Reborn as Sam Winchester in Supernatural TV

The Roadhouse, Nebraska -- 1997 (Around Two Weeks After the Coalition Incident)

Bill Harvelle couldn't shake the feeling something was off about the Winchester boys' visit. Not wrong exactly - after all, he owed his life to the younger one, even if he couldn't quite remember how or why. But there was something... different in the air since they'd arrived.

The changes were subtle. Ancient protection symbols appearing overnight on the Roadhouse's foundation stones, drawn in patterns that seemed to shift when you weren't looking directly at them.

The way certain longtime customers - the ones who carried more wisdom than weapons - had started finding reasons to drop by more frequently, nursing their drinks and watching. Always watching.

But never speaking about what they saw.

"Another strange one," Ellen commented, showing him a letter that had arrived that morning. Just a simple note from an old contact: "Taking an extended vacation. The weather's turning."

It was the fifth such message they'd received this week.

"Weather's fine," Bill muttered, but his hand drifted to that old scar on his chest - the one that should have killed him twelve years ago. The one that sometimes ached when Sam Winchester was near.

Through the window, he could see Sam sitting with Jo in the afternoon sun. They appeared to be doing homework, but Bill noticed how the shadows pooled oddly around the boy, like ink in water.

"He saved your life," Ellen said quietly, following his gaze. "That day with the rawhead. You were bleeding out, and he just... touched you."

"Ellen-" Bill started, warning in his tone. Some things weren't meant to be discussed aloud.

"I know," she cut him off. "I know we don't talk about it. Just like we don't talk about how half our old contacts have gone dark. Or how the protection symbols keep changing. Or how that boy seems to carry shadows like old friends."

The memory hit Bill suddenly, sharp and clear despite the years:

---Twelve Years Ago---

Harvelle's Roadhouse -- 1985

The rawhead had been faster than expected. Bill lay on the Roadhouse floor, blood seeping through Ellen's desperate attempts to stop it. Their daughter Jo, barely a year old, wailed from her playpen, sensing the wrongness in the air.

"Stay with me," Ellen's voice cracked. "Bill, damn it, stay awake!"

John Winchester had arrived minutes after Bill had stumbled in, carrying his boys. Dean, six years old and already serious, stood guard over his baby brother like a tiny soldier.

"Ambulance won't make it in time," John said grimly, pressing another cloth against Bill's wounds.

The rawhead's claws had gone deep, torn something vital. Bill could feel it - the cold creeping in, the edges of his vision darkening. Jo's cries seemed distant now.

Then two-year-old Sam Winchester toddled forward, escaping Dean's protective watch.

"Sammy, no-" John started.

But the toddler reached out, tiny hand touching Bill's bloody chest. The room... changed.

Darkness swept in like a tide, but not frightening - more like a blanket of stars, deep and ancient. The air grew heavy with something that felt older than time.

Jo's cries stopped. Everything stopped.

Bill felt it then - power flowing through that small hand, rewriting what should have been his death. The rawhead's damage reversed, flesh and blood obeying laws that hadn't existed moments before.

When light returned, Bill gasped - whole, healed, alive.

Sam swayed slightly, dark eyes too knowing for a toddler, then promptly fell asleep in his confused father's arms.

"What..." John looked between his son and Bill's healed chest. "What just happened?"

But Ellen was already moving, gathering Jo from her playpen, instinctively placing herself between her daughter and whatever power had just manifested in their bar.

"Nothing," she said firmly, meeting Bill's eyes. "Nothing happened."

And somehow, within hours, that became the truth. John seemed to forget, Dean was too young to question it, and Sam... well, Sam had been asleep.

But Bill remembered. And now, watching that same boy twelve years later...

---Present Day---

"Bill?" Ellen's voice pulled him back. "You went somewhere just now."

"Just remembering," he said carefully, watching Sam through the window. The shadows around the boy shifted like living things, but Bill had learned not to look too closely at such details.

"The protection symbols," he said instead. "They're not just appearing. They're evolving. Changing to match whatever they're protecting against."

Ellen nodded slowly. "And our old contacts aren't just disappearing. They're..."

"Repositioning," Bill finished. "Like pieces on a board."

Outside, Sam looked up briefly, meeting Bill's gaze through the window. Just for a moment, Bill saw that same ancient knowledge he'd glimpsed twelve years ago.

Then Sam returned to his homework, just another teenager on a sunny afternoon.

But Bill knew better. That day in 1985 had taught him something vital:

Some miracles came with prices too steep to discuss.

Some saviors needed protecting as much as they protected others.

And some secrets were best kept in silence.

A crash from the back room interrupted Bill's thoughts. Another of Ash's monitors had given out.

"That's getting expensive," Ellen muttered, but Bill noticed how she deliberately didn't look at Sam when she said it.

The bar would open soon. Bill started his usual preparations, trying to focus on normal tasks instead of the way his old scar tingled. But memories kept surfacing:

---1985 Continued---

Hours after Sam's intervention, Bill had found himself studying his chest in the bathroom mirror. Not even a scar remained where the rawhead's claws had torn him open.

"Stop looking," Ellen had said from the doorway. "You'll drive yourself crazy."

"Ellen," he'd whispered, "what that boy did..."

"Saved your life," she'd cut him off. "Saved Jo from growing up without a father. That's all we need to know."

But it hadn't been that simple. In the weeks that followed, Bill had noticed changes:

- His reflexes were sharper

- Wounds healed faster

- Sometimes, in certain lights, his shadow seemed... different

The Winchesters hadn't visited again after that day. John's calls became less frequent, more business-like. As if something in him was trying to forget.

---Present Day---

The afternoon crowd started trickling in. Hunters mostly, but Bill noticed more of the old ones lately. The ones who dealt in lore more than weapons.

Like old Marcus in the corner, who claimed to have Cherokee blood and never seemed to blink. Or Mai by the window, whose family supposedly dated back to ancient Chinese monster hunters.

They never caused trouble. Never spoke about anything important. Just watched and waited.

Dean Winchester came in from working on the Impala, his wrapped sword humming faintly. Bill had seen enough blessed weapons to know this one was different - older, more purposeful.

"Sir?" Dean approached the bar. "Dad's asking if we can stay another few days. Says Ash might have a lead on... something."

Bill nodded, noting how Dean's eyes constantly tracked his brother through the window. Not suspicious, just protective. Like he knew on some level that Sam needed guarding.

"You're welcome as long as you need," Bill replied, because what else could he say to the family that had saved his life? Even if most of them didn't remember it.

A new customer entered - an old woman Bill had never seen before. But he recognized the way she moved, the ancient symbols sewn subtly into her shawl.

She ordered tea, sat quietly, and watched. Just like the others.

Bill caught Sam's slight nod toward her through the window - acknowledgment, perhaps. Or permission.

The protection symbols around the Roadhouse's foundation pulsed once, adjusting to include the newcomer in their strange, shifting patterns.

And Bill Harvelle understood: they weren't just guests anymore. The Roadhouse had become something else - a waypoint, a gathering place, a shelter for those who knew to watch but never speak.

All because a two-year-old boy had once reached out and changed destiny with a touch.

All because that same boy, now fourteen, carried shadows like old friends and secrets like armor.

Bill touched his scar again, feeling the echo of that ancient power. Some debts couldn't be repaid. Some miracles came with unspoken obligations.

And some secrets were best kept in whispers and shadows.

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(Author's Note: For anyone wondering what Sam is doing, next chapter when we shift back to his perspective, you'll find out)