Chapter Text
"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.
The kid fell asleep the second that Dean laid him down in the back seat and, honestly, Dean can't blame him. He knows how tiring digging out of a grave is. But, still, it leaves him with a dilemma: how is he supposed to get the kid inside without waking him?
For one, the boy is horrifically injured – moving him forces out little pained gasps and Dean can feel the kid's ribs popping out as he breathes. His face is littered with little cuts and bruises and scars, and the rest of them probably is too. Dean will be surprised if he doesn't have any more broken bones (or any internal injuries, for that matter). The poor kid looks like he died in a car crash.
He's not heavy in the slightest – which is both relieving and incredibly concerning at the same time. It makes him easier to carry, but he feels like nothing but skin and bones through his suit. There's also the possibility of the kid being a demon that could wake up and tear his throat out at any moment.
Well, he probably isn't, so Dean's much more concerned with getting him help as soon as possible.
Dean fumbles with his keys at the door and very nearly drops the kid. He kicks the door shut behind him, grimacing when it closes rather loudly. He carefully lays the kid down on the couch, moving the kid's hair out of his face.
In the borderline fluorescent lights of the motel room, he can finally see him better. Two things immediately stand out:
One, he's tiny – maybe five feet tall and barely even seventy pounds, if Dean's being generous.
Two, his face is riddled with little white burns marks and there are no doubts about the broken bones now – his ribs and his left ankle, judging by the awkward angle it juts out at. There's also a thin, crooked 'J' burned into the flesh of his right cheek. It's raw and poorly healed, and it makes Dean's stomach twist.
The boy stirs slightly in his sleep and Dean sighs; he can't call Cas without risking waking him. He slips through the door, propping it open a little with his foot.
"Cas?" he calls out. "Cas, I need your help."
Almost immediately, there's the all-too comforting ruffle of wings behind him, followed by a low,
"Dean."
"Hey, Cas," Dean returns, spinning on his heels.
"What do you need my help with?"
Dean pauses. God, how is he gonna explain this without sounding completely crazy?
"We found a kid in a graveyard." Dean grimaces at his own choice of words. Still, it could have been worse. It also could have been much better, but whatever. This is all new – he gets a free pass on this one.
Cas cocks his head to the side. "I'm not sure that requires my help. Surely you should hand the child over to the proper authorities."
"Let me just show you," Dean sighs, leading Cas into the motel. "We found him digging himself out of a grave. I think someone made a deal."
"Oh." Cas steps forwards, reaching for the boy, and Dean stops him.
"Don't wake him up. Poor kid's been through enough."
"I can assure you, Dean," Cas says, "I am more than capable of not waking him."
He pulls his arm away and rests a hand on the boy's forehead, frowning gently. Dean watches as he begins to stir again before slipping back. "What is it?"
"He's radiating power," Cas mumbles, turning to face Dean. "You said he was resurrected?"
"Maybe? Probably? I don't know, Cas. Is he a d-"
"No." Cas stares back at the boy contemplatively. "Whatever brought him back was certainly not a demon either."
Dean relaxes and then Cas speaks again: "But I'm afraid that he might not live for much longer."
"What? Why? What's wrong with him?"
"Aside from the obvious physical injuries," Cas says in an unsettlingly flat voice. He glances over the boy, stopping at his mangled ankle with a slight frown. He rests his hand on it – a bright golden light coming from his palm – and then he returns his attention to Dean. "The power that brought him back is fading and I don't know whether he'll survive when it's completely gone."
"Well, what are we supposed to do? We can't just let him die again. There has to be something."
"There is... one option," he says, grimacing as soon as he does. "But it's not... It's dangerous."
"What is it?"
"Ra's Al Ghul."
"Raysha-what?"
"Ra's Al Ghul," Cas repeats slowly. "The owner of the last Lazarus Pit in existence."
"And that would be?"
"It can heal any injury and resurrect the dead."
"What's the catch?"
"It has the potential to drive anyone exposed to it permanently insane."
Dean sighs. Dammit – what right does he have to decide whether the kid loses his life or his sanity. He shouldn't care. He doesn't even know the kid's name, for god's sake. The kid hasn't even been conscious for a full minute.
But...
Dean looks down at him. The kid looks so small and young – too young to have gone through whatever he had. He deserves to have a life. He deserves to live.
"Great," he mutters bitterly. "Just great. Well, we've gotta try, haven't we?"
Cas nods. "I need to ask Ra's for permission to use the Pit. I will return to collect the boy in a few hours."
He smiles softly at the boy before disappearing. Dean's sighs, going over to the cabinets and idly pouring himself a drink. God, why does he always have to get himself wrapped up in crap like this? Why does he always have to make all the tough decisions?
Is it fair to risk the kid's sanity? Is it fair to just let him die? Again?
Sam clears his throat behind him and he all but jumps out of his skin.
"Woah, there," says Sam, holding his hands up. "Just me."
Dean rakes a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I-I was just..." He gestures to his drink and Sam nods.
"I was thinking about doing some research on the kid – seeing what we could find. Uh, his name's Jason, or at least, that was what was on the headstone," Sam says, gauging Dean's reaction. There isn't one – Dean hasn't even looked up from the bottom of his glass. "But I think that I can handle it. How about you go get some sleep?"
Dean doesn't even try to argue as he would normally. "Cas stopped by a second ago. He's gonna be back for Jason in a few hours. Said that he wasn't a monster and wasn't brought back by a deal. Also mentioned something about Lazarus Pits and some guy – Ra's or whatever. You think you could look into that."
Sam nods, and Dean stops to check on Jason before going into his room. He's out before his head hits the pillow. Sam stares after his brother for a moment before sitting down at the coffee table with his laptop.
He types in Jason's name.
Surprisingly, there are quite a few results. Mostly for tabloid articles and there are lots of mentions of a Bruce Wayne – which makes sense, considering that Jason had been buried in Wayne Cemetery.
For the first few pages, all the links are about Jason's death – in late April of that year – and about various charity projects that Bruce had started in Jason's honour. Sam skims through a couple of them; they're heart-warming in a tragic kind of way. They're also not quite what Sam is looking for, though, so he keeps searching.
Jason's death happened in Europe – the cab he was in was rammed off a bridge by a drunk driver, and both Jason and the cab driver were killed almost instantly. He was thirteen. Thirteen.
But, as awful as it is, there isn't anything supernatural about it as far as Sam could tell.
Maybe there's something else in Jason's personal life that can make this a little clearer. Maybe something that can explain that mark on Jason's face.
It's remarkably hard to find an article that says anything potentially relevant about Jason. Sam now knows that Jason was adopted, and that he had been on his school's athletics team, and that he was a straight-A student with a penchant for classic literature and for stealing his dad's hoodies (they definitely weren't Jason's, anyway). There's also a rather sweet video of a thirteen-year-old Jason playing the guitar and singing at some kind of event. But none of that was all that helpful.
He sighs and clicks on another link.
Bruce Wayne's Newest Son?
It's a (thankfully) short article from a website called 'the Gotham Gossip.' Everything about the website makes his eyes hurt.
Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne has brought another orphan under his wing. Ten-year-old Jason Todd was adopted by Bruce earlier this week, after reportedly living with the billionaire for the past year, followed shortly by the official adoption of Bruce's oldest son, Dick Grayson (16)
Below the text, there are a few photos.
The first was of Bruce and Jason exiting some building and Sam can't help but feel sorry for the poor kid. He looks so out of place and sickly – just this pitifully tiny child, almost cowering away from the cameras. Bruce is shielding him from the hordes of press hounds with one hand and waving out to the cameras with the other.
The next looks to be a school photo, with Jason, sat in front of a grey backdrop in a school uniform. This time, he looks happy, grinning widely. His black hair is more neatly styled and his eyes are brighter – an almost electric shade of blue. The colour seems to have returned to his skin and there is this liveliness and personality that hadn't been there in the other photo. Sam can see a resemblance to Bruce now – dark hair and a charming smile. The logo on his blazer can just about be read: 'Gotham Academy.'
The third and final photo is outside some official-looking building. Jason is stood, grinning, with papers gripping tightly in his hands. Bruce is stood behind him, hand resting on his shoulder, and looking down at Jason with a small smile. There's an older boy next to Bruce, Dick Grayson. also holding papers – though he doesn't seem as happy.
There's another paragraph underneath:
The question on everybody's mind: how will Jason compare to his predecessor? Although Jason doesn't quite have the natural flair for the spotlight that Dick does, you can't help but fall in love with the adorable bad boy aura surrounding the former Crime Alley inhabitant.
Okay, that's a good place to stop. He's uncomfortable enough about digging through the poor kid's life without having to read this abomination of journalism. He hesitantly bookmarks the page and moves onto the next subject: The Lazarus Pit.
Fountains of Youth (also known as Lazarus Pits) have been mentioned throughout history, through various myths and fables. The legends surrounding them differs slightly between cultures and from one time period to another. In most accounts, they are capable of healing, resurrection, and granting immortality.
The Pit's power was often believed to come from the liquid in the Pit as opposed to the location itself. The substances that make up the liquid varies between each iteration of the story. During the Renaissance, for instance, it was said that Pits were made from the grace of angels slain by demons, as depicted in many paintings and statues. Many of these accounts also tell of fountains fading away or losing their abilities. This was thought to be what caused the formation of caves or underground lakes.
Several middle eastern cultures reference Ra's Al Ghul as the owner of the last Lazarus Pits. Al Ghul is said to be centuries old and is often referred to by these stories as 'The Demon's Head.'
Sam marks the page to show Dean later and opens another tab. Dick Grayson was mentioned a lot, so maybe they can try to ask him about Jason – considering that Bruce Wayne is the CEO of an international, multibillion-dollar corporation and probably has better things to do than being harassed about his dead son by two literal strangers.
He glances over at Jason, sound asleep and wheezing softly. The kid isn't a monster, but that doesn't narrow it down all that much. Maybe he's an angel – can angels take dead vessels? How would that even work? Why would an angel pick some dead kid to be its vessel?
Sam doesn't know. And that's honestly the worst part.