Reborn as Sam Winchester in Supernatural TV

The Roadhouse, Nebraska -- 1997

Sam watched the latest Coalition member enter the bar - an elderly woman in a shawl woven with ancient Celtic wards. Her true nature was carefully hidden, but he could sense the centuries of knowledge she carried.

Perfect. Another piece settling into place.

The aftermath of Broken Bow had worked out better than he'd anticipated. The Coalition's survivors, faced with Heaven and Hell's overwhelming show of force, had finally understood what Sam had known all along: direct opposition was suicide. Subtlety was the only path forward.

And Sam was the only one who had the potential to stop it all. 

Their organisation after all was made of various beings from different mythologies. They were a group of less known beings, so called lesser deities or entities, who banded together to survive.

And survive they shall so long as they were what he needed them to be.

Silent watchers, information gatherers, an early warning system that wouldn't trigger celestial or infernal attention. No more talk of vessels or prophecies, just quiet observation and subtle warnings.

The Roadhouse was ideal for this. A hunter's bar already attracted unusual characters, and with the Harvelles' partial memories of his intervention with Bill, they unconsciously accepted things they might otherwise question.

Like the evolving protection symbols, or the increasing number of ancient beings disguised as regular patrons.

From his spot by the window, Sam could track it all:

- A Mesopotamian Dream Walker disguised as an elderly professor, who sees possible futures but now knows to keep them to himself

- A Pacific Island Kahuna masquerading as a traveling merchant, whose ancient priestly knowledge helps strengthen the Roadhouse's subtle defenses

- A Russian Vedun (male witch) appearing as a truck driver, whose old-world protective magic weaves seamlessly with existing wards

They all watched, but never spoke of what they saw. They'd learned that lesson in Broken Bow - some knowledge drew deadly attention when voiced aloud.

"More homework?" Jo asked, dropping into the seat across from him with her own books.

Sam smiled, appreciating how her presence helped maintain his cover as a normal teenager. As normal as a hunter teenger can be.

"Yeah, algebra."

His darkness curled comfortably around them both, hidden from casual observation. The Coalition members could sense it, of course, but now they recognized it as protection rather than threat.

Through the window, he saw Dean working on the Impala, blessed sword never far from reach. His brother's growing power would have worried the Coalition once. Now they understood it was necessary - balance, not opposition.

Ash's frustrated curse echoed from the back room as another monitor died. Sam felt a twinge of regret at destroying the equipment, but some patterns couldn't be allowed to emerge too clearly. Not yet.

The Dream Walking woman sipped her tea, her eyes meeting Sam's briefly. A slight nod - acknowledgment of the new arrangement.

They would watch. They would warn. They would protect. But they would never again try to cage what they didn't understand.

It was working out perfectly. Let Heaven think their memory wipe had secured the timeline. Let Hell believe their plans were proceeding unchanged. 

The real power was in the shadows, in the whispers, in the careful orchestra of pieces moving so subtly that even archangels wouldn't notice until it was too late.

Sam returned to his algebra, hiding a satisfied smile. Sometimes the best way to change destiny wasn't to fight it directly.

Sometimes you just had to rewrite the rules of the game.

A soft chime from the door drew Sam's attention. Another Coalition member - a Persian Peri disguised as a weary traveler - entered the bar.

Her true form, fallen fairy that she was, remained perfectly concealed beneath human glamour, but Sam could sense her ancient power.

The Dream Walker's tea rippled slightly in its cup - she'd seen something in the new arrival's future threads, but kept her silence. The Pacific Island Kahuna, "Mike," merely adjusted his display of trinkets to better accommodate the newcomer's protective aura.

The Russian Vedun continued his conversation with other truckers, his old-world magic subtly welcoming another ally.

This was what Sam had hoped for when he'd accepted the Coalition's request to aid him. Not mindless followers, but intelligent beings who understood survival meant adaptation.

Their very nature - lesser deities and ancient entities who'd survived centuries of changing beliefs - made them perfect for his purpose.

They knew how to bend without breaking. How to watch without being seen. How to protect without drawing attention.

"Your father's headache any better?" Ellen asked, passing by with a tray of drinks.

"Getting there," Sam replied, noting how the Dream Walker's eyes flickered - she'd seen something about Dad's struggle with the altered memories, but knew better than to speak of it.

The Persian Peri settled at the bar, ordering coffee like any other traveler. Her presence completed another strand in the protective web being woven around the Roadhouse.

Not strong enough to alert Heaven or Hell, but sufficient to warn of approaching threats.

Sam made his darkness respond to the layered magics, helping them settle into place. The Coalition members sensed it too - his power acknowledging their contributions while reminding them of why they'd chosen this path.

After all, they were survivors. And sometimes survival meant knowing when to shift allegiances.

"I'm telling you," suddenly a gruff voice rose from the bar, "something ain't right in Minnesota. Three towns reporting cattle deaths, electrical storms, temperature drops. But get this - not a single hunter who heads that way makes it there.

They all get redirected somehow. Flat tires, wrong turns, urgent calls from other jobs."

Sam listened while pretending to focus on his homework. Gordon Walker - because of course it would be Gordon making noise about this - was getting frustrated by his third beer.

He never liked him in the show, and liked him less now that he was real.

"It's like something doesn't want us there," Gordon continued, addressing his growing audience. "And that ain't natural."

"Maybe there's a reason," Ellen suggested carefully, refilling his glass. "Some hunts aren't meant to be taken."

"Since when do we back down from hunts?" Gordon challenged.

Sam kept his expression neutral. The Coalition's subtle interventions were working perfectly - keeping hunters away from situations they weren't equipped to handle, without ever revealing why.

"Think we'll be heading to Minnesota soon?" Jo asked, genuinely curious about hunter business.

"Probably not," Sam answered, knowing some battles were better not fought directly.

Dean came in from working on the Impala, grease-stained and satisfied. "Baby's running perfect now," he announced, dropping into a chair near Sam. His wrapped sword hummed contentedly.

Ash emerged from his back room, muttering about electromagnetic interference. Sam felt that twinge of guilt again at destroying another monitor, but the patterns Ash was tracking were getting too close to certain truths.

"You know," Jo said suddenly, "more hunters have been stopping by lately. Dad says it's good for business."

Sam nodded, appreciating how the Harvelles' partial awareness let them rationalize the increasing supernatural traffic.

They saw what they needed to see - a successful hunter's bar growing in reputation. Not a gathering point for ancient beings building a silent network of protection and information.

Gordon's complaints about Minnesota faded as he moved on to other topics, but the warning had been delivered.

Hunters would avoid that area, never knowing they were being protected from forces beyond their understanding.

This was how you changed destiny - not with grand gestures or direct confrontation, but with subtle movements and careful manipulation of seemingly random events.

Let Heaven believe their memory wipe had secured their plan. Let Hell think their chosen vessel was developing as intended. Let both sides focus on their prophecies and predetermined roles.

The real power was in what they didn't see. In the quiet gathering of ancient beings who'd learned to hide in plain sight. In the careful orchestration of events that seemed too minor to notice.

Sam returned to his algebra homework, playing his role as the teenager he appeared to be. Around him, his carefully assembled network continued their subtle work, each piece moving exactly as he'd planned.

Sometimes the best way to rewrite destiny was to make everyone look the wrong way while you changed the story entirely.