Chapter One

Disclaimer: The characters and settings of Angel and Supernatural belong to Joss Whedon, Eric Kripke, and other people who aren't me.

Timeline: Post “Not Fade Away” for Angel; Pre-series for Supernatural.

Warnings: Language. Violence.

Summary: Stephen Holtz/Connor Angel Reilly Winchester is having a bit of an identity crisis. Accepting yet another family may be too much to ask of him, and the Winchesters aren't inclined to make things easy.

Notes: Cant... leave it... alone. Gah! Prepare for another drawn out adventure. Second in a series. Read Vampirenspawn first, or you'll be confused.


banner by TouchoftheWind

On the road
The morning after

Connor kept his eyes glued to the distinct lack of scenery that swept by outside his window as the truck traveled steadily along, a little over the speed limit, on an anonymous back road that would take them from nowhere to nothing. He could feel John's eyes flicking over to him every few seconds; assessing; penetrating; suspicious.

Not like he blamed the guy, really. The whole thing was nuts even for someone that was well acquainted with the paranormal. Connor's situation was more like an outrageous soap opera version of the supernatural world. A little difficult to suspend one's disbelief unless they'd lived it.

Not that Connor had given John much in the way of information yet. He was tired and worried and too preoccupied with the safety and whereabouts of his other families to be able to concentrate on forging yet another bond with yet another father that he would probably lose as soon as he got comfortable. After all, that pattern had held true so far. He wasn't betting that it would stop anytime soon.

As soon as Connor thought he had a grasp on how things worked, on who he could trust and invest a little of himself in, the world went spinning off its axis, tossing him into a completely different place with a whole new rule set. Demons were evil and Holtz was his father. Then Angel was his father and there were shades of gray, yet he had difficulty letting go of the beliefs that had been drilled into him and couldn't completely accept Angel until his mind had cracked apart from all the betrayal and half-truths. And then, the acceptance had broken through with an insane amount of grief and anger in its wake and Angel had killed him. Cut to his new life where his parents loved him and everything had always been normal. Until it wasn't and the demons were real again.

Somehow, his fake memories had resulted in a more flexible and easy-going personality, which made the old lies and pain a little easier to handle. But that couldn't be the end of the life-altering. Nope. Now the Riellys were happily living their lives as they had before Connor was magically thrust into it, completely ignorant of the fact that he ever existed. A necessity, Whistler had said, so that they wouldn't come looking for him. It would help keep them safe.

So they weren't his family anymore. They didn't remember him, and though he'd been offered the memory wipe to make the adjustment a little easier to bear, he'd adamantly refused. No more experimenting on the vampire spawn, thank you. He was surprised his brain wasn't already scrambled.

Already, he missed them. It didn't matter that most of the things he remembered had never really happened. It was all there in his head, and it felt real. His parents, his sister. They could pass him by on the street as of twelve hours ago without a second glance. And though he was better equipped to deal with it, had coping mechanisms that didn't only consist of violence and bloodshed, it was painful to think about. He wasn't a Reilly anymore. He was a Winchester.

He couldn't help but wonder how long that would last. Couldn't push away the thought that he shouldn't even bother with these people because it would lead to caring, which would lead to yet more heartache when it was all ripped away from him.

He'd been amicable enough with John at first. Then that gave way to mere tolerance after he'd discovered how much of a hard-ass he was saddled with. He hadn't yet reached the point of outright dislike, and didn't really fear that he would. Apathy seemed the way to go for now. He had too many other things to care about that were all shouting in his head for a moment or a hundred of attention.

If he wasn't missing the Reillys, he was wondering and worrying about Angel's situation. Whistler hadn't seen fit to give him much intel on that front and it only served to drive him further into the land of anxiety where everything spun randomly and balanced precariously.

These thoughts had kept him distracted as John administered a bunch of little tests that Connor had never heard of. Well, except the holy water. He was pretty familiar with that one and had gulped down the offered flask greedily, not realizing how thirsty he'd been until the water filled his dry mouth. He figured it was a nerve thing, the dryness. He was actually pretty proud of the nonchalance he'd projected at the time. It had taken no small amount of effort to maintain it.

John recovered from his shock after a long moment of staring wide-eyed at him and scrambled backwards in the dirt, tossing up dust as he reacquired his gun in the process. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his injuries pulling painfully and leaking blood freely, his eyes hard as he made no effort to conceal his distrust, bringing the weapon back up to train it on Connor.

Connor retracted his hand and swiped it through his hair with a weary sigh, then shrugged. “Look,“ he started, not really sure how to go about explaining anything. “It's a long story. I'm tired, I'm not evil, and I'm your son. Just found out a few hours ago, so it'd be really cool if you could cut me a break.” He eyed the gun pointedly. “I'd also appreciate not being killed after they went to all this trouble to prevent that.”

John's suspicion remained intact, his gun not wavering an inch. Connor could see it would take a lot to convince this guy to give him a ride back to town at the very least, and held little hope that he could be talked into taking him in, but he kept his face mostly neutral, a slight hint of amusement coming out to cover any of the turmoil that might try to reveal itself. Whose brilliant idea was it to drop him into this guy's lap for protection?

He smirked, dropping the sword to the ground, a gesture of peace, before shoving his hands into his pockets. “Think you could point me in the direction of civilization?” he asked conversationally, glancing around the vast nothingness that surrounded them.

John's facade cracked for a moment and something in his gaze shifted, making Connor slightly uncomfortable. The man's frown barely softened, the lines in his face shallowing almost imperceptibly and Connor, no stranger to the art of well-honed awareness, recognized it for what it was. John was scrutinizing the inscrutable, and Connor didn't like it. Still, he remained impassive, cocking a brow expectantly as he awaited an answer.

Gradually, John lowered his weapon, his eyes firmly locked with Connor's to communicate the action did not mean his guard was down. He raised his free hand wordlessly, pointing east.

Connor's smirk wavered for the barest second before he nodded his thanks. Bending down, he scooped up his sword and started away, careful not to show any sign of reluctance or let his posture betray his disappointment.

*~*~*

Utah
The Previous Night

Dean grumbled and cursed a blue streak as he splashed gasoline into the open grave, his eyes darting around the area for signs of people, or the more fatal threat of the pissed-off spirit that kept popping up and trying to shove him into the hole. He tightened his grip on his shotgun, ready to lift and fire at a moment's notice. He'd already suffered having several headstones and statuary flung at him, his body bruised and broken in too many places, and he really wasn't going to let the bastard bury him alive on top of everything else.

“Fuck you, Lester Hartman,” Dean grunted as he used his free hand to strike the match and let it drop, the bones flaring up with satisfactory pops and crackles.

Dean's sneering, dirt-smeared features were briefly illuminated in flickering orange and yellow before he turned away, too slowly in his opinion, but then there wasn't a whole lot he could do about the aches and pains until he was safely tucked away and relatively certain his pharmaceutical-induced slumber wouldn't leave him vulnerable to the things that went bump and crash in the night.

Dean was all for taking on jobs solo. Knew it was more out of a desire to prove himself to his father than any real desire to be a lone bad-ass. He didn't deal with solitude well for extended periods of time, and he was aware of that chink in his armor. Didn't really care to fix it, though. He figured he was entitled to his flaws, earned them in loss and grief, blood and tears.

But, okay with the few solo missions he embarked on or not, he often found himself wishing for the familiarity of his father, even if only for the banter or, more accurately, lectures, the sound of a voice that wasn't his own and, hey, a lookout never hurt. At least not as much as not having a lookout did.

Though it was usually Sam he was wishing for if he wanted to be completely honest.

Which he didn't.

Sam had made his choice. The words he'd exchanged with their father were sharpened with intent and bitterness, but Sam had tried to be a little more careful when he explained things to Dean. Dean knew he'd tried, had heard the tone that meant Sam had rehearsed his speech several times over and it still wasn't coming out right.

Didn't matter. Sugarcoating or no sugarcoating, the message was clear.

I want more.

Translation: You're not good enough.

Dean huffed as he reached the Impala. Now was not the time to reopen and salt those wounds. He tossed his spade and shotgun into the trunk, thinking once again that it was a little careless to leave the grave open like he had. Wasn't a task he was up for in his current condition, though. He'd just have to hope the caretaker remedied the hazard before some unsuspecting couple groped and fondled their way to a broken ankle.

With a groan, he eased himself into the driver's seat and made a concerted effort to ignore his body's protests. The engine roared to life and Dean headed for the road. More than he wanted rest or a nice Vicodin haze, he wanted reach the coordinates his father had sent him. His injuries could wait a few hours.

As much as he resented Sammy's need for independence and normality, it was still his job to look out for him. Dean and John would take care of whatever threatened some no name town in Colorado, then head for Stanford for their bi-annual spy-on-Sam mission. His little brother could deny his roots all he wanted. Didn't mean he was any safer.

And if Dean Winchester only had one purpose in life, it was protecting his family.

Even if they didn't know they needed him.

*~*~*

Still on the road
Present

John Winchester had lost his mind. He was convinced of it.

Connor was sitting there sullenly in the passenger seat, though he was doing his best not to let that show, just staring out the window and resolutely not looking at him. John should be grilling him, the few vague answers that Connor had afforded him so far not nearly enough to satisfy his burning curiosity or alleviate any distrust. Yet, here he was, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly with bandaged hands as he carted the kid to Colorado with him, and forgoing the interrogation.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly what brand of insanity had infected him. It was just a sense of something not quite right about leaving the boy to his own devices or even outright shooting him despite the display of unnatural speed and strength. All of his hunter's instincts were warbling their alarms and grating on his nerves in protest, but his paternal instincts—something he'd thought to be rusted to the point of near nonexistence for the last several years—were overriding everything that told him Connor was bad news.

He'd picked up on the little things despite Connor's efforts to conceal his emotions. The kid was pretty good at it, but John was better.

After disposing of the familiar and burning its remains, he'd hauled himself into his truck, trying to ignore the pang of scolding regret for how he'd treated the kid. It shouldn't have been there at all. He'd done him a favor by not killing him, and that should've been the thing to bother him. Yet, as he drove back into town with the intent of patching himself up before retrieving his things from the motel and hitting the road, his headlights had illuminated the slouched and defeated figure shuffling along, his sword dragging in the dirt behind him as he apparently followed the tire tracks since there wasn't really a road for another few miles.

The kid could've done that in the first place rather than waste time asking for directions, John knew. He also knew it was the kid's very subtle way of giving him an opening to ask a question or two, to crack the door just a little so he could get some of his story across, and in that moment, John felt horrible about slamming it in his face.

So he'd pulled over, not saying a word and just staring at the kid impatiently until he finally opened the door and climbed in. It was then that John knew something had run amok in his head and fried all the works. An instant after his foot returned to the accelerator, he'd shoved a flask of holy water in Connor's face and ordered him to drink it, relieved and yet not when he did so without question. Because that was the thing. All the questions. And did he mention the insanity?

John lasted a whole five minutes before the demands in his mind refused to be kept waiting any longer. “Where ya headed?” he asked gruffly as he tried to sort his chaotic thoughts and determine some kind of order in which to ask the important things.

He noticed the kid straighten in his seat out of the corner of his eye, apparently having temporarily forgotten to keep up his facade in the oppressive silence of the cab until John's voice reminded him.

“You can just drop me off in town if you want,” he answered lightly, and John had to give him credit for the easy shift and the distinct absence of fear or anxiety in his tone. Didn't really make him feel any better, though. Was he seeing through the cracks of a mask? Or were the cracks the actual mask?

John discarded that thought for the moment. Other things needed to be addressed first. “Is town where you're headed or all you're willing to ask of me?” John pressed impatiently, not really making an effort to suppress his own conflicting emotions just so the boy was clear that the olive branch was being held out as more of a makeshift weapon.

The kid shrugged and turned his gaze toward the window. “Not really headed anywhere,” he said easily, then seeming to remember his manners, added, “But, uh, thanks. Ya know, for giving me a ride.”

John simply acknowledged the gratitude with a grunt, realizing the kid wasn't keen on talking after his swift dismissal and unwillingness to hear him out. He knew he'd have to try a different tack now, and internally grumbled for letting himself be pulled into this at all.

Releasing a sigh, he made a concerted effort to rein his irritation in a tad and schooled his features into something less hostile. He wasn't ready to address the issue of his supposed relation to the boy. Wasn't sure that he'd ever be ready to address it, actually, because it was creating an extreme amount of discomfort and couldn't possibly be true. So he went with the tiny amount of info he'd been given that had nothing to do with that.

“Who went to all what trouble to keep you alive?” he asked, injecting a modicum of amicability into his tone.

The kid still wouldn't look at him. “They said I'd be safe with you,” he said with another shrug, his voice still conversational and pleasant. “But I can take care of myself,” he was quick to add, reluctantly turning his head to meet John's gaze. “Declined the memory alteration, but I figured they'd at least give you some kind of warning. Pretty obvious you have no clue what's going on, though.”

John cocked a brow. “Care to remedy that?”

He smirked. “Not really sure how to explain it. Not really sure you'd believe me if I did.”

John didn't hold back the huff of frustration as he turned his eyes back to the road that had finally appeared. More of a path carved out through the dirt from years of vehicle traffic than a road, really, and still no sign of life for miles.

“I don't expect anything,” the kid continued. “Not gonna be forcing anyone into anything because I've so been there and done that from both ends. This is, uh, this is good. The ride. So, thanks again for that.”

“Got a name?” John asked after several more moments of tense silence.

“Connor,” he answered as he returned his eyes to the passing landscape.

John waited a beat, but that was apparently all he was going to get. “Connor what?”

Connor shrugged and John noted that he really seemed to do that a lot, as if he could make anything roll over and away from him with that simple action. “Just Connor.”

Another crack and a hint of misery seeped into Connor's tone that anyone else would have missed, and that sealed what was sure to be an unpleasant fate for John. Despite the colorful tirade of denial and annoyance taking place in his head, he felt something loosen in his chest. Damn it, what was wrong with him?

“You ain't got anywhere else to go, do you?” John seemed to ask against his will.

Connor didn't answer, and John clenched his jaw as his already questionable sanity completely abandoned ship.

*~*~*

Palo Alto, California

Sam was grateful for the approaching summer. It meant the end of finals, and while he often relished the seemingly endless amount of studying that was required of him and the distraction it provided, he was equally thrilled with the prospect of down time.

Relaxation was a relatively new concept to him. The Winchesters weren't prone to vacations unless one counted the occasional camping trip he'd been dragged on when his father was hunting something that preferred to hide in nature rather than try to blend into more populated areas with plumbing and similar luxuries. Sam didn't count those, though.

He could admit to enjoying the rare moments of camaraderie that occurred around a campfire, the illusion of peace that nature provided, but the moments were few and far between, and illusions were just that. The more memorable and common occurrences were of target practice, honing their tracking skills, and the constant exhaustion of keeping alert for predators, natural and supernatural alike.

Sam hefted his backpack to sit more securely on one broad shoulder and brushed his hair out of his face as he crossed yet another courtyard. The sky was clear, the sun's rays unimpeded by clouds, and he had just completed his second-to-last final. One more to go and he was free to enjoy an uncluttered mind for a little while.

He snickered to himself as Dean's smart-ass answer to that thought resounded in his head. No such thing as an uncluttered Sam brain. I wouldn't put it past you to shove random facts in there out of sheer boredom.

He shook his head a little, his smile still lingering. He missed having Dean around more often than not. Missed his sarcasm and his apparent inability to keep a lid on it. Missed his abrasive presence that demanded everyone he encountered to come to an immediate decision: love him or hate him. There was no in between. Dean didn't accept halfway on much of anything. Though it had happened a few times that someone would do both, and Dean would mock the fine line between love and hate with all the derision he constantly carried for clichés that were only allowed when he was the one personifying or abusing them. He missed that, too. The blatant and incessant walking contradiction that was Dean Winchester.

It seemed odd at first, all the things Sam found himself missing about his brother—everything that got on his nerves when they were practically breathing with the same pair of lungs their whole lives. But he came to realize that these were all the things that made him Dean. Love him or hate him, and Sam was one of those that did both, and the only one that got away with it without being mocked.

Sam sighed as he reached the sidewalk that would lead him to the coffee shop where he was supposed to meet Zach, trying not to think of all the things he didn't miss that Dean and his father were undoubtedly immersing themselves in at that very moment.

Luckily, a smartly dressed older woman proved a sufficient distraction as he reached his destination. She was clad in an expensive pant suit, her long dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail as she plastered the windows of the coffee shop with fliers. Sam stopped to eye them, the prominent black and white photo catching his attention.

He recognized the kid depicted on the fliers: shaggy hair, blue eyes, huge goofy grin. He'd met him earlier in the year, taking pity when he ran into the utterly lost looking freshman that was struggling with a campus map and course schedule. Sam had given him a tour of the grounds and struck an easy acquaintance with him. An acquaintance was all it had been, though, because something about the kid put him off, set rusted alarms ringing in a way that was too reminiscent of everything Sam was trying to escape.

Sam had nothing to justify that reaction. It wasn't something he could put a name to. He'd encountered the kid on several occasions, though. He was a computer science major with a broad sense of humor that ranged from the morbid to the utterly corny, and Sam had been happy to take a few lessons in hacking, learning a few things he hadn't already known. Still, he'd been careful to keep his distance, declining the invitations to social gatherings that could have led to a stronger friendship.

He'd felt bad about it, that unnamed repellent insistent and unfair, but he couldn't seem to get past it. Now, taking in the information on the flier, his muted guilt was growing into something harder to ignore. If he'd given the guy half a chance, maybe...

Sam stomped on that thought. It wouldn't do any good to entertain what ifs and maybes at this point.

“When did he go missing?” he asked the woman who'd only paid him the barest attention as she went about her business. Something about her was odd. The fliers were neatly printed, but not exactly official looking, and this very official looking woman was hanging them.

She turned to face him, cold, blue eyes assessing him. Cold was the only way to describe them. She was beautiful, but not exactly exuding friendliness. “Few days ago,” she said in a clipped tone, her gaze still boring into him in a way that screamed: State your business. I don't have time for idle curiosity.

Sam tried for the grin that usually granted him unbridled cooperation from even the most ornery of people. “From his home?” he inquired, glancing at the flier again. It didn't provide much information about the circumstances, and the contact info at the bottom was unusual as well. “Any speculation on what happened?” he added.

The woman huffed, not bothering to disguise her frustration. Another odd thing to note: since when didn't someone spreading missing posters all over town want any and all interest/attention/possible clues regarding the person they were looking for?

“Did you know him?” she asked shortly.

Sam didn't let his smile falter even though he kind of wanted to punch her with the way she was eyeballing him. “Yeah. I mean, kinda. We hung out a few times.”

And just like that, her irritation vanished, only to be replaced with a sort of calculated intent. Sam subconsciously backed up a step, suddenly feeling like a mouse in the presence of a snake.

“No one's really sure,” she provided a little too amicably. “He was home alone for a few hours. No signs of a break in, nothing to indicate he'd run off. All his things were still there. He just— “ She brought up a closed fist and opened it dramatically. “Poof.” She grinned when he narrowed his eyes at her, then shrugged and resumed hanging her fliers. “We figure someone convinced him to come along quietly, or maybe he's on the run and decided that not taking his belongings would throw the cops off for a while.”

Sam's suspicion ratcheted up several more notches. “What would he be running from?”

She smirked, secret knowledge behind cruel eyes that wasn't going to be shared with the likes of him. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Right,” Sam mumbled, looking back at the fliers.

He filed the contact information away (why a law firm and not the police?) and entered the shop with a nod toward the woman. She was back to ignoring him, so he disappeared inside and resolved to mull over all the unusual facts until he could reconcile them with something that made any kind of sense.

Imaginary Dean was right. Sam's brain just seemed to crave clutter.

*~*~*

Connor was recalling the various clues that he'd received of John's knowledge of the supernatural and comparing with his own to distract himself from less pleasant thoughts.

He'd never heard of salt lines being used to repel demons, but John had been insistent that he enter his motel room and step over one. Connor noted the freely issued invitation, wondering how John managed to get by without knowing that old rule, but didn't comment on it at the time. He'd been a little busy processing things. Besides, he wasn't certain if it applied to motel rooms one only lived out of temporarily since he'd never had the occasion to test it.

Additionally, he'd never heard of devil's traps, which he stepped in and out of without hindrance, noting the slight relief that flashed over John's features. In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure that John wasn't a crackpot that only thought he knew what he was doing. There'd been some kind of reaction when he'd attempted violence in the presence of Lorne's sanctuary spell, so he'd half-expected one of John's tests to sound an alarm. None did, and Connor was once again confused when contemplating the demonic aspect of his origins.

He shook his head slightly to dispel that train of thought before it went careening down some rickety tracks, crashed into something important, and resulted in a headache. Then, he realized that was all the compare and contrast he had to work with so far. Well, he could fix that and ask things, but again, that would lead to some form of badness like caring.

Realistically, he knew it was too late not to care. Otherwise, there would have been no disappointment when he was initially disregarded after being held at gunpoint. This man was supposed to be his father—well, one of them—and he couldn't push aside the hope that maybe this time could be different. That maybe it wouldn't have to be hard to get along without a magical assist. So yeah, the hope had been there, however small an amount, and was promptly dashed. And Connor was content to disillusion himself about not caring no matter how much he did or did not know better.

Also, was it too much to ask for a little thanks after rescuing John from the big bad Doberman? Well, maybe this reluctant “adoption” that probably wouldn't last all the way to Colorado should be thanks enough. Connor tried not to be bitter and petty in recent months, even if he had every reason to be, so he brushed that snippety thought away. There were more important things to consider. Like how long before John lost all patience and—

“Who are they?” John asked abruptly.

—Connor had to elaborate.

Yep, he really should've been thinking up ways to explain this madness. He glanced over and down at the clock on the stereo, noting that three hours had passed already. Wow. John had been exercising patience Connor didn't think him capable of.

Hesitantly letting his eyes fall on John's profile, Connor feigned confusion. “What?”

John scowled and slid his warning gaze over to him, indicating he wasn't in the mood for the charade of innocence. “You kept saying they sent you and they didn't warn me,” he clarified shortly.

“Oh,” Connor said, clearing his throat. “Them.”

Even as his eyes returned to the windshield and the road beyond, John cocked a brow, and Connor marveled at how the simple expression spoke of an order that was not to be disobeyed.

“The Powers That Be,” Connor replied airily. “Higher power types that help maintain the balance between good and evil... or something like that,” he added with a casual wave of his hand, then switched to a disgruntled murmur as he rolled his eyes. “They kinda suck at it though, if you ask me.”

John smirked at that. “Higher powers, huh?” he commented with an air of mild disbelief that one might use to humor a mental patient as he or she animatedly described their delusions of adventure on the high seas or talking hermit crabs that were secretly plotting world domination.

Connor shrugged, easily picking up on the tone. “I'd probably be right there with ya on that,” he commented. “If I hadn't seen one and killed her. Universe doesn't exactly seem all that balanced these days, if it ever did, so I totally get it.”

John's countenance continued to betray his lack of faith in Connor's mental health. “Killed a higher power,” he repeated dubiously.

Connor nodded. “Did I mention the part where you wouldn't believe anything I said?”

“Convenient cop out,” John mumbled under his breath, not realizing Connor could hear him anyway.

Connor sighed and turned away again. “Nothing about this has been convenient so far.”

John's eyes narrowed, revealing the ever present suspicion that would increase every time Connor opened his mouth or moved too suddenly. After several beats, he decided to change the topic, addressing the pink elephant without really addressing it at all. “When's your birthday?”

Crap. That was a whole minefield of tough and unbelievable explanations. Connor sighed and resolved to get it over with all at once. If he was going to be tossed out of the family, he preferred to have it done early on.

“Hope you've got a high tolerance for crazy,” Connor warned before taking a deep breath and launching into his life's story.