Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska -- 1997 (One Week After Broken Bow)
Ellen Harvelle knew trouble when it walked through her door. Twenty years running a hunter's bar taught you that much. So when John Winchester appeared with his boys in tow, she knew something big was brewing.
"Ellen," John nodded, looking older than she remembered. Bill, cleaning glasses behind the bar, tensed slightly.
The last time they'd seen John Winchester, his youngest had been barely two years old. That same day, Bill had nearly died on a hunt - would have died, if not for what Ellen still couldn't explain. One moment Bill was bleeding out, the next...
She remembered tiny Sam Winchester touching Bill's hand, remembered the room going dark for just a second, remembered Bill's wounds mysteriously healing.
John had never mentioned it. Neither had they.
"John," she replied, eyes moving to his sons. Dean was all Winchester, tall and handsome at eighteen, carrying himself like a born hunter. But Sam...
The fourteen-year-old met her gaze, and Ellen felt her breath catch. Those eyes - they were the same ones that had looked at Bill that day, ancient and knowing.
"Ma'am," Sam said softly, and something in his voice told her he remembered too.
"Well," she managed, "you boys have grown."
"Ash around?" John asked, scanning the nearly empty bar.
"In his room," Bill answered, setting down a glass. "Working on that pattern you called about."
The pattern. Seven more hunters had gone dark since yesterday. Ancient collections vanishing. Neutral families running.
And now John Winchester, looking like he hadn't slept in days, bringing his boys to her doorstep.
Something was definitely brewing.
And somehow, Ellen suspected, it all connected back to that day twelve years ago, when a toddler's touch had defied death itself.
"Jo!" Ellen called. "Watch the bar!"
Her thirteen-year-old daughter emerged from the back, blonde hair swinging. She stopped short at the sight of the Winchesters, eyes widening slightly at Dean before darting curiously to Sam.
"These are John's boys," Ellen explained. "Dean and Sam."
Something passed between Jo and Sam - a look of recognition that shouldn't have been possible. Ellen filed that away with all the other impossible things surrounding the younger Winchester.
"Come on," Bill gestured toward the private back room. "Ash has been working non-stop since you called."
As they walked through the bar, Ellen noticed things she wished she hadn't:
- How the shadows seemed to follow Sam's movements
- The way Dean's hand rested on what looked like a wrapped sword
- How the regulars, hardened hunters all, unconsciously leaned away as the boys passed
- The protective way John watched his sons, even while looking like he was fighting a migraine
The back room was Ash's domain, walls covered in maps and newspaper clippings. The MIT dropout himself sprawled in his chair, mullet defying gravity, surrounded by computers.
"Got something," he announced without looking up. "Been tracking those disappearances. They're not random."
"Pattern?" John asked, rubbing his temples.
"Better. Look at this."
Ash pulled up a map marked with red dots. "Each disappearance correlates with ancient ley lines. They're forming-"
"A barrier," Sam finished quietly.
Ellen watched the boy carefully. There it was again - that sense of knowing too much.
"Exactly," Ash confirmed, giving Sam an appraising look. "Like something's building walls. Mystical walls."
"Or fortifications," Bill added. "Like they're preparing for war."
Dean shifted, his wrapped sword humming faintly. Ellen pretended not to notice how the sound made her teeth ache.
"But against what?" John wondered.
Ellen saw Sam's expression flicker - there and gone so fast she might have imagined it. But it reminded her of that day twelve years ago, when those same eyes had held impossible knowledge.
"That's not all," Ash continued. "The messages they're leaving behind? They're in patterns too. Ancient languages, but corrupted. Like they're trying to say something without actually saying it."
"Show me," Sam stepped forward, and Ellen couldn't help but notice how Ash's computers flickered slightly.
"Here," Ash pulled up images of the notes. "First one was Greek: 'Some knowledge isn't worth dying for.' Then Aramaic, Sanskrit, Enochian fragments..."
Ellen watched Sam study the screen, his expression carefully neutral. She remembered that same controlled demeanor when he was two, right before Bill's wounds had mysteriously healed.
"Jo," she called, noticing her daughter hovering in the doorway. "Go help with the bar."
Sam glanced up briefly, something flickering in his eyes before he returned to the screens. Ellen noticed how he deliberately kept his posture relaxed, playing the role of a curious teenager.
"Just old languages," he said casually. "Probably spooked hunters being paranoid."
The deliberate dismissal made Ellen's instincts sharpen. She remembered that day twelve years ago - the darkness, the healing, the way everyone except her seemed to forget.
"Bill," she started carefully. "Remember when-"
"Looks like dead ends," Sam interrupted smoothly, stepping back from the computers. "Maybe we should focus on current hunts instead."
Ellen caught the warning in his tone, saw how his eyes met hers for just a moment - a clear message to let it go.
"Ellen," John rubbed his temples, fighting another headache. "Got any aspirin?"
"Kitchen," she replied, watching Sam's subtle relief at the change in subject. "Bill, help me find it?"
In the kitchen, Bill spoke low: "You saw it too?"
"He's hiding something," Ellen whispered. "Something big. And he doesn't want us digging."
"Maybe we shouldn't," Bill suggested. "Remember how Arthur vanished right after he started researching those old prophecies? Packed up and disappeared - probably got warned off by whatever's out there. I believe the kid is trying to protect us."
Ellen did remember. Another mystery she suspected connected back to the boy who'd saved her husband's life.
When they returned, Sam was helping Dean tend to their father, the moment for questions deliberately past. The shadows around him seemed normal now, his manner perfectly teenage-appropriate.
But Ellen had seen enough to know - Sam Winchester wasn't just keeping secrets.
He was protecting them by keeping them ignorant.
And maybe, she thought, watching him act the perfect concerned son, that was for the best.
Some knowledge truly wasn't worth dying for.