved again in the centuries since. And even if you found it, I’m positive the book doesn’t cover this sort of emergency.”
“What makes you so sure, Mr. Whittaker?” Alison asked, drifting closer to the bed.
“It’s an Enochian spell, fueled by the power of the caster’s soul. Only a human soul or an angel’s grace has the power to bend time this way. And it was never meant to be performed twice in one week, let alone twice in one hour. It takes the soul seven days to recover from a spell like that. Worse still, I don’t know what caused us to leap nearly two years the first time—I was trying to move the island only a week forward to make sure we missed the storm. The second time, they wouldn’t even let me think long enough to find a target.”
Rozanov chuckled wryly. “Is wild magic, this place, and nobody notices. Could see Snegurochka walk down street in middle of summer and think she was tourist.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Alexei. “To do a spell in place of wild magic with no target, is… is like taking submarine too close to shore when the maps and tide charts are too old.”
Sam nodded. “And that’s what’s causing the loop. The island ‘runs aground’ every time your soul runs out of ‘fuel,’ but as soon as it’s had enough time to build a partial charge—when the ‘tide’ comes in—it triggers the spell again.”
Whittaker and Rozanov exchanged a look, as if the analogy had never occurred to either of them.
“If that is so,” Rozanov said slowly, “we need equivalent of power-motorboat to get soul out of loop. But what is this equivalent?”
Sam shook his head. “An angel would presumably be stronger than human souls, but I don’t have any idea how to summon an angel or even whether one can.”
“If you go to mainland now,” Alexei asked, “would your friend Bobby have answer before sunrise?”
“I—m-maybe. I dunno. But is the ferry even running this late, and if it is, how do I get Dean to go with me?”
“I… I think… it’s a moot question,” Whittaker gasped.
Sam looked at him again in horror.
“Yuri… I can’t… hold it off… until dawn….”
Rozanov barked something in Russian. “Shield eyes!” he repeated in English for Alison and Sam.
Sam turned his head and threw his arm across his eyes a split second before Whittaker screamed and a blinding light flooded the room for a moment. The force of the spell’s activation threw Sam off the bed. He managed to land on his back so as not to reinjure his broken wrist or break his other arm, but the fall still knocked the wind out of him. Rozanov helped him up once the light had faded, but when he looked at the bed again, Whittaker was unconscious again and barely breathing.
A second later, the door burst open and a wild-eyed Dean stumbled in. “What the hell was that?!” he demanded, not sounding drunk at all.
Sam took a deep breath and let it out again. “Welcome to 2016.”
