The Winchesters' New Protege

The Miraculous Resurrection of Jason Peter Todd.

"Relax, Dean," says Sam, scoffing at his brother's theatrics. "We can leave once we've wrapped this case up."

"I know. I know," Dean mumbles, folding his arms across his chest and letting out a sigh – a pale white vapour fills the night air. "Damned city's still giving me the creeps, though."

"You can say that again."

"Y'know, there's a reason that no other hunters ever come here." Dean kicks at the ground with a glare as if that will somehow spite the city. "It's because Gotham is a freakshow."

"I'm not arguing with you on that," Sam replies, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them. "I heard that there's some murderous clown that runs around the city." Sam physically shudders at the thought. "Can you imagine that? A clown. Only in Gotham."

"Seriously?" Dean's voice is somewhere between amused and incredulous. "I thought that a guy prancing around in a bat costume was as weird as this place got."

"Yeah, the Joker, or something," Sam says. He stares up into the night and his smile falters. "He actually killed the Bat's son a few months back. Robin, I think his name was. Poor kid never stood a chance. Psycho had him chained up in some warehouse in Africa for weeks and then blew him up."

"Oh, god..." Dean mutters. "I can't even imagine what he... What kind of father would let their kid do something like that? Going out there against people like..." He doesn't have to see Sam's face to know that he's going to cut in. "I know that dad wasn't perfect, but at least he waited until we were older, y'know, before throwing us into the deep end. Especially not against that. People are just... The monsters, I can get. But people always make me wonder."

Sam nods, though his expression is still something hard and cold. "Dad waited until I was older. He started teaching you to hunt when you were six."

"Sammy," Dean says placatingly. "Please, just... I don't wanna do this now. Let's just finish-"

A pained cry erupts from the darkness, somewhere behind them, and they both immediately run towards it.

A kid – early teens – is clawing his way out of a distraught grave. He's managed to pull himself halfway out, and there are broken streaks of tears and blood on his face that glisten in the torchlight.

Dean grabs under the boy's arms and Sam begins to dig out his legs. They eventually tear him free and he immediately stops struggling, lying limply in Dean's arms and shaking as muffled sobs rack his small body. The kid's fingers dig into Dean's back as he clings desperately to him, smearing blood over the leather of Dean's jacket. He wraps his arms around him tighter, in an attempt to comfort him, and rests his chin on the crown of the boy's head, rocking back and forth gently.

"You're okay. You're okay," he says quietly. "You're okay." He looks over to Sam and mouths, "What do I do?" 

"Take him back to the motel," he replies. "Call Cas and see if he knows what the hell is going on."

"What about the case?"

"I can handle it." There's a flicker of hesitation over Dean's face. "Trust me."

"Hey," Dean murmurs to the boy, who appears to have calmed down a little. "I'm gonna take you somewhere real safe, 'kay?"

The boy nods faintly and Dean picks him up carefully, beginning to weave between the headstones and towards the car.

The drive is nerve-wracking. Dean's not sure whose breath is shakier – his or the kid's. He keeps glancing in the rear-view mirror to make sure that the kid isn't going to suddenly wake up and try to kill him. When the Impala pulls into the parking lot, he can hear his own heartbeat.