The next day, Sam was back at the library, ploughing through old books and newspapers. It was late night closing, the gas lamps were on, and Sam decided to stay until he had the answer.

He looked up as Dean entered the library and strode over to his side.

"I think I've found it," said Sam.

He thrust a faded newspaper under Dean's nose. "I've found it. I think. Way back in 1885. It all started when the Isere, a French ship carrying the Statue of Liberty, sunk in the Atlantic."

"The what?" asked Dean impatiently, only half listening. This wasn't the time for a history lesson. Drew was downstairs waiting for them and he wanted to wind Sam up and get moving.

"Some French guy built this huge statue as a present to America. It was supposed to stand in new York Harbour for every new arrival to see—a symbol of liberty. But it never got here, it sunk. But that's not the important thing. What matters is who else was on that boat. Edison and Tesla, two men who were trying to develop an alternative energy to steam power. But when they went down with the boat, the project died with them."

"An alternative to steam power? Sounds like science fiction," laughed Dean.

"I'm not completely sure that was the beginning, though," said Sam, turning back the pages of even earlier newspapers. "I mean, I'm guessing that was important, but... Why were both men on the boat in the first place...?" His voice trailed away as he lost himself in the pages in front of him.

Restless, Dean wandered over to the window and looked out over the darkened town. He sucked in his breath.

"Got it!" said Sam, at exactly the same moment Dean said, "We've got trouble."

"What do you mean?" asked Sam.

"We've got company," said Dean, grimly. He gestured to the window.

Sam got up and went to join him. He stared, unable to believe his eyes.

Demons swarmed the streets of the small town. Some wore heavy black cloaks, dark and threatening. Most, even more alarmingly, were dressed in ordinary clothes—jeans, shirts, short dresses. They sniffed the air, pausing outside doors and windows. Hunting for prey. Or were they hunting for Sam?

Dean stood back against the wall, peering down through the second floor window, into the street below. If only he had his Demon Colt, he could have taken down a dozen before they reached the front door. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed as he tried to follow the demons' progress through the night. The only light came from the full moon and the glow of blood red eyes.

"We need to get out of here," urged Dean. "Bring whatever it is you've found with you and let's go. Drew's got the Colt with him downstairs, but he won't be able to hold them off for ever."

As he spoke, a shot rang out from the floor below and a demon wearing a red skirt and a fluffy lemon coloured jumper disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"There are too many of them," said Sam in a flat tone. "I'm going to call on Castor and ask him to take me back to 1885. I've got to try and fix this at the source."

"You're going to stop that boat from sinking?" asked Dean, raising his eyebrows.

"No. I'm going to an English football match," Sam answered. He showed Dean the faded photo. "On the fourth of April 1885, Queen's Park football club defeated the favourites, Blackburn Rovers, six goals to nil. There was a riot."

Dean looked utterly confused. "So?"

"One of Queen's Park's biggest supporters, Lord Louis De'Mond, made a fortune at the time, betting against the odds. He went on to become the owner of the club, but not only that, he was a keen advocate of the new energy source called 'electricity.' He paid for Edison and Tesla to come to London to discuss their theories with him, promising to provide financial backing if he liked what they presented."

"And did he?"

"No. Apparently he said the whole idea was impractical. Edison and Tesla left immediately on the first ship, which happened to be the Isere, refuelling at Southampton."

"All very fascinating, no doubt," said Dean with a touch of sarcasm. "But what has that got to do with demons?"

Sam shook the paper again. "Look at this photo of the winning team, Dean. What do you see?"

"A bunch of guys with moustaches wearing old fashioned clothes?"

"Look at the photo, again," pressed Sam. "Look at their eyes," he added impatiently. "They're all demons. Every last one of them. I'm betting that whatever else electricity was, it was a threat, so they eliminated it before it could be developed. And then, as soon as another scientist looked like inventing something dangerous to them, they killed them."

Sam closed his eyes and focussed his thoughts, sending the gist of his research and his conclusions mentally to Castor. Less than a minute later, Castor himself appeared in the library, his black feathered wings just ruffling the newspapers before he folded them neatly against his back.

"Are you certain you want to do this, Sam?" was all he asked, looking intently at Sam. "If the world changes too much, you may not be able to come back here."

Sam nodded, gesturing to the demons swarming in the street. "I don't think I have any other choice. If I stay, we'll all be demon fodder."

Pausing only to shake Drew's hand and give Dean a self-conscious hug and a couple of hearty slaps on the back, Sam took Castor's hand. Angel and man disappeared in the blink of an eye.

~~~

1885—The Oval, Kennington, South London

More than a hundred years earlier, Sam staggered and threw up on the grass. The journey from 2016 had only taken a few moments but that had been enough to turn his stomach inside out, or least to feel like it had.

"Good luck, Sam," said Castor. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Sam wiped his mouth and looked up. "Whatever happens, it's got to be better than the future we had, doesn't it?"

Castor had brought them to a spot within a few hundred yards of the oval. A huge circular structure, which Sam recognised as a gasometer, loomed over them.

"This is April fourth, the day of the FA Cup final," announced Castor. "You've got about an hour before the teams run out onto the field."

He gazed into Sam's eyes for a moment, and said solemnly, "Deus benedicite." He paused, "Goodbye, Sam." Then he vanished.

Sam blinked. He really hoped that "Goodbye" wasn't an omen. He took a deep breath and strode towards the nearest building—he had to find the Queen's Park team fast.

People stared as he walked by. There hadn't been time to change his clothes to something more suitable for the period and jeans hadn't yet become a popular garment. Most of the men here wore cloth trousers, with jackets on top. He pushed through, ignoring the stares, at least the fashions weren't too dissimilar; Dean's sarong for example, would likely have had him arrested. He took hold of a small boy who darted in front of him, keeping a grip on his shoulder.

"Can you tell me where the Queen's Park team is?" he asked, putting his other hand in his pocket and drawing out a small coin.

The boy frowned at his accent but pointed to a building about fifty yards away. "In there, guv."

Sam flicked him the coin and left the boy turning it over and over between his fingers. He smiled to himself, a 2016 American dime would be quite a curiosity here.

Unlike modern times, there were no locks or people guarding the dressing room and Sam walked straight in, unchallenged. He shut the door firmly behind him. Eerily, as one being, the team stopped what they were doing and turned toward him. He'd been right, the whole team of eleven men were demons. Immediately, Sam began to chant, drawing on his demon-blood powers, holding their gaze trapped by his yellow eyes.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..."  The Latin phrases flowed out, filling the room. The demons appeared unable to move and by the time Sam reached the end of the exorcism chant, dark grey smoke was vomiting forth from eleven open mouths. The men fell to the floor, weak and dazed but alive.

"Wh-wha' happened?" asked the Captain, Hamilton, on hands and knees.

"You were drugged," said Sam quickly. "The effects should have worn off by now though. Are you still seeing things?"

"No." Hamilton shook his head, then stared at Sam. "Who are ye?"

"Sam Winchester. I'm American," said Sam, bypassing the question. He put out a hand to help Hamilton to his feet. "Are you still able to play? You're on in about half an hour."

"Drugged, eh? The Rovers?" Hamilton frowned ferociously through bushy eyebrows but Sam shook his head. "Well, never mind about that now. We'll do our best!" Hamilton took out a flask of whisky and proceeded to hand it round to the rest of the team. "Get a swig of that down ye, lads."

Sam left them to it and went outside to join the crowd, ready to watch the match. As far as he knew, he had changed history but he didn't feel any different. He wondered if he should call Castor and ask to be taken home now, but he thought he should wait. What if the result was still six to nil? Would that mean nothing had changed? His head ached just thinking about it.

Sam felt a jolt, like the small shock he got when touching wool, when Jimmy Forrest scored the first goal for Blackburn Rovers. When their Captain, James Brown scored the second goal, Sam felt another, more intense jolt and when the final whistle went, he passed out.

He opened his eyes to see a small crowd standing around him, all wearing cloth trousers. Well, whatever else had happened, he was still in London, in 1885.

Surely that shock must mean the future had changed?

Now it was time to go home. Feeling giddy, he gratefully accepted a hand to get back on his feet. He thanked the man and brushed off his clothes, then made his way back to the place he'd arrived, behind the gasometer.

As he walked, his mind sought Castor's presence. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. Trying not to feel anxious, Sam hurried his steps until he was standing exactly in the spot Castor had left him, less than three hours earlier.

It was like a blank wall, an empty space in his head. No matter how hard he tried to call Castor, there was no response. He stood there all night, telling curious passersby that he was waiting for a friend, but Castor didn't return. A cold lump grew in his stomach. Did Castor still exist in this new world? What about Dean? Drew? In stopping the demon rise, he'd changed the future all too well.

And now he was stuck here, alone, in 1885. His twenty-first century money would be worse than useless, but at least he had the silver dagger to sell, he thought wryly. That should bring enough to pay his fare back home to America. He gritted his teeth, grief would have to wait. He could only comfort himself with the thought that this world had to be better than the one he'd left.

~~~

Almost three months later, on the 17th of July 1885, the Statue of Liberty arrived in New York on the French ship Isere, packed in 214 wooden crates. On the 28th of October 1886, the reconstructed statue was officially dedicated in a private ceremony on Bedloe's Island, after a public parade through the streets of New York. Thomas Edison and Nicola Tesla attended the parade, along with thousands of other interested spectators.

A young man with a checked shirt and grey eyes watched bleakly from the sidelines.