Work Text:
2065 A.D.
Mika Turner-Novak, Ph.D., listened to her graduate teaching assistant, Stony Burke, prattle on. Smart and competent in the classroom but emotionally a needy toddler, deflecting responsibility when things go wrong.
"They're not here," said Stony. "I looked and looked. It's not my fault."
Don't blame me will probably be the inscription on his tombstone.
The four-day academic conference–The Supernatural Revelation and What It Means Today–was about to launch with a sit-down banquet, scheduled to start in one hour. It was the premier international gathering for scholars immersed in the interdisciplinary studies of all aspects of the Supernatural, from Ancient Lore to the history of the Hunter community to the molecular structures underlying the blood magic of wards and spells.
Their keynote speaker was missing along with one of the conference's presenters, the two most popular headliners whose breakout sessions had sold out months ago.
As the program chair, Turner-Novak was responsible for herding the more important kittens through the conference agenda, making sure they showed up sober, on time, and prepared. And, in some cases, cutting them off so they didn't drone on. And on.
She described her role to colleagues in the faculty lounge as part tour guide, part babysitter, and part traffic cop.
Many of the speakers she had connected with personally over the years on the perpetual motion machine that is the academic conference circuit. And at least two she had known since childhood.
Outside a wet spring snow storm, prowling down from the Colorado Front Range, had delayed flights, jammed up the highways, and flooded low-lying streets and underpasses. But the weather was not much of a deterrent to most attendees, who were armed with serious mojo that allowed them to navigate much worse weather.
The lobby of the Denver hotel was filled with latecomers checking in, towing luggage, milling around, hugs and laughter for people they had not see since the last meet-up. Most of the attendees were wearing or carrying popular pseudo ski-resort outerwear, in particular bulky retro down coats reminiscent of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man demon in the original Ghostbusters.
"They're not here," said Stony, again. "They're late. Or lost. Old people get lost. And forgetful. They forgot. Not my fault. It's the weather. Flights have been delayed. The roads are closed east into Kansas."
"I've worked with them before. If they were late, they would have let us known. They are here. I can feel it," said Turner-Novak.
The professor tried to come off as reassuring but knew she sounded snippy.
Stony rolled his eyes. Dr. Turner-Novak was a respected scholar in the field of Supernatural phenomena, and yes, she had great intuition and a disturbing ability to root out plagiarized components of graduate theses without the use of technology. She was rumored to have inherited one grandmother's psychic powers and another's skills with weapons.
But as head of the Crypto-Anthropology department at the University of Colorado's secretive Cheyenne Mountain campus in Colorado Springs, she played the witchy "all-knowing" card a little too often, in Stony's opinion.
Even though she was rarely wrong.
"Mr. Burke, where exactly did you look? They aren't in the banquet hall, they haven't checked in. They are supposed to be waiting for us in the lobby."
"I searched the lobby twice. I have their photos, ma'am," he said.
Stony held up his hand and tapped twice on the blue button that was embedded in his wrist. A 3-D hologram of a miniature computer desktop appeared, hovering in mid-air.
"Show the celebrities," Stony ordered the app, in a bad imitation of a deep-voiced cartoon villain.
Now it was Dr. Turner-Novak's turn to roll her eyes.
Two images appeared, floating in space like disoriented ghosts, the kind that once haunted the Earthly plane until newly magicked technology swept the lost spirits into the Veil and on to their final resting places. Rituals incorporated into the protocols of those who deal with the dying and dead, from hospital chaplains to police detectives to medical examiners, ensured that Reapers were at the ready to usher home even the recalcitrant dead.
The old men in the formally posed photos had held on to their hologram star good looks, the professor thought. It's what happens when you start out with good bones, even while hair thins and turns white and skin stretches and wrinkles simultaneously. The scruff on hollow cheeks was not about being stylish; it's harder to shave with shaky hands and failing vision. Maybe too set in their ways to use the permanent depilatory creams the young folks relied on.
"What about your Phyndderette app?" asked the professor. "You should have been able to locate them as soon as they entered the hotel."
"It's broken," said Stony. "I keep getting the wrong readings. They're not here. Not my fault. Old people are annoying."
"Activate, please," said the professor. Would it be fair to factor "annoying little shit" into Mr. Burke's end-of-semester review? But, his research notes were impeccable, and he did a decent job of mentoring young scholars in the department. She wished she could find a spell to force the brilliant and clueless in her charge to adult up. Could make her a fortune selling it to parents and teachers. But that was the unwritten part of her job description regarding her students: helping them grow and grow up.
"Activate," said Stony, and the disembodied images immediately floated a few feet away and dangled over one of the hotel lobby's ample couches above a pile of abandoned winter coats and cold weather paraphernalia.
"See," he said, pointing at the couch.
And then the coats stirred. And sighed.
Turner-Novak stared for a moment. And laughed out loud.
"Uncle Dean, Uncle Sam, it's Mika. I'm too old to play hide-and-seek. Come on out, and face the music. There's salmon and steak waiting for you. And 300 people wanting to hear Sam's keynote. And, both of you, every one of your workshops this week are booked solid. All of these stuffy professors want to see and hear the real deal: The Winchesters, who saved the world over and over.
"The grans would be so proud."
Finally Stony noticed the two long pairs of legs sticking out from beneath the coats. And emerging from the discarded piles of scarves, wool hats, and jackets, long arms attached to two tall, slender old men, fumbling their way out of the deep seat cushions. And from their messed-up hair, red cheeks, and redder lips, they obviously had been canoodling under the protective cover of other attendees' abandoned L.L. Bean and Orvis fluffy gear.
Stony blushed and looked away.
"Okay, Sammy, duty calls. Damn, my boy can't keep his hands off me. Still got it."
The taller old man, balding but with a cascade of white hair down to his shoulders, managed to stand up first, and offered a hand to the other man. Awkwardly pulled him upright into his arms, where they balanced together, swaying slightly. Steadying each other, supporting each other, defying gravity, as they had been doing for decades.
Dean reached up, Sam reached down, and they kissed again. Just a brush of lips. Reassurance that their soul bond was still intact.
Blue jeans and band t-shirts and flannels and work boots. Of course.
The professor, the granddaughter of Claire Novak and Patience Turner, of a noble Hunter lineage herself, looked fondly at her "uncles", shook her head, and tsked. The two men surged forward, and she let herself be hugged and kissed.
But then she held up a threatening finger and reverted to "Don't tell me the dog ate your homework" mode.
"This is Stony, my graduate teaching assistant. He will see you to your room, where you will clean up and change and get back down to the banquet hall. You have reserved places on the dais. Sam, your slides are loaded, and your printed notes are at your seat. Dean, for the hundredth time, there will be pie. Now scoot. You have 45 minutes.
"Stony, get their bags."
All three men stood, looking at each other, getting their bearings.
"I said scoot," the professor ordered. "Now, Stony."
-----
The banquet was a success, as was the conference, reflecting well on Turner-Novak, even though she knew she couldn't take credit for the Winchesters' charisma and their vast knowledge of the Supernatural world. Standing room only at every presentation.
Meeting the Winchesters and listening to their stories seemed to have a good effect on Stony. The old Hunters related their experiences without hubris or personal aggrandizement. However, their courage and sacrifices, the honor they and other Hunters of their generation carried into battle, brought tears to the eyes of the audience members and made the graduate student rethink his own goals.
Later, after the conference had been put to bed, Stony told the professor something that made her humble and proud. What teachers live for.
"I want to a good man, like the Winchesters, a better man than who I am today," he said solemnly. "Will you help me, Professor?"
"Let's help each other be better," she said. "We have good role models. And, Stony, you can call me Mika."