Chapter 1: Stranded in Jericho
POV: Adam Carter
The bridge hummed.
Adam's eyes snapped open to moonlight filtering through rusted metal beams, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue. His skull felt like it had been cracked open and reassembled with superglue and spite. The Centennial Bridge stretched before him, its ancient bones creaking in the California night, and somewhere in the fog-drunk corners of his mind, he knew exactly where he was.
Jericho. The Woman in White. Oh, fuck.
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His left wrist burned like someone had branded him with a cattle iron, and when he looked down, a jagged scar pulsed beneath his skin—black lines that hadn't been there twenty-four hours ago when he'd been debugging code in his cramped San Francisco apartment.
The scar throbbed, and suddenly the bridge wasn't empty anymore.
She materialized like smoke given form—white dress flowing, dark hair cascading over a face that should have been beautiful but was twisted with centuries of rage and sorrow. Constance Welch. Even through the terror clawing at his chest, some fanboy part of his brain whispered: Holy shit, it's actually her.
Her wail split the night, and Adam's scar exploded with pain.
Something alien flooded his mind—a presence that felt like ice water and static electricity. His vision shimmered, and suddenly he wasn't looking at the ghost anymore; he was feeling her. Her rage, her betrayal, the moment she'd found her husband with another woman. The devastation crashed over him like a tidal wave, and his body responded before his brain could catch up.
He phased.
One second he was solid, pressed against cold concrete. The next, he was falling through the bridge railing like it was made of mist, Constance's emotions tearing through his skull as he plummeted toward the dark water below.
A translucent overlay flickered across his vision, all sharp edges and occult symbols:
[Mimic Instincts Engaged: Host drowning in foreign emotional residue.] [Control or psyche damage imminent.]
What the hell—
A hand clamped around his wrist, yanking him back through the railing with bone-jarring force. Adam slammed into something solid and warm that smelled like leather and gunpowder, his phasing ability cutting out like a broken light switch.
"Jesus Christ!" Dean Winchester's voice cut through the night, sharp and incredulous. "You're either useful or insane, and I'm not sure which is worse."
Adam looked up into green eyes that had seen too much, framed by a face that was exactly like the TV show but somehow more real—the stubble darker, the lines deeper, the wariness absolute. This wasn't Jensen Ackles playing a character. This was Dean Winchester, and he was pissed.
"I—" Adam's voice cracked. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Dean hauled him to his feet, grip tight enough to bruise. "Start talking. What the hell was that party trick?"
Before Adam could answer, footsteps echoed across the bridge. Sam Winchester emerged from the shadows, all six-foot-four of brooding intensity, his eyes fixed on Adam with laser focus. The sight hit Adam like a physical blow—here was Sam, young and wounded and desperate, still raw from Jessica's death.
"How do you know about ghosts?" Sam's voice was cold, clinical. "And don't give us some bullshit about lucky guesses."
Adam's mind raced. He couldn't exactly explain that he'd watched their entire lives play out on television. The meta-knowledge sat heavy in his chest—he knew about the Woman in White, knew about the trials ahead, knew things that could save them or damn them both.
"I—she's a Woman in White," he managed. "They're tied to betrayal, infidelity. She's looking for unfaithful men to—"
Constance's scream cut through his explanation, and suddenly her emotions slammed into him again. The betrayal, the rage, but underneath it all, a bone-deep sorrow that made his chest constrict. Across the bridge, Dean was talking to someone—a local cop, his voice easy and flirtatious despite the circumstances.
The phantom betrayal hit Adam like a physical blow. He flinched, stumbling back a step, Constance's pain bleeding through his own nervous system.
[Retribution: Flinch at betrayal cues for 24 hours.] [Ghost baggage, fanboy.]
Sam's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"
"Nothing, I—" Adam's scar pulsed again, and this time the sensation came with direction. North. Toward the old Welch house. Constance's locket, hidden where her husband had thrown it in a moment of guilt and terror.
[You're a blip on hell's radar, fanboy.] [Stay low.]
The words materialized in his mind like graffiti on the inside of his skull, delivered in a voice that managed to sound both helpful and deeply sarcastic. Adam nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Kid?" Dean was back, the cop forgotten. "You having some kind of seizure over there?"
"I'm fine." Adam pressed a hand to his burning wrist. "But I think I know where she's anchored. There's something—a locket, maybe. North of here, in the old house."
The brothers exchanged a look that Adam couldn't quite read. Dean's expression was part skepticism, part pragmatic interest. Sam's was pure suspicion.
"Lucky guess?" Sam asked.
"Something like that."
Dean studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Well, you're either crazy or useful, and useful trumps crazy in my book. You can tag along, but if you phase through anything else without warning, I'm leaving you for the ghost."
Adam nodded, trying to ignore the way Sam's stare felt like it was dissecting him layer by layer. As they walked toward the Impala—and Jesus, seeing that car in person was another shock to his system—he caught Dean giving the cop his best smile.
The betrayal phantom hit again, making Adam flinch so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Sam's eyes were arctic cold. "Yeah. There's definitely something wrong with you."
[Ghosts are the least of your worries, fanboy.]
The voice in his head sounded almost amused now, and in the distance, carried on the night wind, Adam heard the faint echo of Constance's wail. She was calling, and she wasn't done with them yet.
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