Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam Tyler stared ahead through the Impala's windscreen. There had been silence in the car since they stopped at a diner two hours before. Sam wasn't sure whether to blame the explosive atmosphere in the Impala on the way that the waitress had told the Guv that he spoke English real well for a foreigner, or on the lack of brown sauce on the table.

Ahead of them was road. Road and sky. Road, sky, temporary-looking buildings with baseball hoops bolted to their shingled sides, and a brown and buff landscape that reminded Sam perplexingly of Charlie's Angels. He hoped to God that the next time he banged his head on something he didn't wake up with a Farrah-do and a miniskirt.

"So, Guv," he said tentatively. "Demons. What do we do about demons?"

"We shoot them in the little demon goolies with salt until they either confess or sod off back where they come from," said Gene Hunt, letting the Impala swerve gently over towards the left of the highway where he evidently felt it belonged. "There are three good things, and only three good things, about this little jaunt to the land of the Septic Tanks. One, a relaxed attitude to gun play. Two, demons don't have civil rights whatever side of the Atlantic they find themselves on. Three, Burt Reynolds."

"What's Burt Reynolds got to do with it?"

Gene looked mildly embarrassed, as far as Sam could tell. It might be shaving rash. "We might meet him, you never know," he muttered.

The car drifted leftward. Further up the road, a side turning was born out of the horizon, at a junction marked by a lot of boxy buildings that looked like an Army base but were probably shops. A battered red pickup truck turned out of the parking lot and ambled down the highway towards them. Sam yelped and shoved Gene hard in the flesh of his shoulder. "They drive on the right over here!"

The pickup truck passed with inches to spare. Gene maintained a stormcloud-like silence.

"Why don't you let me drive?" said Sam.

"Eff off."

"This car is wasted on you," said Sam, engaging in his new favourite game of playing Bait the Guv. "It's an American classic."

Gene puffed air out over his teeth and loosened the bolo tie he had insisted on buying in the diner's gift shop. "It steers like a Corporation dustcart. You want to know the difference between this gas-guzzling sofa and the Ford Cortina?"

"Is it that the Ford Cortina has the gas-guzzling sofa in the driver's seat?"

"The difference is, DI Tyler, that the Cortina was engineered for pure driving pleasure, as opposed to being designed for smarmy little ponces to relieve dozy cheerleaders of their virginity in the back seat. The only way you could sell these at home would be if you imported them all to Sunderland or some other remote spot where you still had a fighting chance of finding a virgin, and then they'd have all four wheels off before you could say Jack Robinson. I am willing to love all mankind, except an American. That's Samuel Johnson."

"How d'you explain your Clint Eastwood fetish, then?"

"That's different," said Gene huffily. "Down these mean streets a man must go."

"Down the right side of these mean streets, a man must go," said Sam, grabbing the wheel as the Impala started drifting gently leftward again. "Has anything struck you about our visit to the States? The way we didn't board a plane or go through Customs or..."

"What do you mean? I distinctly remember getting my allowance of Duty Free. I remember I wanted to put a carton of Marlboros and some of that Jim Beam on yours and you wouldn't let me."

Sam tried again. "The flat screen monitors everywhere? The mobile phones? The no smoking signs? The way all the newspapers are dated 2010? None of that seemed odd to you?"

Gene looked contemptuous. "Country where they shot JFK but no bastard can get up the gumption to shoot Nixon? People like that might do anything. And who wants a phone in their pocket, anyway? It'd just mean the Missus could ring me when I'm in the pub. Make yourself useful and stop asking damn fool questions, DI Tyler, take a look in the glove compartment and see if there's anything in there about exactly where we're supposed to be going to give these demons a kicking."

"Do you even know anything about fighting demons?"

"Course I bloody do." Gene turned and looked at him with a grin that appeared to somehow be clamped around the ghost of a cigar. "Didn't I ever tell you? Longest two weeks of my life. I was a wet-behind the ears baby DS, and they only seconded me to Liverpool."

--

Meanwhile, in a concrete building in Manchester...

"Hi," said Dean Winchester with his most ingratiating smile.

It didn't work. Even the cynical-looking middle-aged lady cop with the pompadour, who Dean had classified straight away as 'most likely to cause multiple deaths and massive collateral damage if possessed by a demon', was regarding his twinkle with much the same look he reckoned she'd give a pork-barrel politician asking for re-election.

"We're the new transfers from Washington D.C. I'm Detective Kramer, and this is, er... He felt Sam give his patent I'm-the-biggest-kid-in-the-playground-and-I-don't-want-to-tread-on-you grimace behind him. Dean always knew when Sam was making that particular face, even when Sam was on the other side of the room with his back turned. "This is Detective Tyler."

The room erupted into disorderly laughter, which wasn't what Dean had expected. He grinned along anyway, because he didn't want this lot turning nasty. Some of them could probably do serious damage with their fingernails and teeth. The laughter ebbed away into nicotine-stained coughing.

"Pull the other one, luv, it's got bells on," said the cop with the pompadour. She was starting to give Dean flashbacks to Mrs Krossetz the lunch lady, the one who'd always given him extra relish on his hamburger and winked at him as if she knew exactly what was going on in his head, and whose broad white arms and solid build had given him disturbing dreams for a week when he was fourteen. "We've already had one DI Tyler transferred here, we don't need the Party Seven size."

"Maybe they're brothers," said a cop with a moustache and mean eyes. Dean had him pinned as 'most likely to panic and shoot the wrong people'. "Maybe D.I Tyler's old mum used to hang round American airbases flashing 'er knickers."

"Oi," said the English rose who was leaning in to put down a horribly tannin-stained mug of tea on Moustache Man's desk. She twitched her rear end deftly out of the way of his pinching hand and deliberately slopped the tea. Dean filed her under 'most reliable person to put in charge of salting the windowsills' and wondered idly whether she was averse to everybody patting her butt, or whether she just didn't like advances from middle-aged British hipsters. "You wouldn't be talking about DI Tyler that way if he was here."

"Bloody would," said Moustache Man in a way that Dean and everyone else in the room recognised as meaning bloody wouldn't. Definitely a hipster. The nervy set of his mouth said so, so did the Daddy-pays-for-my-gym-membership physique, and no one could possibly dress like that without meaning it as an ironic statement.

"Where's the Guv?" said a ratty-faced youngish man who, Dean had already noticed, was the last one to get his tea and the first to be given any unwanted paperwork. New to the job, a bit green round the edges, he reminded Dean of Sam back in the early days, particularly around the hair. Dean had to work to keep the friendly smile on his face and not scowl. He hated it when they reminded him of Sam. Particularly when he already had one Sam to keep safe.

"Seconded to Washington D.C," he said briskly. "Good-will mission."

That got another round of derisive laughter and an even more prolonged hacking cough than the last time. "God help the Yanks," said the only... huh, Dean supposed he wasn't an African American... in the room.

"Maybe Tyler'll stay there," muttered Moustache Man sourly. "I always said he came from La La Land."

"He came from Hyde, didn't he?" said Ratface innocently. As if he didn't already remind Dean of a younger Sam, now it turned out that he too was one of God's own natural-born straight-line merchants.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Ratface. 'Most likely to walk straight into the line of fire, even if he knew it meant the loss of his immortal soul and most likely wouldn't buy enough time to get the civilians to safety', that was his call-sign, along with most likely to give Dean nightmares for a month.

Dad would know what to do, Dean thought. Dean couldn't have felt more out of place at an Amish barn-raising. At least there he could have grinned at the cutest girl and tried to talk her into loosening the strings of her apron. As it was, he couldn't decide whether he was going to have to throw someone against a wall to get these people to take him seriously, challenge them to a shot-drinking contest, or take them all out for a game of pool.

Did they even have pool over here? The place was decorated like a tavern that had seen better days, and he'd already spotted a bottle of whiskey in the missing Guv's office and a couple of stacks of plastic cups on the bookcases. You could tell them apart from the mugs because they seemed to be made with the tannin stains on the outside. Maybe he could challenge the office to a tournament of Beer Pong. He had to do something to get this lot moving, that was certain, or Manchester would be crawling with demons by nightfall.

"All right, you Keystone Kops," he said, all arms crossed across his chest and shark's grin, deliberate provocation. "Who do I have to punch in the mouth to get a drink around here?"

Bizarrely, the Keystone Kops relaxed. "Maybe they did send us the closest thing they could find to the Guv," said a man at the back with the most impressive set of muttonchops Dean had ever laid eyes on, even in the hunting community, which ran to bizarre facewear. Dean thought Muttonchops was the source of the forty-a-day cough, though there were enough contenders.

"Looks like he washes more often," said the woman who reminded him of Mrs Krossetz. She gave him a hard look, and seemed more satisfied than not. Mrs Krossetz had looked at him that way, and it always spooked him.

And talking of spooked, behind and to the left of him, Sam was vibrating like a cat's tail. Dean wasn't sure whether that was Sam sensing incoming demons, worrying about accidentally trampling someone underfoot, or just expressing distaste at all the ashtrays. He followed his brother's eyeline up to the ceiling.

Oh. Asbestos tiles. Right. The Keystone Kops probably crumbled them up and smoked them. Jesus, Dean thought, what have we got ourselves into this time?

He reckoned Moustache Man was the big dog in these parts even if Mrs Krossetz was smarter, so he looked him straight in the eye until the hipster looked down. "I need to consult with my colleague," he told them. "and when I come out of my office, I'm gonna be conducting an audit."

"Is he going to want stuff in American spelling?" Ratface was enquiring anxiously as they turned to leave. "They leave letters out, and stuff."

"I'll tell you one thing, those two clowns are takin' the P out of policing," said Moustache Man to general applause.

The door of Gene Hunt's office closed behind the brothers. It was a cramped little space, dominated by a large poster of Clint Eastwood. Dean raised his eyebrow. "Man's got taste."

Sam made a long-suffering face and crouched down in the inadequate space to start going through the desk's drawers. "What do you think we've got this time? Trickster? Demons? Angels? Did you see, they haven't got a computer or a touch-tone phone in the place."

"Maybe we're on Battlestar Galactica," said Dean innocently. "What? I watch it for the twin Asian chicks."

"You watch it for the storyline," said Sam from under the desk. "Here we are. I think it's all got something to do with this Sam Tyler."

"What, you?"

"No, the other Sam Tyler, and that reminds me, Aerosmith?"

Dean shrugged and sat down on the edge of the desk. It creaked. "I didn't have a lot of time to prep, OK? One minute we were driving towards a report of what sounded like demons enslaving a vampire nest in Madison, Wisconsin, and the next we're starring in Benny Hill."

"Yeah," said Sam. "Trickster. It's got to be a Trickster."

Dean looked around for something to sharpen into a stake. "Last time we met a Trickster, it was a shut-in Archangel."

Castiel materialised in one corner of the office and dusted down his suit with an expression of even more bewildered contempt than usual. "Sandalphon," he said.

"Sandalphon to you, too, and plenty of them," said Dean. "You took your time."

"Sandalphon is an Archangel," said Sam wearily.

"Another one? Jesus."

"None of us have any idea where he is," said Castiel, missing the point. Sam looked mildly scandalised. "Sandalphon is trouble enough. She is the Archangel who was put in charge of the Ark of the Covenant."

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," said Sam.

"You can have the bullwhip, Cas, but I get to wear the hat," said Dean.

Castiel looked blankly at him. "Sandalphon is a dangerous opponent. She can control the substance of this reality itself. I believe her to have been communicating with Detective Tyler." His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "In the form of a small girl accompanied by a stuffed clown and drawing on a chalkboard."

"So how do we fight her?" said Dean briskly. "Salt? Gnostic symbols? Holy fire?"

"We have to work by this world's paradigms to escape, remember? Just like last time when the Trickster turned out to be Gabriel." Sam looked embarrassed. "What I'm saying is..."

"We don't fight her," said Castiel, proving himself another one – possibly the original one – of God's own straight-line merchants. "We fight crime."

Chapter Text

Sam Tyler woke up in the grubby motel room. The room was decorated in tones of orange and murk, with decorative accents in the shape of mudflap girl silhouettes and the ghosts of a thousand sleepless nights fighting each other noisily in the air-conditioning. On the other hand, at least there was only one stain on the ceiling and the toilet worked, so it was one step up from his flat at home - shit, had he come to think of that place as home? - in 1970s Manchester. Also, no one had kicked the door in recently, which made a pleasant change.

Sam sat up, rubbed the newish pulpiness of the bruise on his chin and tried to work out why no one had kicked the door in. He'd expected the Guv to come crashing in with a cry of 'Up and at 'em!' several hours ago. Maybe the jetlag had finally kicked in. No, it couldn't be. They hadn't actually been on a plane. They'd just... arrived. Here. He couldn't seem to remember any more than that.

Then again, that wasn't the only area of his memory that was feeling distinctly patchy this morning. For the life of him, he couldn't remember how Gene had ended up regaling the entire bar with his views on the Mau Mau, but it had definitely led to the words 'Tea Partier' being bandied about and the Guv grabbing a passer-by in a trucker hat by his plaid lapels and snarling with terrible joviality and a put-on posh accent, 'I seem to have misunderstood you, old boy. Are you callin' me Southern?'

After that, there was a lot of shouting about the War Between the States, and someone had tried to break a bar stool over the back of Gene's head, and... Sam fingered his chin, again. Even the stubble growing through the bruise hurt.

There was a loud crash from the wall behind Sam's bed, followed up by the sound of early-morning irateness in Mancunian. That was more like it. Sam pulled his trousers on, unlocked his door, blinked in the unfamiliar sunshine that was bathing the scabby-looking parking lot, and went to investigate. He must have taken more than a punch on the jaw the night before, because his legs felt bizarrely wobbly and his arms felt too long, the way they had when he was about fourteen. Also, his vest seemed to have shrunk in the wash, which wasn't surprising considering that the last time he'd washed it had been in a launderette machine that only seemed to have two settings: 'Boil' and 'Other Boil'.

He supposed he should be thankful he'd had a night's sleep in his own room at all. The proprietor had somehow got the impression that he and Gene had stayed there before and that they'd shared a room then. The impression had been helped along by the way that Gene, for obscure reasons of his own, insisted on addressing Sam as 'Gladys'.

Sam turned his back on the sunlight, which was filtering down through some trees and making him squint. He tapped on the door. "You all right in there, Guv?"

The door opened.

"Who the buggery blamin' 'ell are you?" said the man on the threshold, belligerently.

Sam shut his eyes and opened them again.

That wasn't the Guv. It sounded like the Guv, but it... just... wasn't. The man in the doorway might possibly have had some DNA in common with the Guv, particularly around the blond hair and blue eyes and broad shoulders, but there was a distinct lack of old acne scars or whisky-induced reddening or the usual puffy thickness of chin and jaw. Instead, there were prominent cheekbones, gleaming teeth and lips that were poutier than Annie's. Sam looked closer.

"Guv, are you wearing lipgloss?"

The man on the doorstep swung a punch at him. Sam ducked. He was fairly certain he'd ducked far enough; he'd got used to how much taller Gene was than him, by now, well enough to dodge random outbreaks of machismo.

Except that this time, it didn't work. The blow came in at a height that should have cleared Sam's scalp, and instead connected neatly with the headache in Sam's left temple. Sam reeled back against a convenient nearby pole that was holding the ramshackle roof of the walkway outside the rooms up, staggered to his feet, and found himself looking down into a familiar expression of purse-lipped fury that resided somewhere between 'actively psychotic' and 'in urgent need of a meat pie and someone to bounce ideas off'.

"Fuck me," he said, profoundly.

The man on the doorstep drew his shoulders back, making the muscles in his bare chest do things that Sam was frankly a bit distressed by. "I may be many things, D.I Tyler, but I'm not a flamin' poof."

"Aren't those two words indistinguishable as far as you're concerned anyway?"

"Well, now I can tell it's you," said... Gene? ... offendedly. He grabbed Sam by the shoulder and marched him into the motel room. It smelt of last night's whisky and of some kind of digestive odour that Sam didn't care to identify. Gene dragged him into the bathroom. Oh, Christ, Sam thought, he's not going to try to flush my head down the toilet...

Gene paused in front of the ill-lit mirror, dragging Sam to a halt with him. "Explain that, D.I Tyler," he said, tapping a vein of rich malevolence that Sam had never previously seen him hit before ten o'clock in the morning.

Sam looked into the mirror.

His own hazel eyes looked back. Out of a face that was... well, sculpted was the only way to describe it. His chin was much squarer than he was used to, and the whole affair was six inches higher than it ought to be, possibly because it had retreated upwards out of terror of the size of his shoulders. The light from the bathroom was acid enough to rake every pore and excavate every wrinkle, except that Sam didn't seem to have any. The Guv didn't, either.

"I do not look like this," said Gene, glaring into the mirror as if he were about to drag it into an interrogation room and kick it in the mirrory little nads. "I look like a angry blond warthog whom the ladies find strangely sexually compelling, and I have made my peace with that. I did not look like this when I was twenty-five years old." His voice struck an odd note, as if he couldn't remember quite what he'd looked like when he was twenty-five, or whether he'd ever been twenty-five at all. "I 'ad spots and a pencil neck," he said with more confidence. "And you do not look like a poncey male model, D.I Tyler, or you'd have been in plonk Cartwright's knickers a whole lot sooner. First date, upstairs outside, second date, downstairs outside, third date job done and all for the price of a bag of grapes and a seat at the pictures. Sorted."

Sam had long since learned to stop listening for the sake of his own sanity when Gene got started on the subject of women. He stared at his alter ego in the mirror. His alter ego stared manfully back. The eyebrows, Sam thought desperately. The eyebrows were the same. A bit more manicured, maybe, but basically the same. It was a shame he couldn't say the same for his feet. None of his shoes would fit. He'd have to go hunting demons in his slippers.

"I think it's a narrative condition," he said aloud to himself.

"A what, Gladys?" said Gene ferociously.

"I woke up in 1973 with a collar you could use to catch cod with and a leather jacket. We woke up here, and... well, maybe it takes a while to kick in. But I think this is... how we're supposed to be, whilst we're here." Sam reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels beside the tooth-glass and took a swig of it. He felt he needed it. "I feel the need to look longingly into your eyes and have angst-ridden conversations about our relationship, Guv."

"Well, put a stopper in it," Gene advised him heartlessly. "We've got demons to catch, and I want my breakfast."

--

Meanwhile, in a flat in Manchester...

"Castiel says we're in Purgatory," said Dean, breezing in all ready to turn aside Sam's inevitable questions with a grin and a quip about how he'd already been in Hell and there was no way he was being scared by some fucking sacramental mezzanine. "And he says he has no idea how Sandalphon did it, because the angels had nothing to do with Purgatory and he'd always thought it was something some Pope made up."

He stopped. His brother was sitting on the end of the bed watching the black and white television, and wearing an unrepeatably awful thick polyester shirt patterned with brown and acid-green swirls.

Dean rubbed his eyes to see if it made the pattern any better. It didn't. And he thought he was getting a stye on one of his eyes. Even when he was living through being aged two hundred years in an hour for some chittering demon's amusement, even when he'd been having his bones slowly pulled out of their sockets, even when Alistair had done that thing with the eyeball that Dean never wanted to think about again, he'd never had styes. It got worse. The other week he'd found a mouth ulcer. He wasn't sure what came next. Piles, maybe? Gout?

"I said, we're in Purgatory," he said, again.

Sam looked round.

Dean covered his eyes. "No," he said firmly. "I don't care if you want to blend in here. I don't care if I want to blend in here. I don't care if D.C Skelton thinks it's really cool. You are not keeping that Zapata moustache."