Supernatural Series Rewrite- Season 7

Slash Fiction: Part Two

Being at the halfway point between Frank's place and your dad's place, it doesn't take too long to get there. The house is dark when you do arrive, but that's to be expected when it's the middle of the fucking night. There doesn't seem like there is anyone home, but looks can be deceiving at a time like this.

"Is she okay?" you ask your dad for the hundredth time that night.

"Yes, she is fine. She's sleeping right now. Nothing has happened since you left, I promise. Are you at Frank's?"

"Yeah, we just got here."

"Alright, I'll let you go. Don't call in the next hour like before, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," you grumble and hang up.

"You sure this is the right place?" Dean asks when he gets out.

"Yeah."

You three walk to the front door and knock. No one answers, but that is to be expected.

"Frank? You in there?" you call loudly, but you get the same response. "Do we just break the door down?"

"What other choice do we have?" Sam whispers.

You grasp the doorknob with your left hand and use your magic to unlock it from the inside. You swing the door open and head inside carefully; you don't know who this guy is or what kind of shit he got going on in here. The house is dark and empty, but that doesn't stop you from searching through it.

"Frank?" you call out again. "Frank, anybody here? Hello? Anybody home?"

You walk into the next room and halt when someone turns on a light. You three face the person only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun. If this is Frank, then he sits there calmly with a gun pointed at all three of you–and this gun looks like the type to fire multiple rounds, so he's got all three of you wrapped around his finger.

"Well, well. The spider caught some flies. Well, I'll be darned. Psycho Butch and Sundance. You're on CNN right now."

"No, no, t-that's not us," Sam stutters.

"I know. Can't be. Unless you had a teleporter. Do you have a teleporter?"

"No, sir, we don't," you shake your head.

"Well, my condolences on the doppelgangers. Now, who sent you? NSA? The Feeb? March of Dimes?"

"Uh, Bobby Singer sent us."

Frank growls and stands, cocking his weapon at you. Sam and Dean visibly shake in fear that he might actually shoot, but you're tired of this. Quicker than he can respond, you blast a wave of magic at his gun, and it goes flying out of his hands and across the room.

"It's like bringing a knife to a gunfight," you scoff. "My dad said you can help. He said you owed him from Port Huron."

"Guy saves your life one time, and, what, you owe him the rest of yours?" Frank rolls his eyes.

"That's usually how it works, yeah," you nod.

"Give me all of your IDs. Come on, cough them up," he says impatiently.

"Why?" you ask, but still doing as he says.

"You want the Feds to know who you are and where you've been? Didn't think so."

There is something about this man that doesn't sit right with you, but you don't comment about you. You, Sam, and Dean all fork over your IDs, and he immediately starts to shred each of them one by one. It's kind of smart to get rid of all of your known aliases since they could be traced back to you. Inside Frank's little hideout are a bunch of TV screens with your faces on almost all of them. Whatever these Leviathans are doing, they sure know how to make themselves known.