Science Fiction Multi-Feature Picture Show

The Demon and Mrs. Lincoln (Part 2)

His face hit the open book with a dull thud, landing in a soggy pile of accumulated drool and wet paper.

"Aaaagh." He sat up, scrubbing at the unpleasant mess on his cheek. The cry morphed into a groan when he caught sight of the thoroughly ruined book. The thin papers were little more than torn pulp. Sammy was going to kill him. He shoved the book away, pressing the heel of he palms against his eyes.

"Freakin' pixies." Why the hell was he here doing the book work? They both knew geeking it wasn't his strong point. Well, he knew why he was here and Sammy was calming one irate Ira Louise.

"I shouldn't have shot the damn cat," he sighed, rising to stretch. It wasn't his fault. His one experience with 'fairy folk' was not a pleasant one. They made him jumpy, especially exploring overgrown fields at night. The cat was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Vet said it would be fine," he grumbled, heading for the fridge. He needed fuel if he was going to continue his attempt at research. The Men of Letters had a surprisingly large number of recorded encounters with fairy folk, too many.

He leaned into fridge, trying to shake off his grogginess as he reached for a beer. His search came up empty. Peering inside, he noted two boxes of week old take out, a questionable package of deli meat, and a bottle of mustard. Grumbling, he slammed the door shut, snagging his keys off the table as he made for the exit. This called for a supply run. He was totally getting pie.

It was a good fifteen minute drive to the closest open gas station. The August night was surprisingly cool, he kept the windows rolled down, letting the wind keep him alert. The stereo blared ACDC into the night. He tapped the steering wheel in time to Thunderstruck, humming along under his breath.

"Dean Winchester."

The impala screeched across the road in a semi-circle.

"You people need to stop doing that!" He snapped, glancing to the angel in the passenger seat. His brain caught up to the pounding in his chest. He brushed an absent hand over his ribs. "You can't do that."

"If you're referring to the Enochian sigils carved into your bones, you are quite right, an angel would not be able to pin point your location," said the woman, examining her snow white nails. She glanced at him, her eyes the same startling opaque color, swirling with miniature points of light. The color theme continued from her tailored pant suit and shiny white pumps to her ashen blond hair. A high contrast against her tan skin. Dean reconsidered his initial assessment.

"Definitely not an angel," he muttered, unable to focus past those lite brite irises. "What are you? You know what," he held up his hands in surrender, "Not sure I even care. What do you want?"

She pursed plum colored lips, studying him up and down. "You have more internal damage than I expected." Leaning in closer, she tapped his forehead, causing him to plaster his body against the driver side door while his fingers groped for a weapon. "You have the mark of purgatory on you, a deep one." A look of uncertainty crossed her face as she nibbled her lip. "I knew you were time touched, I didn't realize you were realm walker as well."

"Lady, I don't know what-"

"Peace, Dean Winchester. I have come to enlist your aid."

He ignored her until he realized his normal assortment of weapons were curiously absent. "Where is my gun?"

"I'll return it if you listen."

He squinted at her. "I have a feeling I don't have much of a choice in the matter." His hand reached under the dash.

"I've removed that one as well. My, you are quite the prickly hedgehog aren't you? What if I told you demons are messing with the threads of fate?"

Dean paused before admitting. "Okay, half of that sentence made sense. Demons are doing what now?"

"They are attempting to meddle with what has already been. They are tearing at the tapestry of history, trying to weave their own version of events." She leaned in, her eyes boring into him. "If they succeed, the repercussions could undo the current fabric of reality. It will forge a new timeline, a darker timeline, one where the demons have an unshakable foothold in the Earthen realm."

"Whoa lady, slow down. What the hell are they trying to do?"

"They seek to eliminate the man named Abraham Lincoln."

Dean raised an eyebrow, nodding along. "Um, you are aware he was shot. Even I remember that from high school history and I barely attended class. Things didn't turn out too bad. Well-"

"Yes, yes, he was assassinated, but not before he changed the course of history. Not before he used his influence and power as a leader of men to pass the abolishment of slavery. Without his hand, fear and bigotry will sway the tide. The balance of power will shift."

"So what you're saying is demons are trying to kill him before he is actually killed." Dean shook himself. "You know I'm terrible at that whole non-interference thing right? What if I just make things worse?"

"Lucky for you, I don't play by Heaven's rules." A smile transformed her face, regal and lush, it called to him, sank its claws into him. He could walk into Hell for a smile like that. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

"What do want me to do?"

"Find the demon, destroy it by any means necessary. I will smooth your path and grant you allies to aid in your quest. Do not fail me Dean. Don't let your world fall to darkness."

"Well when you put it like that," he said looking up at her. The woman was gone. So was his car. He stood in an empty field of calf high grass, staring out into the surrounding expanse of wind swept grain. A dirt road ran in front of him, curving off into the distance, illuminated by the moon overhead. He'd been transported to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. He looked down at himself. "Nice!"

Whoever she was, the Lady in White was one for details, outfitting him in a simple grey trousers, button-down shirt, and vest. It wasn't the most comfortable material but he wouldn't have to explain his outfit. A colt revolver sat in a holster at his hip. It took some of the edge off the unfamiliarity of the situation. He found himself reaching for it a moment later as a figure on horseback charged up the road. Was she throwing him right into the thick of it?

The rider slowed down at the sight of him, pulling his horse up short a few feet away. It took Dean a moment to recognize him. Sweat soaked, out of breath, he dismounted, standing as tall as Sammy. His profile stood out in the moonlight, so familiar Dean couldn't stop staring at his gaunt features.

"Cousin Dean, what are you doing out here?"

His thoughts tripped over themselves. "Excuse me?"

"Does Mary know you're here?" Lincoln, The Lincoln glanced back over his shoulder, peering up the road. Dead blinked. President Lincoln just called him 'Cousin Dean'. The Lady in White meant it when she said she'd 'smooth his path'

"Uh no, I just got here...Abraham," he said, positive a cousin wouldn't call him 'Lincoln'.

The president frowned at him. "Abraham? Are you vexed with me? Last time you called me Abraham I received a black eye. Where's your horse?"

"Not angry, just," Dean waved at the air, "tired. Took a wagon."

"Good god man, a coach all the way out here. Your teeth must be rattling in your skull. Come in, come in. There may be a bit of Mary's apple pie left over from dessert. We should get out of the open." Lincoln slung an arm around his back, turning them both toward the house behind him. The one Dean completely missed on arrival. It was a two story dwelling, painted white with green shutters. The windows of the bottom floor held a welcoming glow. Despite the promise of pie, he didn't miss the ominous tone in Lincoln's voice.

"Something happen on the road?" He asked the older man, noting the hitch in his breath.

"Come inside, I'll tell you all about it."

Dean allowed himself to be lead into the house, eyeing the road over his shoulder. Both Lincoln and Dean failed to notice the figure watching them from the field, waiting till both men retreated into the safety of the house before risking a lit match. He cupped a hand over the glow, puffing a hand rolled cigarette before he continued his vigil of the house.