{"@attributes":{"version":"2.0"},"channel":{"title":"The Only Thing To Do Is Jump Over The Moon","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/","description":"The Only Thing To Do Is Jump Over The Moon - LiveJournal.com","lastBuildDate":"Sat, 09 Dec 2023 21:34:18 GMT","generator":"LiveJournal \/ LiveJournal.com","image":{"url":"https:\/\/l-userpic.livejournal.com\/107485928\/33598770","title":"The Only Thing To Do Is Jump Over The Moon","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/","width":"78","height":"100"},"item":[{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/49257.html","pubDate":"Sat, 09 Dec 2023 21:34:18 GMT","title":"To Live on One's Own Terms 5\/5","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/49257.html","description":"

To Live on One's Own Terms<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: The curse is broken. Maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)<\/p>\n

A\/N: Once again, I'm sorry for the lateness. The editing took longer than I thought it would but I'm finally done. Here's the final part.<\/p>\n

Chapter Five<\/ins><\/p>\n

Bobby calls early the next morning. Dean answers the phone quickly while still half asleep \u2013 Sam is sacked out beside him with his face buried in his pillow and Dean doesn't want him disturbed \u2013 and has a hushed conversation that feels more like a dream than reality, until some time later when a knock on the motel door rouses him again.<\/p>\n

Sam jerks awake. He jolts upright in a panic, eyes wide and wild. One of his hands reaches out for Dean, twisting in his t-shirt. Dean covers it with his own and gives it a reassuring squeeze.<\/p>\n

\u201cRelax.\u201d Gently, Dean untangles Sam's fingers. \u201cIt'll be Bobby.\u201d<\/p>\n

He makes sure that Sam has started breathing again, then rolls out of bed and pads over to the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. \u201cWho izzit?\u201d he calls, just in case, and grins back at Sam when he gets a brusque \u201cWho d'ya think it is; the tooth fairy?\u201d in response. Sam gives him a shaky smile in return.<\/p>\n

It is, of course, Bobby, with coffee and a bag of bagels.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh hell yeah,\u201d Dean crows appreciatively.<\/p>\n

Bobby rolls his eyes, handing over the bag and one of the cups. \u201cYou're welcome.\u201d He steps over the salt line and into the motel room.<\/p>\n

\u201cMmm.\u201d Dean drinks deeply, nudging the door shut with his elbow. \u201cThanks, Bobby.\u201d<\/p>\n\n

Bobby hands a cup to Sam and looks him up and down, assessing him. Dean watches Bobby, looking for any hint of concern, but the older hunter seems satisfied by what he sees. \u201cHey, kid. You're looking better.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's head bobs in a nod. He runs a self-conscious hand over his hair. \u201cI feel better,\u201d he confirms.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood.\u201d Bobby nods approvingly. He pulls out a rickety chair from the tiny kitchen table, where Dean has planted himself to begin working through a bagel, and sits down. \u201cAny after-effects?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam hesitates. Guiltily, he glances down at his hands, wrapped around the steaming cup, and his face flushes with embarrassment. His knuckles are red and raw from his meltdown in the rain. \u201cUm. I don't know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Belatedly, Dean hides his arms under the table so Bobby won't see the bruises in the shape of Sam's fists but the gesture doesn't go unnoticed. Bobby's eyes narrow. So do Dean's, warning him not to comment. Sam feels bad enough as it is. He spent a lot of last night trying to apologize, no matter how many times Dean told him that it was okay. Somehow Dean's assurances had only seemed to make Sam feel worse.<\/p>\n

Thankfully, Bobby doesn't mention the bruises or Sam's swollen knuckles. \u201cIt can take a while,\u201d he says instead, \u201cgetting back to normal, after a curse that strong. It makes sense if you're feeling off-balance. Hell, I'd be surprised if you weren't. Try not to worry too much. It'll get better.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam makes an effort to smile that doesn't get further than a twitch of his lips. With a sigh, he drops the attempt. \u201cWhere did Dad go?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

Bobby looks as though he's just been asked the whereabouts of something slimy and putrid. His face scrunches and his lips purse together. He folds his arms across his chest. \u201cHe was headed west when I left him. Found himself a ghoul to hunt out that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods, unsurprised. \u201cI figured,\u201d he says, \u201cthat he'd find a hunt.\u201d For a moment, he's silent, scratching his thumbnail slowly over the surface of the coffee cup, before he takes a breath and asks, hopefully, \u201cDid he say anything? Before he left?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby winces. His eyes slide over to Dean and they exchange helpless grimaces. Dean already knows the answer.<\/p>\n

John Winchester hasn't apologized for a single thing in his life. Why would he start now?<\/p>\n

Bobby shakes his head. \u201cSorry, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam wilts. He doesn't seem surprised by Bobby's answer but he looks crushed by it anyway. His shoulders slump and his eyes drop to the bedsheets and Dean wonders if they've just lost him for the rest of the conversation. He looks about ready to retreat into Sammy-statue land.<\/p>\n

\u201cForget him,\u201d Dean spits, a little desperately. \u201cWe're better off without him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn right you are,\u201d Bobby agrees.<\/p>\n

Sam's nod is small and absently automatic. He stares down at the coffee cup he's holding, breathing out a sigh. \u201cI thought, maybe, after he had some time to think...\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam always has been heartbreakingly good at looking for the best in people.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, well, thinking requires a brain and I'm not so sure your old man's got one of those,\u201d Bobby says, with comfortingly sincerity, which makes Sam smile, just a bit.<\/p>\n

Dean uses the moment of distraction to toss the bagel bag at his brother. \u201cHave some breakfast,\u201d he suggests. And then worries that it sounds more like an order. \u201cIf you want to.\u201d Sam really does need to eat more though. The kid can't just subsist on bites of toast and sips of tea. \u201cWhich you should, because food is good for you.\u201d Then again, Sam shouldn't force himself to eat just because Dean wants him to. \u201cBut you don't have to. Obviously.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's smile almost grows into a grin while Dean ties himself in knots trying to figure out how to word his request-that-is-definitely-not-an-order. \u201cObviously.\u201d He rolls his eyes a little but he does take a bagel from the bag.<\/p>\n

Bobby takes a swig of coffee and leans forward, elbows on his knees. \u201cSo... you boys figured out your next move yet?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks at Dean. Bobby looks back and forth between them.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Bobby says, when their silence has answered his question. \u201cI've been thinking \u2013 and this ain't an order, it's an offer, since I guess we're making that abundantly clear these days - y'all practically have your own room at my place already.\u201d<\/p>\n

That's true. They've been dropping in and out of Bobby's house since Sam was tiny. One day they had arrived to find that one of the rooms had been (mostly) cleared of books and boxes, and a bed had been placed against the wall, made up with fresh sheets and one of the softest blankets Dean had ever encountered. He remembers nights curled up with his chubby toddler brother, falling asleep to the rumble of John and Bobby's voices drifting up the stairs.<\/p>\n

When they grew older and bigger and started spending their nights kicking and shoving at each other for more room, a second bed had appeared. Sometimes other things would show up as well; shoes without holes or a warmer jacket with longer sleeves when one of them had a growth spurt. Bobby would only ever grunt 'Don't mention it' if either of them brought it up. John hadn't liked it \u2013 he'd get surly and defensive if something new was brought to his attention, even if Bobby excused it away as something second-hand and cheap \u2013 but he wasn't likely to notice if it wasn't pointed out. It was often easier to take Bobby's advice and be grateful in silence.<\/p>\n

Bobby looks to Sam. \u201cThere are some decent schools down in Sioux Falls, or so I'm told. We can get you enrolled, soon as you're feeling up to it.\u201d To Dean, he adds, \u201cAnd I wouldn't mind an extra pair of hands helping out around the yard. Room's just going to waste, sitting there empty most of the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean can feel a weight lifting from his shoulders. Desperately, he wants to say 'yes, please' and 'thank fuck' because he's been trying to figure out exactly how he's supposed to get an apartment and, like, a job,<\/em> and he hasn't even thought about getting Sam enrolled in school somewhere before the kid falls any further behind, which is definitely an oversight, and the whole idea of 'the future' may or may not have been causing a series of minor panic attacks. Instead, he looks at Sam, trying to gage his reaction to the offer.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think, Sammy?\u201d It's hard to keep the hope from his voice. \u201cYou wanna go to Bobby's?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam chews on his lip, uncertain. Worried eyes slide from Dean over to Bobby, wary and mistrustful. \u201cWhat training would I have to do?\u201d he asks, dubiously.<\/p>\n

Bobby scoffs. \u201cBoy, I don't give a damn if you pack it all in and become a ballerina,\u201d he declares. \u201cYou're too damn young to be hunting monsters anyway, the both of you.\u201d Bobby must notice the sudden worry that stiffens Dean's spine because he waves an impatient hand at him, as if to brush the concern aside. \u201cI'm not saying that you can't - you're both damn good at it. Better than a lot of hunters I know, and I'm not gonna turn down back-up if it's being offered. I'm just saying, I'm not running some sort of boot camp. If you really want to hunt, I'll teach you what I know. But Sam, if you want to go to school and be a normal kid, then you should go to school and be a normal kid. It's up to you. I ain't gonna make you do anything. Except maybe the dishes, sometimes, 'cause I bloody hate them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't mind doing dishes,\u201d Sam says, perking up considerably. He seems earnestly appreciative of \u2013 and surprised by \u2013 not being tasked with something harder. And the mention of school seems to resonate. There's an optimistic spark in his eyes that has been missing for far too long, something determined and cautiously hopeful. \u201cDean sucks at them though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do not!\u201d Dean protests, pretending not to be thrilled at Sam is ragging on him.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do,\u201d Sam insists. \u201cYou don't wash them properly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, they're just gonna get dirty again anyway,\u201d Dean reasons, just to see the exasperated face Sam pulls in response. For a moment, things feel normal.<\/p>\n

Bobby watches them, lips twitching in amusement. \u201cThat a 'yes' then?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam, despite his obvious delight at the prospect of going to school and being a normal kid for a change, hesitates. He grows sombre again. \u201cI don't want to cause any trouble, or be in the way, or... not pull my weight.\u201d He looks doubtfully at Bobby, like he can't understand why anyone would willingly allow him into their house without first giving him a list of the tasks he has to do to prove his worthiness, which is definitely something that they're going to have to work on. \u201cAre you sure? Really?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wouldn't offer if I wasn't,\u201d Bobby assures him, and then, when Sam still seems uncertain, he adds, \u201cIf you wanna say 'no', just say so. You ain't gonna hurt my feelings.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d Sam says quickly, eyes widening in panic, as if the offer might be suddenly rescinded. \u201cI mean yes. Please. I want to stay with you and go to school and do the dishes. That would be- If that's-\u201d He glances at Dean for approval and maybe for help. He's starting to look distressed, like the process of making this decision is becoming overwhelming. \u201cIf that's okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHell yeah it is,\u201d Dean agrees enthusiastically. He turns to Bobby, quickly taking over the conversation. \u201cWhat are you working on at the moment? Anything cool?\u201d<\/p>\n

They talk cars. (Bobby's fixing up a 1969 Mustang that sounds like she's gonna be sweet <\/em>by the time he's done with her.<\/em>) Sam sits silently on the bed, kind of picking at his bagel and kind of doing that statue impression thing, lost in his own thoughts.<\/p>\n

Dean tries to ignore the pang of sadness that squeezes his lungs, threatening to choke him. He had thought, probably naively, that once the spell was broken, Sam would just go back to normal. Back to being stubborn and opinionated and mouthy. He had thought that Sam would jump at the chance to make his own choices again. Instead, they seem to flummox him, sending him into an anxious tailspin.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't worry,\u201d Bobby says quietly, after Sam has abandoned his half-eaten bagel and retreated into the bathroom to shower. \u201cIt's normal, after being under a curse for so long. He'll readjust.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe's different.\u201d Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth but the words escape anyway. \u201cWhat if the curse did something to him? What if that creature hurt him or changed him or something? You said it was wrapped around his soul, Bobby.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSouls are resilient, Dean. It takes a hell of a lot to damage one.\u201d Bobby reaches across the table and squeezes Dean's wrist. \u201cUnlike the rest of us,\u201d he says pointedly, tugging Dean's arm towards him. He draws closer to inspect the fresh purpling marks that Dean had forgotten he was meant to be hiding.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm fine.\u201d Dean pulls his arm back. The bruises ache a little but they aren't that bad. Hardly worse a rough day of sparring.<\/p>\n

Bobby looks unimpressed. \u201cYou're not fine. You've been though a hell of a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSam<\/em> has,\u201d Dean corrects the older hunter. \u201cSam's the one that-\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby holds up a hand to stop him. Dean falls silent.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're right, the kid's been through the wringer. But so have you. Sam isn't the only one who's been betrayed by someone he trusted.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean shifts in his seat. Bobby is looking at him sympathetically, which is all kinds of awkward (and maybe a little comforting, because yeah, actually, somewhere under all the fiery anger there's a great big ball of hurt. How could John do this? How could he just tear their family apart in this way? Things were... well, maybe not perfect but they were together. They were a family. Now it's ruined.)<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm fine,\u201d he repeats stubbornly. \u201cI'm just worried about Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCourse you are. And you're beating yourself up because John pulled the wool over your eyes. I get it. Things like this happen, you look back and see all the things that you could've done different. All the things you would've done different if you'd known then what you know now.\u201d Bobby heaves a sigh. \u201cLet me tell ya, kid, it won't help. And neither will letting Sam beat you up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn't...\u201d Dean trails off, glancing down at the bruises that make his denial an obvious lie.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, you did.\u201d Bobby shakes his head. Disapproval pinches his face. \u201cAnd did it make you feel any better?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt wasn't supposed to make me feel better.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSam then? Do you think it make him feel better?\u201d Bobby raises a dubious eyebrow. \u201cActually better?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell... no, I don't think so,\u201d Dean concedes. If anything, it had actually seemed to make Sam jumpier. He'd spent the rest of the evening with his arms folded tightly over his stomach, gripping his elbows, as if he expected himself to suddenly lose control and start swinging again if he didn't hold himself down.<\/p>\n

Bobby leans back in his chair. His eyes narrow, his jaw sets, and he looks Dean square in the eye. \u201cDean, this wasn't your fault. You don't deserve a beating, from Sam or from anyone, ever. The only one to blame here is John and it's a waste of time pretending otherwise.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut...\u201d Dean isn't sure how to argue. It feels<\/em> like he should be punished. It feels<\/em> like he messed up in a thousand different ways and like there should be some way to make everything better if he can just somehow atone for everything he did wrong. He just can't figure out how to explain this feeling in a way that sounds logical, not in the face of Bobby's stern reasoning.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou<\/em> figured out what John was doing,\u201d Bobby says. \u201cYou<\/em> made sure it got put right. That's what's important.\u201d<\/p>\n

And Dean can't really argue with that either, except... \u201cDid it really get put right though?\u201d he frets. \u201cHe's so...\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe's in shock,\u201d Bobby asserts. \u201dAnd he's angry and scared and upset and he needs you to be there for him \u2013 as a brother, not a punching bag. Understood?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby's shrewd eyes warn against further argument and, seeing as Dean doesn't think he's likely to convince anyone that, actually, he makes a really good punching bag, he gives in, nodding. Maybe Bobby is right.<\/p>\n

He hopes that Bobby is right.<\/p>\n

\u201cUnderstood,\u201d Dean agrees.<\/p>\n

They have to stop talking because Sam emerges from the bathroom, clean and dressed, and Dean goes to take his own shower. As he closes the door behind him he sees Bobby gesture to his vacated chair. Sam, with nervous obedience that makes Dean feel gut-punched, takes a seat.<\/p>\n

It's tempting to hover, to stand guard, but Bobby dismisses him with a glance and he retreats.<\/p>\n

He trusts Bobby. And somehow, everything feels a little bit less irreparable after talking to him. Maybe he can help Sam, too.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Bobby heads out first, saying something about stocking the fridge and putting fresh sheets on the beds. He squeezes Sam's shoulder, claps Dean on the back, and tells them that he'll see them 'at home', which feels kind of strange but also really good. Dean feels like he's been piloting a crashing plane and Bobby just pointed out a runway.<\/p>\n

There isn't a lot to pack. Dean shoves dirty clothes into their laundry bag. Sam snags their toiletries from the bathroom.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay?\u201d Dean checks in as Sam drifts past him.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're sure? Because all you gotta do is say the word and we'll do something else.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. Thank you, for saying that. For letting me make decisions.\u201d Sam flashes him a smile. It's small but it's real, even if it still seems a little sad. \u201cYou've been really awesome and I know this sucks for you too.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean pauses, surprised by the unexpected acknowledgement. Sam, zipping their toiletries into the duffle bag on the bed, continues before he can figure out a response.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think it will be good, staying with Bobby.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think so too.\u201d Definitely, if a single conversation with Bobby sparks this many words out of Sam. The kid seems a little more at ease. Maybe Bobby managed to calm some of that sense of impending doom like he did for Dean. Even so... \u201cBut if you change your mind, at any point, if you want to leave and go somewhere else, anywhere else, I want you to tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods. \u201cWhat I want matters,\u201d he says, a little haltingly. It has the air of an affirmation, one that Sam wants to be true, even if he doesn't entirely believe it yet.<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn right it does,\u201d Dean agrees.<\/p>\n

Sam hesitates. He toys with the zip on the duffle bag, twiddling it between his fingers. He opens his mouth. Then closes it.<\/p>\n

Dean waits.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you think,\u201d Sam asks tentatively. \u201cIf I... I know I'm failing most of my classes but, if I got my grades back up... I used to have teachers that thought I might be able to get a scholarship.\u201d<\/p>\n

It takes a moment for Dean to unravel what this means. \u201cA scholarship?\u201d he repeats, blankly confused. \u201cYou mean, like... to college?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shrugs, twitchy and nervous. \u201cI don't know if I can, now. I'm really behind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want to go to college?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shrugs again. He runs an anxious hand over his hair. \u201cYeah. I thought, maybe... but I might not be able to catch up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wow. Sam wants to go to college. Like, he really<\/em> wants to go. Dean can tell by the tension in his spine, the anxious disappointment in his voice. Sam won't look at him. His head is down and his shoulders are hunched, like he's just waiting for Dean to shoot him down.<\/p>\n

Dean wonders what John would have done, if Sam had told him about wanting to go to college. There wouldn't be any pride. There definitely wouldn't be encouragement.<\/p>\n

It probably would have been ugly.<\/p>\n

Dean takes a breath. \u201cAre you kidding? Of course you can catch up. You're the smartest kid at every school we've been to.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's eyes dart up, scanning him for sarcasm or condescension. \u201cYou really think so?\u201d he asks, somewhat dubiously.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnyone who doesn't is a moron,\u201d Dean states firmly. \u201cIf anyone can do it, it's you, Sammy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you wouldn't mind? If I went?\u201d Sam sounds even more dubious, watching Dean like he's waiting for an explosion.<\/p>\n

Would he mind? Of course he would. Dean is still struggling to let go of a future that included John Winchester. How can he imagine one without Sam?<\/p>\n

\u201cI'd miss you,\u201d he admits. \u201cI don't know what I'd do, if you left.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou could come too,\u201d Sam suggests, sounding hopeful. \u201cIf I got in somewhere, we could find a place nearby, together. You could get a job doing something safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd give up hunting?\u201d Dean isn't so sure about that. Whatever evil killed their mother is still out there somewhere, along with so many other monsters. There are people to save, things to hunt.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was just an idea.\u201d Sam backs down, far too fast. \u201cIt might not matter. I might not be able to do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fuck it. It's still two years away. They can cross that bridge when they get to it. \u201cDidn't I just say that anyone who thinks you can't do it is a moron? Don't make me call you a moron, Sam. It makes it hard to remind you how smart you are.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam snorts, amused.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're gonna catch up,\u201d Dean says confidently. \u201cAnd you're gonna get that scholarship. And when you do... I'll think about it, okay? At the very least, I'll come and monster-proof your dorm.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam smiles. \u201cOkay,\u201d he agrees. He finally quits fiddling with the zip and hauls the duffle bag onto his shoulder.<\/p>\n

Dean follows his lead and picks up the laundry bag. \u201cYou ready to go drive Bobby crazy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're<\/em> gonna be the one driving him crazy,\u201d Sam retorts. \u201cI'm an angel.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean barks a laugh and slings an arm around Sam's shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're a brat,\u201d he says sincerely. \u201cAnd you're fucking perfect.\u201d<\/p>\n

The End<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get to be adopted by Bobby.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/49257.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/49079.html","pubDate":"Mon, 27 Nov 2023 07:02:38 GMT","title":"To Live on One's Own Terms 4\/5","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/49079.html","description":"

To Live on One's Own Terms<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: The curse is broken. Maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)<\/p>\n

A\/N: Sorry for the wait. I got sick and my brain turned to mush for a few days.<\/p>\n

Chapter Four<\/ins><\/p>\n

Sam, it turns out, has absolutely no idea what he wants to do.<\/p>\n

They finish up at the diner \u2013 Dean leaves a hefty tip to thank the woman serving them for her kindness towards Sam \u2013 and return to the motel to figure out their next move but this is where they get stuck.<\/p>\n

Sam doesn't know where he wants to go. Dean suggests heading to Bobby's salvage yard, tosses down Pastor Jim's place as a possibility, and floats the idea of just getting in the Impala and seeing where she takes them. Sam is quietly non-committal, shrugging indecisively. He grows steadily more distressed the more Dean tries to work an answer out of him, twisting his hands together and shrinking in on himself, no matter how calm and casual Dean tries to keep the conversation. When Sam's breathing starts to speed up, threatening tears, Dean drops it and turns on the TV. There's no rush. Sam can take time to sort out his head if he needs it.<\/p>\n\n

They squash themselves onto the bed and watch terrible daytime television. Sam stretches out on his stomach with his head at the foot of the bed, rested on folded arms. He's still coughing every now and then but it doesn't sound as rough as it once did. Dean sits at the head of the bed, next to Sam's socked feet, and offers up his opinions on the scandalous actions of soap opera characters, whether or not he could make a passable imitation of the dish being prepared by an annoyingly perky TV chef, and which of the products being advertised looks the most enticing. Occasionally, Sam adds his own thoughts to the one-sided conversation but mostly he's quiet and distracted and sad.<\/p>\n

They eat lunch at the diner, practically in silence. Sam picks at his food, slow and dreamy, and Dean leaves him alone with his thoughts. Sam will talk when he's ready, hopefully. Dean tries not to imagine a world where he has to press his brother to speak rather than beg him to shut up.<\/p>\n

Sam doesn't get any more talkative as the day goes on. By late afternoon he's restless. He fidgets with the bottle of Gatorade Dean presses on him, peeling off the label and tearing it into confetti. He can't stay still, shifting around on the bed, sitting up, lying down. The TV doesn't hold his attention. By half past four, Sam is on his feet and pacing the room, running his hands over his short hair, tapping his fingers against his thighs.<\/p>\n

\u201cBored?\u201d Dean asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, it's not that.\u201d Sam folds his arms across his chest, maybe in an effort to stop the nervous fidgeting. He grips his forearms in a desperate sort of self-hug. \u201cIt's just... I'm slacking off. I should be doing something.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fuck. Dean has to swallow a surge of anger. This isn't right. It's not fair. The curse is broken and John isn't even here but he's still messing with Sam's head. \u201cYou're allowed to slack off,\u201d Dean soothes him. \u201cIt's fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's not.\u201d Sam shakes his head, a little frantically. His fingers are going to leave bruises on his arms, he's clenching them so tightly. \u201cI can't just sit around. I have to do something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don't,\u201d Dean insists, sitting up straight. Sam is shifting anxiously from one foot to the other and his breathing is growing choppy and distressed. \u201cSam, it's okay. You've been working so hard for so long; you deserve a break.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no, it isn't- It's not okay.\u201d Sam's eyes dart to the door, like he wants to make a break for it. \u201cIt's- I can't shirk my responsibilities. I can't slack off. Someone will get hurt, or killed, or- something. I don't know, but it'll be bad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa, Sam.\u201d Dean gets to his feet, hands raised in a mollifying gesture. His own heart is starting to race now, like Sam's panic is contagious.\u201cThat's not true. Bad things don't happen just because you don't practice Latin.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shakes his head again, desperate now. His nails are digging into his forearms. \u201cYou don't get it,\u201d he accuses Dean angrily. \u201cI have to- I need- You don't understand!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, yeah,\u201d Dean quickly concedes, because Sam is practically vibrating with frustration and agreeing with him seems like the fastest way to calm him down. \u201cThat's probably true.\u201d He licks his lips, barely resisting the urge to drag Sam away from the door and force him into bed, something he's been doing since Sam was tiny and incapable of understanding that the cure for exhaustion is sleep. The kid just looks so damn small, standing there in his socks and sweats and baggy t-shirt, and young, and worn, and still kind of ill; really in no state to train.<\/p>\n

Dean swallows his misgivings. \u201cWhat do you want to do then?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

Sam is stunned into stillness. He frowns, faintly confused, as if it's only now occurring to him to want something, rather than waiting for someone else to give him something to do. He has to take a moment to think about it.<\/p>\n

\u201cRun,\u201d he says finally. Cautiously. Almost defiantly. Like he's expecting to be told no. \u201cI want to go for a run. I need to.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is disappointed but not surprised. He'd been holding on to a vague thread of hope that Sam would suggest something indoors, like memorising sigils or cleaning the weapons in the Impala's trunk, but he'd known that it was a long shot. Sam's daily runs have been such a constant that the oddity of his sudden inactivity even has Dean feeling on edge. He isn't really used to sitting around this much either, accustomed as he is to spending most of his time following leads for John, chasing up witnesses, or tracking down rare spell ingredients.<\/p>\n

But the last thing he wants is Sam literally running himself back into the ground when he's only just stopped acting like an elderly asthmatic, coughing and wheezing and staggering about. Sam should be resting, drinking fluids and eating comfort foods. Sam should be enjoying the end of John's ridiculous rules and refusing to complete any of the tasks that were forced on him. He shouldn't be working himself into a panic over taking a few days off.<\/p>\n

There is no way that Dean can refuse though. How could he? Sam hasn't made many requests since regaining the ability to speak up for himself and Dean sure as hell isn't going to be turning him down. In all honesty, Sam could ask for a pony right now and Dean would find a way to get him a damn pony.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, let's go for a run then.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d Sam's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. \u201cYou're not gonna tell me that I'm being ridiculous and should be in bed?\u201d<\/p>\n

This is exactly what Dean wants to tell Sam. Instead, he shrugs. \u201cFuck it. You wanna run, let's run.\u201d<\/p>\n

So they go. They dig out their running shoes and head out to burn off some of Sam's nervous energy.<\/p>\n

For a kid who could barely get out of bed a few days ago, Sam is fast<\/em>. A lot faster than Dean expects him to be. Even with his longer stride, Dean has to push himself to keep up and even then Sam starts to pull ahead after a couple of blocks. Dean finds himself trailing a few paces behind, staring at the back of Sam's head and mourning the loss of his brother's long locks. He hardly recognises Sam from the back, with his hair shorn off, exposing his neck and his ears and the unfamiliar shape of his head. It's jarring. Like looking at a stranger.<\/p>\n

Sam is different in other ways, too. John tried to turn him into someone else, and Dean is scared that maybe he succeeded. This Sam is brittle and bewildered, uncertain about how to act or what to do without instruction. He isn't the stubborn, opinionated teenager that used to speak his mind and moan about their workload and talk Dean into skiving off so they could do dumb fun things that John would disapprove of. Who could be broody and grumpy and annoying but also smiled easily and laughed at Dean's stupid jokes and made stupid jokes of his own and talked Dean's ear off about inane things like the life cycle of stars or the origins of Halloween.<\/p>\n

God, what if this change is permanent? What if Dean has lost his little brother to their father's sorcery? He'll never forgive John. Or himself.<\/p>\n

Dean grits his teeth and shoves aside the fatalistic thoughts. Sam will be okay. He just needs time. His hair will grow out and he'll remember how to be himself again.<\/p>\n

Dean doesn't know how long they run for. He loses himself, for a while, in the sound of their feet slapping the pavement and the wind rushing past his ears, his heartbeat thudding in his chest. Eventually though, his lungs begin to burn and the sky starts to grey and Sam still hasn't turned back towards the motel. Dean glances up to inspect the clouds. They look heavy, looming threateningly above them.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey!\u201d he calls. \u201cIt's gonna rain. We should head back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam doesn't alter his path. He keeps going, like he doesn't hear Dean yelling after him, even though he certainly does. Dean lets it slide, even though he can feel a stitch forming in his side. (How many times did Sam run with a stitch in his side? With his lungs burning, his muscles screaming?) The clouds grows darker and the wind is gaining strength. A few minutes later Dean feels the first sprinkling of rain.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam!\u201d he tries again, raising his voice to be heard over the weather. \u201cLet's turn around. We're gonna get drenched.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam carries on. Dean doesn't know what to do. On one hand, he's sort of thrilled that Sam is being so deliberately disobedient. On the other hand, it'd be nice if Sam would be defiant in a way that doesn't endanger his health.<\/p>\n

Dean jogs along, a few steps behind Sam \u2013 who barely seems winded at all, despite not being at full strength \u2013 and weighs his options. He could let Sam keep going, wait for him to wear himself out... but does Sam even remember how to recognise his own limits? What if he just keeps going and going until he drops?<\/p>\n

The rain is getting stronger. Fat drops splatter the concrete and start to soak into Dean's clothes. The cold begins to work its way to his bones. He can't let Sam stay out in this. He'll end up with pneumonia or something.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam!\u201d Dean digs deep and finds a burst of speed, drawing level with his brother. Sam doesn't acknowledge him. He's focused on the road ahead, ignoring the rain and the wind and Dean. \u201cSam, we should go back,\u201d Dean implores him.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck you,\u201d Sam spits.<\/p>\n

Ouch.<\/p>\n

But also, Dean is relieved. This is good. Painful \u2013 Sam's sharp words are a stab to the gut \u2013 but good. More like the little brother he remembers. He's been expecting this. Hoping for it even. Waiting for Sam to shake off some of the shock and come at him for taking so long to figure things out. The desperate gratitude in the kid's eyes whenever Sam looks at him has been churning Dean's stomach.<\/p>\n

Of course, Sam being Sam, he just has to pick the most inopportune time.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're gonna get sick again,\u201d Dean tries pointing out, reasonably.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow you care,\u201d Sam scoffs, nostrils flaring. He swipes rain out of his eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI always cared,\u201d Dean protests, and, finally, Sam comes to a stop but only so that he can turn on Dean and shove him, hard. Dean actually stumbles back a step.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why didn't you do anything!\u201d Sam yells. His face crumples, dropping the steely demeanour, and he shoves Dean again. \u201cWhy did you just stand there and watch? Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you help me?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean dodges a fist that comes at his face, then one aimed at his gut. He barely avoids a kick to the kneecap. He still has almost a foot on Sam but fuck, the kid is quick. And wily. He's making up for his lack of height by fighting dirty, faking rights and throwing lefts, ducking under Dean's outstretched arms to go for the kidneys, the soft flanks. He even aims a knee at the family jewels that Dean only just manages to knock aside. The rain isn't enough to hide the tears that are streaming down Sam's face.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm sorry.\u201d Dean barely blocks a jab at his throat. His own eyes fill. If only he could go back in time. If only he could stop John sooner. \u201cI'm so fucking sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't want you to be sorry!\u201d Sam cries. His fist skims Dean's cheekbone. \u201cI wanted you to do something!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d Dean dodges a swinging arm. \u201cI'm sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam lets out a frustrated growl and doubles his efforts to attack. Dean doesn't really try to stop him. He takes some glancing blows, blocking the ones that look really violent. What are a few bruised ribs in exchange for Sam's sanity? Obviously the kid needs to hit someone right now. Dean can take it. Anything Sam needs, he'll do it, right down to playing a punching bag.<\/p>\n

Anyway, he deserves it.<\/p>\n

Eventually though, Dean starts to worry that, just like with the running, Sam won't know when to stop. His blows get sloppier and more erratic and he's crying so hard Dean's not sure he can even see. The rain has soaked both of them to the skin and shows no sign of letting up. Neither does Sam. He just keeps going, like he's willing to beat Dean to a pulp or die trying, literally, and Dean is getting a little freaked out. Not because he thinks Sam is going to hurt him, but because Sam is surely going to hurt himself if he keeps this up.<\/p>\n

So when Sam swings at him again, Dean surprises him by latching on to his wrist. He uses Sam's own momentum and a quick side-step to get behind his brother and pull him into a bear hug. He grabs Sam's other wrist and pins his arms to his chest.<\/p>\n

Sammy is tough but he's also sixteen and kind of scrawny, and Dean is twenty and has all the bulk and muscle that goes with being an adult who hasn't been working himself into the ground. With his back pressed flat against Dean's chest and his wrists trapped in Dean's hands, Sam has no where to go. He screams and throws his head back, trying to smack Dean in the nose. He isn't tall enough. He tries to twist his hands free, jabbing elbows at Dean's stomach. Dean grips him tighter, pressing Sam's skinny arms against his sides where they can't do any damage. When Sam resorts to stamping on his feet, Dean hooks one of his legs around Sam's and brings them both to the ground, as gently as he can.<\/p>\n

Sam swears at him. He struggles and scratches at Dean's hands, thrashing violently and slamming his head back against Dean's collarbone. Dean holds him tightly and apologizes over and over and promises that he's going to make everything better, that it's going to be okay, it's all going to be okay, until, finally, Sam gives up the fight. He goes limp, breathing heavily and maybe still crying, and maybe Dean is crying too because everything is so fucked but at least Sam is here and trying to beat the crap out of him. At least Sam is here.<\/p>\n

They sit on the pavement in the rain for longer than is sensible, in an awkward kind of embrace that is half comfort half restraint, until they both calm down. When Sam starts to shiver Dean takes it as a cue to get moving again.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think we should take this chick-flick moment somewhere dry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam sniffs. He tugs one of his hands free \u2013 well, Dean releases it, warily \u2013 and scrubs at his face. \u201cOkay,\u201d he agrees.<\/p>\n

They untangle themselves. Dean's foot has fallen asleep. He jiggles it vigorously. Sam waits, rubbing his arms in an effort to warm up. Without another word, they turn back to the motel. Falling into step with each other, they walk quickly, heads bowed against the rain.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d Sam says, after a while.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't be,\u201d Dean rubs surreptitiously at a bruise forming on his side. \u201cI deserved it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you didn't.\u201d Sam shakes his head. \u201cYou didn't curse me. I'm not mad at you. Not really.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's okay if you are,\u201d Dean assures him, even as something loosens in his chest. He wouldn't blame the kid if he held this against him for the rest of forever but Sam sounds sincere. This fucking kid.<\/p>\n

Sam sighs, deep and exhausted. He sweeps rainwater out of his eyes and runs a hand over his hair. \u201cI want to hit Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his elbow. \u201cMe too, Sammy.\u201d<\/p>\n

To Be Continued<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get to hug Dean in the rain.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/49079.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48814.html","pubDate":"Sat, 18 Nov 2023 02:53:43 GMT","title":"To Live on One's Own Terms 3\/5","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48814.html","description":"

To Live on One's Own Terms<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: The curse is broken. And maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)<\/p>\n

Chapter Three<\/ins><\/p>\n

Sam is already awake when Dean opens his eyes the next morning but he hasn't gotten out of bed. He isn't drifting, like Dean is tempted to do. Sleep tugs on his eyelids and the urge to press the snooze button on responsibility is strong. He could do with, like, another month of rest. But Sam is doing his statue impression, lying motionless on his back and staring at the ceiling, and if Dean leaves the kid alone with his thoughts for too long who knows what might happen?<\/p>\n

Dean studies his brother through slitted eyes. Sam looks better than he has in days. Healthier, at least. He still seems somewhat lost and shell-shocked \u2013 Dean doesn't like the statue thing \u2013 but there's colour in his face. The fever Sam has been rocking looks to have finally broken and exhaustion is no longer bruising his eyes. He seems to be lost in thought, unaware that he's being observed, but after a moment he speaks.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't know what to do. Usually there's a whole list of things I have to get done and now there isn't.\u201d Sam frowns at the ceiling. \u201cAnd I can't think of what to do. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, if I'm not doing what Dad says. I can't remember what I used to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

This is a lot for first thing in the morning. Dean scrubs sleep out of his eyes. \u201cWhat's the time?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam glances towards the alarm clock. \u201cJust after eight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n

It's basically the crack of dawn, as far as Dean is concerned. He bites back a yawn. \u201cOkay. How about we start with breakfast? Are you hungry?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam considers this. \u201cI guess so,\u201d he says, without enthusiasm. Dean can't actually remember when the kid last ate more than a mouthful though so he'll take a lacklustre 'yes' if that's all that's on offer.<\/p>\n

He lets Sam have the first shower, of course. Well, he insists, kind of, while also trying to make clear that Sam absolutely has the right to refuse and tell Dean to get fucked if Dean ever tries to get him to do anything that he doesn't want to do. He ends up getting himself confused and flustered and Sam actually smiles a little, amused, as he accepts the offer without complaint.<\/p>\n

There's a diner across the road. It's small and quiet and the waitress is the grandmotherly type, who looks kindly at Sam and calls him 'sweetheart' and brings him tea with honey in it on the house after hearing how scratchy his voice is.<\/p>\n

Sam blushes and ducks his head as he murmurs his thanks and manages to look completely adorable, even without the long hair that was always flopping in his face and falling in his eyes and making older women trip over themselves to mother him. Maybe it was never about the hair. Maybe Sam, with his ill-fitting hand-me-downs and shy smile, just looks like a kid in need of mothering.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis feels wrong.\u201d Sam pushes eggs around his plate. \u201cLike I'm forgetting to do something really important.\u201d<\/p>\n

One of his knees is bouncing up and down anxiously under the table. He keeps twisting his fork around and around in his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're forgetting to eat,\u201d Dean points out. \u201cThat's pretty important.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam rolls his eyes but he takes a bite. He chews slowly.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen did you figure it out?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

Guilt, hot and prickly, rises in Dean's stomach. His mouthful of eggs and toast loses its flavour and he has to force himself to swallow. \u201cI knew something was really wrong when you cut your hair.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen Dad<\/em> cut my hair,\u201d Sam corrects him, sourly. \u201cIt wasn't my idea. He made me say that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight.\u201d Dean nods quickly. \u201cSorry. That... that must've sucked.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam stabs at a bit of toast. \u201cIt all sucked,\u201d he says, glaring down at his plate. \u201cIt was horrible. Like being a doll or a robot or something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you were possessed,\u201d Dean admits. \u201cI knew you weren't acting right. I thought something must've gotten under your skin \u2013 I was researching all kinds of creatures.\u201d He's annoyed at himself now, for all the time he wasted going down the wrong track. He should have known that something was up when John refused to even entertain the possibility of a problem, insisting that Sam was just fine, even though he obviously wasn't. \u201cI just... I never thought Dad would stoop so low. Not until I found that book and that spell and then, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to fit. I was only sure when you hit me instead of listening to me but then you listened to Dad straight away.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam winces guiltily, glancing up from his plate to frown at Dean's jaw. The bruise is starting to lose its purplish hue today, beginning to turn to a greeny-yellow at the edges, and it only hurts a little bit to chew. Sam has a hell of a right hook. John must have made him practice it a lot.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d Sam offers. \u201cI didn't mean to. I couldn't stop myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean shrugs. \u201cYou probably should have hit me earlier,\u201d he says. \u201cMaybe it would've knocked some sense into me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The corner of Sam's mouth quirks up, just a little. \u201cMaybe,\u201d he agrees.<\/p>\n

Sam is joking, but he's also not. There's anger lurking in his eyes, bright and bitter. Most of it is probably for John, sure, but some of it is for Dean. There's a stiffness between them; something tight and tense and hurt that has been growing for months. It must have been infuriating for Sam, waiting for Dean to notice that something was wrong. How lonely and scared and hopeless must the poor kid have felt as the weeks went by and Dean went on with life, oblivious?<\/p>\n

He's lucky Sam didn't throttle him in his sleep.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought something was off, earlier,\u201d Dean tries to explain. He feels horribly inadequate. Somehow he has messed up the most important job he has. He let down the only person that matters and nothing he says can make up for it. \u201cThings were weird when you and Dad came back from that hunt. But then, I just... I just thought that you'd been fighting. You wouldn't talk to me so I talked to Dad \u2013 he pretty much blew me off, too, but he acted so normal<\/em>. Like he did nothing wrong.\u201d Dean shakes his head. He can't understand it. How could John have been so unfazed after cursing his own son?<\/p>\n

\u201cMm. He was good at that,\u201d Sam muses. He leans an elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. \u201cHe did it with me as well. Just pretended like nothing had happened. It drove me crazy. Sometimes it felt like he'd forgotten that I couldn't say no.\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly, Dean feels cold. A horrible new thought has crept its way up his spine. \u201cIt wasn't, like- I mean, he didn't ever...?\u201d<\/p>\n

John wouldn't.<\/p>\n

Would he?<\/p>\n

The world is upside down. Who knows what John is capable of?<\/p>\n

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. \u201cThere wasn't anything, like, uh - because you can tell me, if there was \u2013 but there wasn't, right? I mean, he didn't do anything...?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything what?\u201d Sam prompts, looking confused as Dean trips over his words.<\/p>\n

Dean clears his throat again, lowering his voice. \u201cAnything sexual<\/em>?\u201d he finally gets out.<\/p>\n

Sam's mouth drops open and his eyes flash wide with surprise. He drops his fork and draws back in the booth, away from Dean. \u201cWhat? No!\u201d His face flushes and he ducks his head, glancing furtively around the diner to see if anyone else heard the question (that obviously shouldn't have been asked in such a public setting, come on, Dean, what's the matter with you?). Luckily, no one is paying them any attention. \u201cNo, that's not... that's not what he wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's shock is a serious relief.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight. Sorry. Fuck.\u201d Dean rubs both his hands down his face.<\/p>\n

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat. \u201cHe, um... he mostly just gave me stuff to do. Like running and studying Latin and stuff.\u201d Sam picks up his fork but he just uses it to poke at what's left on his plate. \u201cAnd I wasn't allowed to complain or tell you - or anyone else - about the spell. Obviously.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI should have noticed.\u201d Dean grits his teeth, freshly furious with himself. \u201cI should have realized.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. \u201cHe didn't really give me many orders in front of you. He liked to save it for when you were out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen I should've stayed with you,\u201d Dean says fiercely. \u201cI knew something was wrong. I should've stuck around until I figured it out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam probably agrees because he doesn't even bother with a half-shrug this time, just toys with his fork, lightly scraping it back and forth on his plate. Dean thinks he's using it as an excuse not to look him in the face. \u201cI wasn't allowed to ask you to stay either.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean's hand tightens around his own fork. It threatens to bend under the weight of his anger.<\/p>\n

He had gone to John, worried and confused, because Sam was pulling away from him, because the kid was starting to spend all his time buried in books or pounding the pavement, taking an unnaturally intense interest in getting stronger, faster, becoming a perfect shot, a perfect fighter, a perfect hunter, and John had laughed as if Dean was a little slow. He'd pointed out that Sam was getting older now. Obviously, he didn't need his big brother around all the time, and of course he was starting to take his duties more seriously; that's what growing up is all about.<\/p>\n

It had stung but it had seemed to make sense. Dean remembers going through something similar himself around Sam's age; he was almost an adult and thirsty for his father's approval, ready to pack in school and show that he could handle the responsibility of becoming a full-time hunter. Hanging out with a twelve year old had suddenly become a drag and being left behind on babysitting duty had felt like the ultimate insult.<\/p>\n

Teenagers are supposed to be dicks, right? They're supposed to be moody and unpleasant and distant. Dean definitely had been. It hadn't been hard for John to convince him that Sam was just going through a phase.<\/p>\n

Why - why<\/em> \u2013 does he have to be such a moron? How could he have fallen for John's bullshit? Maybe, if he'd been less worried about his own precious feelings and more concerned about Sam, this would have been fixed months ago.<\/p>\n

It must have been intentional. Part of John's plan. He must have known that Dean would grow suspicious and he must have spent time thinking up explanations for Sam's behaviour. It makes bile rise in the back of Dean's throat, imagining John Winchester studying the curse in secret, planning how best to ambush Sam, manipulating Dean with carefully crafted lies until he was avoiding his own brother, resenting Sam for abandoning him when really he was the one abandoning Sam, leaving the kid alone with a monster.<\/p>\n

\u201cBobby should have let me pound Dad's face in,\u201d Dean spits. \u201cI'm going to, if I ever see him again.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam blinks. The bridge of his nose crinkles in confusion. \u201cAren't we going back?\u201d<\/p>\n

Now Dean is confused. \u201cWhy would we?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

Sam stares at him like he's not making sense. \u201cBecause... it's Dad.\u201d Sam takes a breath. He finally stops playing with his fork and abandons it on his plate. His hands twist nervously in his lap and he drops his gaze back down to the table. \u201cAnd I know how to behave now. I won't cause trouble again. Dad won't have to use witchcraft.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's eyes are flat and far away. His shoulders hunch, drawing in on himself, and Dean wants to stab something. He wants to track down John Winchester and throw him up against a wall, scream in his face and demand to know what the hell he was thinking. He wants to beat the answers out of him and then keep beating him because there's nothing John could possibly say that could make up for what he has done.<\/p>\n

Dean uncurls his hand from his fork \u2013 it's pressing a grove into his palm \u2013 and sets it down on his plate, which he pushes aide, giving up completely on the idea of finishing his food. Instead of yelling and screaming and hitting something like he really, really wants to do, Dean presses his palms to the table and leans forward, searching Sam's far-away eyes for some sign of his little brother.<\/p>\n

\u201cSammy, listen to me, okay?\u201d He waits until Sam looks up, locking eyes with his despondent sibling. \u201cWhat Dad did to you isn't okay. You didn't cause any trouble and even if you did, it wouldn't matter. It still wouldn't be okay.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam frowns at him, more confused than ever.<\/p>\n

Dean swallows a sigh. \u201cWe're not going back, Sam,\u201d he explains patiently. \u201cDad hurt you. He set a monster on you and almost got you killed. That thing was wrapped around your soul<\/em>. I'm not taking you back to him. Not today, not next week, not ever. Dad can go fuck himself for all I care.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam looks earnestly surprised by this declaration, which is all kinds of heartbreaking. Did he think that Dean would back their father? Forgive John and return to him, despite the horror Sam has been through? Does Sam think he deserved what John did to him?<\/p>\n

Sam pulls his hands inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt and leans back in the booth, chewing his lower lip as he digests Dean's words. A myriad of emotions play over his face. Doubt wars with relief and confusion bleeds into concern. He looks up at Dean, baffled.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut... what are we going to do?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

Dean shrugs, a very casual shrug, as if this very question hasn't been tormenting him. Sam is barely holding it together as it is and he might just lose it completely if he realizes that Dean is as clueless as he is about what comes next.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe'll figure it out.\u201d Dean makes himself smile. \u201cWe can do whatever we want.\u201d<\/p>\n

To Be Continued<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get given tea with honey in it.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48814.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48530.html","pubDate":"Thu, 09 Nov 2023 20:27:41 GMT","title":"To Live on One's Own Terms 2\/5","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48530.html","description":"

To Live on One's Own Terms<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: The curse is broken. And maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)<\/p>\n

Chapter Two<\/ins><\/p>\n

It's late afternoon by the time Sam wakes up.<\/p>\n

Dean is checking the warding on the windowsill \u2013 and scanning the parking lot for John's truck, just in case \u2013 when he hears a noise behind him. He turns and Sam is standing in the bedroom doorway.<\/p>\n

He looks thin. Dean hadn't fully appreciated, until he'd found himself with an armful of unconscious little brother, just how much weight Sam has dropped. It must have happened gradually, making it harder to notice, but any trace of baby fat has been replaced with lean muscle. Sam is strong \u2013 Dean has the shiner to prove it \u2013 but he lacks bulk. He's all slender limbs, sharp angles. He looks small in his sleep-rumpled t-shirt and sweats.<\/p>\n

\u201cSammy. Hey. You're awake,\u201d Dean states, stupidly. He tries to smile \u2013 that's comforting, right? And encouraging. Like 'hey, I'm happy to see you, out of bed and free of curses, isn't that great?' - but it feels stiff and unnatural.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, yeah.\u201d Sam's eyes flick nervously around the room, towards the second bedroom. He runs a self-conscious hand over his hair, a habit he picked up a couple of weeks ago, after he decided... after John decided to cut it short. \u201cUm, is Dad here?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean shakes his head. He drops his attempt at smiling. (He probably looked deranged anyway.) \u201cNo. Hell no. And he's not coming back here either. Bobby's making sure he leaves town.\u201d<\/p>\n\n

Sam's shoulders drop at least a foot. He sags against the door frame, blowing out a rattled breath. \u201cOkay. Good. That's \u2013 good. I think. I mean \u2013 I don't really...\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam can't seem to figure out what he wants to say. He trails off, biting his lip. He scratches uncomfortably at the back of his neck.<\/p>\n

Dean gestures at the couch. \u201cYou wanna sit?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam seems relieved by the suggestion. He moves immediately to the couch and perches on it, sitting straight-backed and rigid, like a well-trained dog. He looks up at Dean expectantly, like he's waiting to be told what to do next. It's... creepy.<\/p>\n

\u201cUnless you want to go back to bed?\u201d Dean suggests quickly. \u201cIt's okay if you want to sleep some more. I can just, like, watch TV, or something. I don't mind. It's fine. It's up to you. You don't have to sit in here, if you don't want to.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam stares at him, his eyes wide with alarm. One of his hands grips the arm of the couch, tight enough that his knuckles are turning white.<\/p>\n

\u201cI... I don't- I can-\u201d Uncertainly, Sam looks from Dean to the couch to the bedroom. \u201cWhat do you want me to do?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is going to kill his father. \u201cAnything you want, Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d Sam says, as if he'd actually forgotten that this is an option. He bobs his head, a nervous nod. \u201cRight. Okay.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam stays on the couch but he doesn't really relax. He curls himself up. Tucking his bare feet beneath himself, he wraps his arms around his stomach, sinking back into the couch. It's not as creepy as the straight-backed soldier posture but it's just as upsetting.<\/p>\n

Dean had noticed it. After a while. After he had finally started looking. The way Sam finds a seat and hides himself in it, holding himself so still that he blends into the background, breathing slowly, becoming a part of the room.<\/p>\n

He's trying to be invisible.<\/p>\n

Sharp pain stings Dean's palms. His hands have curled into fists and his nails are biting his skin. Is this the only defence Sam had? Sitting motionless and silent and just praying that John wouldn't notice him and give him more insane orders?<\/p>\n

Somehow, Dean doesn't slam his fist through the wall. Instead, he asks, \u201cHow are you feeling?\u201d in what might even be considered a normal sounding voice.<\/p>\n

Sam takes a moment to consider the question. \u201cOkay, I guess,\u201d he says, not entirely convincingly. \u201cLess sick. My head doesn't hurt so much anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want some Tylenol?\u201d Dean offers. \u201cOr a drink? There's Gatorade in the fridge. You want me to get it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUm... I guess?\u201d Sam says it like a question, like he really doesn't know. Dean grabs the Tylenol and the Gatorade and brings them to Sam, pressing them into his brother's hands. Sam murmurs a thanks and swallows the pills with a sip of Gatorade.<\/p>\n

Dean sits down on the other side of the couch, feeling awkward and uncertain. It's all wrong. He's used to pushing pills and fluids onto Sam when he's sick because Sam is historically useless when it comes to taking care of himself, but he's also used to Sam complaining about his 'mother henning' (while Dean shoots back that he is far too manly to do anything called 'mother henning' and what he's actually doing, Sam, is being sensible) and stubbornly insisting that he's 'just fine, Dean' while he does something stupid like ignore a brewing migraine or rising fever. This quiet acceptance is unsettling.<\/p>\n

Sam fidgets with the plastic bottle, his thumb nail worrying at the label. He chews his lower lip, eyes down.<\/p>\n

One of them is going to have to bring up the elephant in the room.<\/p>\n

Dean takes a deep breath. \u201cDo you...\u201d He has to stop and clear his throat when it clogs with trepidation. \u201cDo you wanna tell me about it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's thumb stops moving. He might even stop breathing for a moment because he goes completely still. A statue curled up on the couch. Dean waits, giving him time to organise his thoughts.<\/p>\n

\u201cI keep thinking,\u201d Sam says finally, without looking up from the bottle. Slowly his thumb begins to move again, scratching gently at the label. \u201cAbout what I said to you, before I left for the hunt that night.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean casts his mind back, trying to remember what they had talked about. He'd been annoyed, because his broken leg meant that he was being left behind, and worried, because Sam and John hadn't stopped fighting since the wood nymph disaster and the two of them going off hunting without him to mediate had seemed like an accident waiting to happen. He'd asked Sam to try not to piss John off, which in retrospect seems horrifically cruel, like he was blaming Sam for what was about to happen, and Sam had said... what?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d Dean asks.<\/p>\n

Sam's lips twist into something that almost resembles a smile. \u201cI said I'd be a good soldier and do everything Dad told me to.\u201d He makes a noise that might be a laugh. \u201cThat's kind of funny.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean feels sick. That's right. Sam had promised that he would be obedient and listen to John, right before...<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's not funny at all, Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam does a small one-shouldered shrug. \u201cIt's a little funny.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean shakes his head but he doesn't argue. It feels wrong to argue with Sam right now. \u201cSo... what happened?\u201d he probes, as gently as he can. \u201cAfter you left, what... I mean, there was no ghost, right? You didn't do a salt and burn.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shakes his head. \u201cNo. That's just what Dad said.\u201d He slides his thumbnail under the edge of the label, beginning to peel it away from the bottle. \u201cThere might have been one, once. It seemed like a haunting when I was researching it. But there wasn't a ghost. There was just....\u201d His voice trembles. \u201cThere was a circle. You know the one Bobby drew last night, with all the sigils? Like that. It was already on the floor when we got there. But it was dark and I didn't see it until I was standing in it and then Dad...\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam closes his eyes, swallowing hard.<\/p>\n

Dean can imagine some of what happened next. Something similar to what he'd seen in the barn last night, when John reversed his spell. The glowing symbols, the chanting, the snake-like monster. But he can't imagine the horror of being blind-sided by it. He can't imagine how terrified Sam must have been, realizing what John was doing. How betrayed the kid must have felt. First by his father, for cursing him, and then by his brother, for not even noticing the difference.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat must have been horrible.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods tightly. When he opens his eyes they're shiny and wet. \u201cWas I really that bad?\u201d he asks, anguish crumpling his face. \u201cI know I wasn't a great hunter and I talked back sometimes but I didn't mean- I could've- I would've done better, if I'd known that Dad- that he-\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, hey, no, Sammy, no.\u201d Dean slides across the couch, closing the space between them. He slings an arm around Sam and pulls him into a sideways hug. \u201cYou weren't bad. This wasn't your fault. I don't know what the hell Dad was thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam sniffs. He swipes his hand over his eyes, brushing away the tears that have broken free. \u201cHe said- he said that he did it to keep me safe. That it was for my own good. But I think he liked it. He liked making me do things I didn't want to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean doesn't know what to say. He wants to tell Sam that he must be mistaken, that John would never do anything deliberately to hurt him, but he's no longer sure that that's true. A few weeks ago, he would have sworn up and down that John would never put a curse on his brother. Now, anything seems possible.<\/p>\n

Dean is still trying to put together a response when, somewhere outside, a car door slams and Sam flinches, his face flooding with panic. He fumbles the Gatorade bottle, almost dropping it. Dean jumps to his feet and rushes to the window, pulling the curtain aside to scan the parking lot.<\/p>\n

There's no truck. No hulking figure striding towards their room. Just a small hatchback, parked outside the office. A woman is leaning into the backseat, retrieving a bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's nothing,\u201d Dean tells Sam, letting the curtain drop. \u201cJust some lady checking in.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods jerkily but he doesn't relax. His hands grip the Gatorade bottle so tightly that the plastic crumples a little.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe's not coming back here,\u201d Dean promises. \u201cBut we can leave, if you want. We don't have to stay here. There are plenty of other motels around. Is that- Do you wanna do that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Sam looks startled, like he wasn't expecting to be asked for his opinion. \u201cI don't know. What do you want to do?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean shakes his head. \u201cWhat do you<\/em> want, Sammy? You can decide. Anything you want, we'll do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam looks alarmed, again, like when Dean asked whether he wanted to sit on the couch or go back to bed. His eyes dart back and forth, like he's searching for the right answer. Like this is a test that he might fail and he's petrified of what might happen if he does. The plastic bottle creaks in his hands.<\/p>\n

Dean crosses the room and crouches down in front of his brother. \u201cSammy. Hey.\u201d Gently, he grasps Sam's wrist, rubbing his thumb over the knob of bone. \u201cIf you want to go back to sleep and not decide anything right now, that's fine, too. Or if you really want me to choose, I can do that. I just- I want you to do what you want. Anything you want. Just let me know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam does that jerky little nod again, his head bobbling anxiously up and down. \u201cI want- I think...\u201d He takes a breath. \u201cI want to leave. Can we leave? I don't care where we go, just, can we? Now?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is already back on his feet, grabbing up their belongings.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got it, kiddo.\u201d<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Sam falls asleep in the passenger seat of the Impala.<\/p>\n

Dean keeps the radio turned down low and drives somewhat aimlessly. Vaguely, they're headed towards Sioux Falls and Bobby's Salvage Yard but he isn't sure how Sam feels about actually going there and seeing as Dean is absolutely never going to make Sam do anything that he doesn't want to do ever again, and seeing as Sam isn't awake to ask for his opinion, Dean is left directionless, taking random turns, letting the Impala choose their path.<\/p>\n

Being on the road is soothing, at least. Each passing mile is another mile between Sam and John and the growing distance is loosening something inside Dean's chest, allowing him to breathe again. He doesn't think that John will come after them but he can't be sure (he can't be sure of anything anymore) and it feels safer to be on the move.<\/p>\n

Soon, he'll have to figure out what comes next. What exactly he's supposed to do with himself and the traumatized kid passed out at his side, coughing occasionally in his sleep. But for now he drives and doesn't think about anything because if he does he might just lose his mind.<\/p>\n

Dean drives for hours, until sometime after midnight, when he has to concede that sleep is not something that he can avoid forever, or even for much longer. He checks them in to the first motel he sees. There's only one room left and it only has one bed but Dean is too tired care. He rouses Sam enough to steer him into the room and into bed \u2013 Sam mutters something that sounds unsettlingly like 'yes, sir' when Dean tells him he has to move \u2013 then scribbles some wards onto the windowsills and door frame, fighting against drooping eyelids.<\/p>\n

Finally \u2013 finally<\/em> \u2013 Dean crawls into bed beside his brother. Sam is still running hot, radiating warmth. He's all sweaty limbs, sprawled out and somehow taking up far more of the bed than seems possible. Dean squeezes in next to him and closes his eyes.<\/p>\n

To Be Continued<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48530.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48159.html","pubDate":"Sat, 04 Nov 2023 07:37:59 GMT","title":"To Live on One's Own Terms 1\/5","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48159.html","description":"

To Live on One's Own Terms<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: The curse is broken. And maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)<\/p>\n

\u201cThe greatest joy in life is the ability to live on one's own terms.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chapter One<\/ins><\/p>\n

Sam is barely holding on to consciousness by the time they arrive back at the motel.<\/p>\n

Dean leads him inside and helps him out of his sweatshirt, then kneels to tug off his shoes. Sam watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, silent and half-asleep. He practically collapses sideways onto the bed when Dean applies the slightest bit of pressure to his shoulder.<\/p>\n

Dean fusses with the pillows and blankets, more than he really has to. He just needs to do something to calm his anxious, fidgety hands. He presses the back of one to Sam's forehead \u2013 hot but not too hot, not time-to-freak-out hot, not anymore \u2013 and turns to get water, in case Sam is thirsty.<\/p>\n

Sam's fingers close around his wrist, surprisingly strong. Dean stops, turning back. Sam's eyes are only half-open and struggling even with that but he looks up at Dean with determination.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't go,\u201d he says. Surprise, and then relief, flutters across his face. \u201cStay. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n

Something twists inside Dean's chest. When was the last time Sam asked him to stick around? It seems like forever ago. Fuck, he had missed it. He had missed his annoying, bratty, always-in-his-personal-space kid brother's pleas for his attention. Not just because his ego was bruised, which it was (he likes being Sam's favourite person, okay?), but because he actually really fucking likes hanging out with his annoying, bratty, always-in-his-personal-space kid brother. When had Sam stopped asking him to stay? Was that... was that something that John had forbidden?<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm not going anywhere,\u201d Dean promises.<\/p>\n

Satisfied, Sam concedes the battle with his eyelids. His hand drops, releasing Dean's wrist, and he burrows down into the blankets. \u201cThanks, Dean,\u201d he sighs. Within moments, his breathing has evened out.<\/p>\n

Dean stands next to the bed., looking down at Sam. At his pale face and cropped hair, his long dark eyelashes that look longer and darker than usual, accentuated by his lack of colour and the lack of his trademark bangs.<\/p>\n

It occurs to Dean that he has no idea what to do next.<\/p>\n

Sitting down seems like a start. He pours his exhausted body into the chair beside his sleeping brother's bed and watches Sam's chest rise and fall, slow and steady. He lets his own breathing fall into sync. It's deceptively peaceful. Calm. Like he could close his eyes and this would be any other night after any other hunt, Sam safe and asleep in his bed.<\/p>\n

He needs to come up with a plan.<\/p>\n

Dean scrubs his hands down his face. His mind is numb.<\/p>\n

He needs a next step. A course of action. A strategy.<\/p>\n

His mind is numb and<\/em> uncooperative. Blank. He's stuck. He can't think. For days, weeks, he has been focused on one thing and only one thing: fixing Sam.<\/p>\n

His only goal had been to find the cause of his brother's strange behaviour and put it right. He'd read all the books he could find, looking into all kinds of crazy theories; monsters that infected the mind, towns that drove people to madness, body-swaps, and horrifying creatures like Changelings that stole children and replaced them with uncanny copies. He dove deep into stories of possession, and even into psychiatric disorders when nothing else had seemed to fit. OCD or anxiety or even some sort of psychosis hadn't seemed entirely implausible. He'd made phone calls to everyone he knew, but it was kind of hard to explain that he was worried because Sam was behaving<\/em>. Only Bobby had seemed to understand his concern.<\/p>\n

Now it's over. Done. Fixed.<\/p>\n

Only, Dean had envisioned things ending differently. He hadn't known the answer but he had planned on rubbing it in his father's face when he found it. His father, who kept insisting that Sam was fine. Who didn't seem to notice how freaking weird<\/em> it was that Sam was suddenly training like he was working towards the Olympics and saying 'yes, sir' all the damn time and not in a way that sounded like he actually meant 'go screw yourself'.<\/p>\n

His father, who Dean had been sure would pull his head out of his ass eventually and see that something was wrong with his youngest son.. Who was demanding and oblivious but couldn't possibly be to blame for Sam's weird behaviour, even though, actually \u2013 obviously <\/em>- in retrospect, the weirdest thing about Sam was how determined he had been to please their father. To obey<\/em> their father.<\/p>\n

Dean, because he is stupid and slow and just as ridiculously oblivious as he had thought his father to be, had imagined working together with John to perform some sort of exorcism or destroy a cursed object that had somehow found its way into Sam's hands.<\/p>\n

He had never imagined it ending like this.<\/p>\n

Eventually, after who knows how long sitting at Sam's bedside, thinking himself in circles, Bobby returns. Alone, thank fuck. The knock on the motel door jolts Dean's heart into his throat \u2013 Sam doesn't move, not even a flutter of an eyelash \u2013 but Bobby calls out that it's just him and it settles back into his chest. He tears himself away from Sam long enough to unlock the door.<\/p>\n

A bag of groceries is pressed into his hands; bottles of Gatorade and an assortment of snacks. Dean feels weak with gratitude.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow's the kid?\u201d Bobby asks, without giving Dean time to thank him.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck knows. Not great.\u201d Dean sets the groceries on the table and steps back into the bedroom doorway to check. Sam is dead to the world, sprawled on the slightly-lumpy motel mattress. \u201cHe's sleeping. That's pretty much all he's done since Dad told him he could stop the crazy training schedule.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's a good thing,\u201d Bobby says. \u201cGives his body a chance to recover.\u201d He looks Dean up and down with a critical eye. \u201cYou ought to get some rest as well. You look like crap.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean quirks a smile at Bobby's bluntness. It's probably true, assuming he looks as rough as he feels. Exhaustion has sunk deep into his bones, making them heavy. His eyelids scrape over dry, scratchy eyes. He really should get some rest. But sleeping would require letting Sam out of his sight and he isn't ready for that. Not yet. Maybe not ever again, after this.<\/p>\n

Bobby gathers up John's things; the duffel bag of knives in need of sharpening, some books left behind for Sam to study. Most of John's stuff is in his truck so there isn't a lot to collect. Dean watches from the bedroom doorway, pointing out which things belong to John, and keeps one eye on his brother, in case he stirs.<\/p>\n

\u201cI made sure you boys are paid up for the rest of the week,\u201d Bobby says, as he tosses the last book into the bag, with less care than he usually takes with old tomes. \u201cAnd I got John's word that he won't be back here to bother you.\u201d<\/p>\n

John's word means nothing now. Less than nothing. How many times did John lie to him, straight-faced and unashamed? Dean scowls, face and stomach twisting with acidic betrayal.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't worry,\u201d Bobby says grimly, \u201cI'm planning on escorting him outta town. But I think I made pretty clear what would happen if he didn't make himself scarce.\u201d The knuckles on Bobby's right hand are grazed, Dean realizes. A raw and vicious red.<\/p>\n

He's too tired to unpack how he feels about this. He's grateful and horrified and jealous and worried and it's all jumbled together into a dizzying mess of emotion that threatens to leak out his eyes. He wants to beat John himself and he wants to ask Bobby whether his dad is alright, to make sure his father isn't too badly hurt. Dean leans against the door jamb and washes a hand down his face.<\/p>\n

Way too fucking tired.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks, Bobby. I don't know what we'd do without you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby briskly waves the gratitude aside. \u201cYou don't have to stay here, either,\u201d he continues. \u201cFind another motel if you want \u2013 somewhere John won't find you. Or make your way to the Salvage Yard, if you'd rather. If you need money, you let me know. I got cards you can use.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d Dean swallows. He really is gonna fucking cry if he's not careful. If Bobby keeps being so fucking great. \u201cYeah, I think we'll...\u201d What will they do? \u201cI don't know. I'll talk to Sam. After he's had some sleep. He's pretty wrecked.\u201d<\/p>\n

He glances over at his sleeping brother. Sam hasn't so much as twitched this entire time, despite the conversation going on around him. His only colour is in his cheeks, where splotches of fever still flush his milky-pale skin. 'Wrecked' is an understatement. The kid is barely an improvement on a corpse. Dean's only comfort is that Sam looks better than yesterday, when he'd turned grey and passed out cold, dropping so suddenly that Dean had needed to scramble to catch him before he hit the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cCurse like that ain't easy to shake off,\u201d Bobby says knowingly. \u201cEspecially with all the running himself ragged you say he's been doing. He might be out for a while. You should get some sleep as well.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will,\u201d Dean lies.<\/p>\n

Bobby's frown definitely means that he doesn't believe Dean for a second but he doesn't try to argue. He shoulders John's duffel. \u201cI'll check in soon as I wrap things up with John. You boys need anything \u2013 anything at all \u2013 and you call me. You got that?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean follows Bobby to the door. \u201cGot it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby leaves with John's scant belongings and Dean locks the door behind him. He goes back to the bedroom and double-checks that Sam is still breathing. (He is.) Then he stands there, beside the bed, and remembers the plan that he still doesn't have. Silence settles back into the motel room.<\/p>\n

Suddenly, the weight of everything is too much. It pushes Dean onto his mattress. His knees give out and he sinks down onto the edge of his bed, bent over and gripping his stomach. He feels sick, like he could throw up or pass out or both.<\/p>\n

Sam had been cursed.<\/p>\n

Sam had been cursed by their own father.<\/p>\n

Sam had been cursed by their own father and it had taken Dean months \u2013 months <\/em>\u2013 to see it.<\/p>\n

He wasn't completely stupid. It would have been impossible not to notice when Sam started to take training more seriously. When the kid suddenly dropped his usual routine of bitching and moaning and dragging his feet and just got on with whatever tasks John set for him. It had been strange but not overly concerning. The lack of complaining had actually been somewhat of a relief; a welcome reprieve that Dean had expected to end any day...<\/p>\n

And Dean had known - of course he had known - that something<\/em> was weird between Sam and John. It had been obvious that something had happened between the two of them the night they went off without him to hunt a ghost that it turns out never existed. There was a new, prickly energy in the air when they were in each other's presence, itchy and sharp, and Dean had been sure that he had missed one of their more impressive confrontations. John was aloof and imperious, more so than usual, while Sam had been agitated and upset, though strangely silent whenever Dean asked what the matter was.<\/p>\n

Dean put it all down to that stupid wood nymph. The problems had seemed to track back to that disaster of a night, when that creepy stick monster had slipped past Sam and slammed Dean into a tree, snapping his leg like a twig.<\/p>\n

Sam always has been a sappy kid who likes to blame himself for things that aren't his fault. It actually made sense that he would feel responsible for Dean's injury, especially with John being such a dick about the whole thing. It made sense that Sam was training extra hard because he felt bad about Dean getting hurt, and maybe to get John off of his back. Even though it wasn't Sam's fault that some idiot had written down a bunch of lore that turned out to be bullshit, and it definitely wasn't Sam's fault that Dean had been too busy scrambling to push his kid brother out of the way of the not-burning-like-it-should-be creature to get himself out of the way when it had turned on him instead.<\/p>\n

Personally, Dean had been pretty sure that John was less angry about the faulty lore, which obviously wasn't Sam's fault, and more angry about the fact that Dean would be out of commission until his leg healed - which also wasn't Sam's fault. Sometimes Dean had even thought, traitorously, before telling himself that he was being ridiculous, that John would have preferred it if Sam had been the one who was hurt...<\/p>\n

Fuck. Maybe if Dean had been a better hunter, if he hadn't screwed up and got his leg busted by a goddamn overgrown stick insect, none of this would have happened. John wouldn't have needed a new right-hand man and Sam wouln't have been forced to pick up his slack.<\/p>\n

What if this is all his fault?<\/p>\n

Maybe he was <\/em>completely stupid. Telling himself that tensions between his brother and father weren't exactly a new development and convincing himself that there was nothing to worry about. Reasoning that, well, Sam was sixteen. He was probably just growing up. Thinking about the future. Dean hadn't been much older when he'd dropped out of school and started hunting full time. It hadn't been that unusual that Sam had seemed to lose interest in passing his classes, had it?<\/p>\n

God, what was the matter with him?<\/p>\n

How could he have been so blind? He had wasted so much time being angry. His worry had been tempered by petty irritation. It had stung, when Sam stopped hanging out with him and started, Dean had thought, to try to show him up when they were training together. He hated to admit it \u2013 it was totally unmanly and embarrassing \u2013 but his feelings had been hurt. Sam hadn't exactly been all that nice to him these last few months, blowing him off all the time, snapping at him or refusing to talk to him altogether...<\/p>\n

But that hadn't been Sam's fault, had it? That was part of the spell. And if Sam had been bitchy \u2013 which he definitely had \u2013 well, Dean deserved it for being so god damn dense for so god damn long.<\/p>\n

He should have known immediately.<\/p>\n

He should have figured it out as soon as Sam stopped complaining about their father or when he started running every day or when he began neglecting schoolwork in favour of completing the tasks John kept assigning him.<\/p>\n

He should definitely have figured it out before Sam made himself sick trying to keep up with John's insane demands.<\/p>\n

Dean breathes out a long, slow sigh. His eyes are burning, begging to close, but he sits up straighter instead.<\/p>\n

He wasn't there for Sam when the kid needed him but he will be now. He isn't going to let his guard down for a second.<\/p>\n

To Be Continued<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: I wanted to write something where Sam and Dean had a chance to talk after the events of For Your Own Good, so, of course, I wrote an entire chapter of Dean angsting while Sam spends all but the first few paragraphs asleep.<\/p>\n

Reviews get to eat leftover Halloween candy.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/48159.html?view=comments#comments","category":["bigbrotherdean","sequel","teenchesters","protectivedean","sicksam","exhaustion","fever","psychological trauma","supernatural fanfiction","bobby","hurt\/comfort","cursedsam","angst"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47971.html","pubDate":"Mon, 11 Sep 2023 02:47:44 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 8\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47971.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

Chapter Eight<\/ins><\/p>\n

Sam rouses to the sound of raised voices outside his bedroom door. He surfaces slowly, through layers of soupy sleep, and rubs exhaustion from his face, blinking blearily at the ceiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf all the damn fool things I've ever heard! Have you lost your damn mind!\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby is here.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow I raise my boys is none of your business!\u201d John thunders. \u201cYou have no right to tell me-\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou<\/em> have no right to use witchcraft on your own son!\u201d Dean cuts their father off, an unheard of display of disrespect. His voice is almost shrill with unbridled rage, hurling words violently across the room. \u201cHow could you do this? To Sam<\/em>? I can't fucking believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n

There's a beat of ominous silence before John speaks again, using his low dangerous don't-mess-with-me<\/em> voice. The one that usually sets Dean back on his heels. The one that, once upon a time, in a life that seems long ago, Sam would always argue with. Sometimes just for the sake of it, to prove that he wasn't afraid.<\/p>\n

That had been a mistake. He should have been scared. He should have listened.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'll do whatever I deem necessary.\u201d John says coldly. He sounds a long way from apologetic.<\/p>\n\n

\u201cWas it necessary to make him clean weapons until his fingers bled?\u201d Dean spits, sounding a long way from intimidated.\u201cOr to make him run until he passes out? Was it necessary to cut his hair<\/em>? What's wrong<\/em> with you!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am keeping him safe!\u201d John roars. \u201cI'm keeping us all safe!\u201d Something shatters against a wall. Sam imagines his father emphasizing his point with an empty bottle.<\/p>\n

\u201cJohn, you have to stop this.\u201d Bobby steps in again, calmer now, a voice of reason this time. \u201cIt ain't right. Doing this to your own kid? It's just wrong<\/em>. And this spell? You're playing with fire.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know what I'm doing,\u201d John states defiantly. His voice is back to grim and determined.<\/p>\n

Sam rolls over and watches the sunlight playing on the wall, scattered by the wavering branches of a small determined tree, potted outside the room. He listens to the argument go on and on and on.<\/p>\n

Dean is absolutely furious. Outraged. Sam has never heard him yell at anyone like this, let alone their father. It's actually kind of scary. Sam almost wants to get up and tell Dean that it's okay and that he should just accept things as they are, like Sam has. He still feels too sick to get out of bed, though, and maybe he hasn't actually accepted things because his heart is thumping frenetically against his ribs, wild with anxious hope. He stays where he is and prays to anything listening for John to back down.<\/p>\n

Bobby, after his initial outburst, is more restrained. He argues with logic and lectures John on the inherent dangers of witchcraft, insisting firmly that the only safe way to proceed is by removing the curse, before any further damage is done. Sometimes he speaks too quietly for Sam to make out what he's saying, hearing only the mumble of his gravelled voice and troubled tone, but occasionally his words get sharp and assertive. Bobby is unfaltering in the face of John Winchester's scathing rage and barely veiled threats of violence. A couple of times, Sam hears scuffling noises and he thinks that Bobby is holding Dean back from launching himself at their father.<\/p>\n

Sam stares at the wall and the listless light, and waits for John to decide what happens next.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Sam is shaken awake by Dean's insistent hands.<\/p>\n

He doesn't remember falling asleep but the sun has drooped in the sky and the bedroom is dim.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d Dean's voice is gentle, like Sam is liable to break if he speaks at full volume. \u201cYou feeling any better?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam thinks about it. The pain in his head has settled back into a vague throb and his bones don't feel quite so heavy. \u201cYeah.\u201d His throat is still prickly though and his voice is scratchy and raw.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood.\u201d Dean offers him a tight-lipped smile. \u201cThink you can get up? It's time to go.\u201d He's already peeling back Sam's blankets.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d Sam asks, allowing Dean to guide him upright. His arms are fed into sweatshirt sleeves and his feet stuffed into shoes.<\/p>\n

\u201cBobby found an old barn outside of town. He's there with Dad, setting up. We're going to meet them.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam coughs wearily into his elbow. \u201cSetting up what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe counter-spell, Sleepy Smurf. They should be about ready by now.\u201d Dean steers him across the bedroom.<\/p>\n

They're outside, almost at the Impala, before the brisk evening air wakes Sam up enough for him to understand.<\/p>\n

He isn't just floating in a fever dream, lost in a hopeful hallucination. This is actually happening.<\/p>\n

Sam's steps falter under a wave of relief so strong that he feels it hit him like a physical blow, almost knocking him off his feet. He sucks in a breath, grabbing at Dean's sleeve.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Dean swings around immediately, eyes wide with alarm, and Sam throws his arms around his brother.<\/p>\n

Dean rocks back a step, surprised, before returning the embrace. He wraps his arms around Sam and holds him tightly. Sam presses his face into Dean's collarbone and squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden rush of tears.<\/p>\n

One of Dean's hands slides over Sam's spiky hair. He draws in an unsteady breath of his own, cupping the back of Sam's head with a calloused palm.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry it took me so long.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shakes his head against Dean's chest and hopes that his brother interprets it as absolution. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care how long it took Dean to figure things out, only that he has. Only that, somehow, Dean has actually convinced their father to remove the curse.<\/p>\n

Sam tries to force a 'thank you' from his lips but it must be too close to acknowledging the spell's existence because he can't get it out.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on,\u201d Dean says, giving Sam a final squeeze. \u201cLet's go fix this.\u201d<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Sam shivers.<\/p>\n

The barn is draughty, old and lantern-lit. Chills keep rattling up Sam's spine. He adjusts his sweatshirt, tugging it tighter around him, and tucks his hands into his armpits in an attempt to ward off the cold. He's standing in the centre of a circle, sprayed in bright green paint on the floor.<\/p>\n

Bobby is crouched down at Sam's side, checking the sigils painted around the circle's edge one last time. His mouth is set in a grim line as he looks from the book to the floor, inspecting each one carefully.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's gonna be important that you don't move,\u201d he tells Sam. \u201cThings are probably gonna get hectic and I don't want you getting hurt.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods. \u201cOkay,\u201d he promises.<\/p>\n

\u201cOnce things get going, it might be harder to stay still,\u201d Bobby warns him. He looks up at Sam, his face grave. \u201cYou remember what happened when the spell was cast?\u201d<\/p>\n

How could Sam forget? He can still see the horrible creature that had sprung into being to bind him every time he closes his eyes. Sometimes, in his dreams, it tries to strangle him. But his head is shaking a denial.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere is no spell. Dad didn't do anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby makes a 'harrumph<\/em>' sound and mutters something under his breath. His eyes flick to the barn door. Sam follows his gaze.<\/p>\n

John is a shadowy figure, filling up the doorway. The scarlet tip of a cigarette flares brightly as he sucks in a drag, bathing his face in an eerie red glow. He blows a long stream of smoke out into the darkness.<\/p>\n

Sam ducks his head, averting his gaze before John catches him looking and decides to change his mind about reversing the spell.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d Bobby says. \u201cWell, that thing that didn't happen? The creature you didn't see? You're gonna see it again. And it might not be so keen on letting you go. That's why Dean and I have these.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby gestures to a machete that rests beside the book he's been consulting. Something is smeared across the blade. Some sort of oil. It has an earthy, herby sort of scent. Strong. It works its way into Sam's nostrils, even though his sinuses are stuffed up.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don't need to worry,\u201d Bobby continues. \u201cDean and I are gonna deal with it. All you gotta do is stand there and look pretty, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby flashes Sam an encouraging smile. Sam makes an effort to return it. He's glad that Bobby is here.<\/p>\n

He is worried, though. He doesn't want to see that... thing<\/em> again or find out what happens if it decides it wants to keep him. When he shudders, he isn't sure if it's from the cold or out of fear.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's gonna be fine,\u201d Dean says. He reaches across the paint line and squeezes Sam's shoulder reassuringly. He hasn't left Sam's side since they stepped out of the Impala and Sam is insanely grateful. John hasn't said anything to him or even looked Sam's way, but his silent rage is daunting. He lurks, huge and hulking and pissed off, over by the door, glowering and breathing smoke into the night. Dean acts as a shield, moving unerringly to place himself firmly in between Sam and John.<\/p>\n

Sam nods his agreement and tries not to look as apprehensive as he feels. It will be fine. Dean won't let anything bad happen. Neither will Bobby. It will be fine.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you okay?\u201d Dean asks.<\/p>\n

Sam swallows and hopes his brother can't tell how scared shitless he is. He nods again, not trusting his voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust stay still,\u201d Dean reminds him gently. \u201cAnd we'll handle everything else.\u201d<\/p>\n

Satisfied with the sigils, Bobby picks up the book and the machete and rises to his feet.<\/p>\n

In the doorway, there's a scuffing sound as John crushes the butt of his cigarette beneath his boot. He steps into the barn.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam, no moving until this is done.\u201d<\/p>\n

The order is delivered flatly but Sam can hear the undercurrent of spite in the command. This is John demonstrating his power, deliberately pulling Sam's strings to prove to Dean and Bobby that he is still the one in charge. To remind everyone that what's happening now only happens if he allows it.<\/p>\n

Sam wasn't moving much to start with but now he's struck unnaturally still. Even his shivering stops. \u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean watches him stiffen, eyes growing wide with horror. He whirls around to face their father. \u201cStop it!\u201d he demands angrily. \u201cWhat the fuck!\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby glares venomously. He shakes his head in disgust.<\/p>\n

Unrepentant, John stalks over to the altar that has been arranged beneath one of the lanterns. He holds out an expectant hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cFinished with that book?\u201d he snaps impatiently.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet him move.\u201d Spinning back to Sam, Dean grabs his shoulder, again, but seems to realise that he has no next move. His fingers press grooves into Sam's arm, desperate and furious and stuck, just like Sam is. \u201cLet him move!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want this done right or not?\u201d John asks, cruelly, as if Sam can't even be trusted to stand correctly.<\/p>\n

\u201cBobby, do something,\u201d Dean implores. \u201cMake him stop.\u201d<\/p>\n

Looking from Dean, to John, and then to Sam, Bobby grimaces apologetically. \u201cLet's just reverse the spell. Sooner the better.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean's mouth opens. Sam sees the argument brewing in his brother's darkening expression but Bobby shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, a warning in his worried eyes.<\/p>\n

Don't push it<\/em>, his expression says.<\/p>\n

Dean hesitates \u2013 he wants to push, Sam can tell. Dean wants to yell and scream and throw punches \u2013 but instead he breathes out an angry growl and forces himself to step back, releasing Sam's arm. His eyes beg for forgiveness.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine. Let's just do this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bobby nods. He untucks the book from beneath his arm and brings it to John. His hand lingers on it as he passes it over, holding it back.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't try anything stupid, Winchester,\u201d Bobby warns, voice low.<\/p>\n

John's chin rises in a confrontational jut. The two hunters stare each other down.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet's get this over with,\u201d John says sourly.<\/p>\n

Bobby relinquishes his hold on the book. With one last warning look at John, he returns to Sam's side, taking his place next to the circle. Dean takes up his own position, on the opposite side, and raises his machete.<\/p>\n

\u201cActus<\/em>,\u201d John says.<\/p>\n

The circle glows.<\/p>\n

A feeling, uncomfortably familiar, of watery warmth sweeps up from Sam's feet, swallowing him. This time he's ready for it when his lungs seize up and he rides out the moment of suffocation without panic. The warmth recedes.<\/p>\n

John begins to speak, the foreign words rolling flawlessly from his tongue. He barely glances at the inscription of the spell. He must have studied it intensely before cursing Sam. John always has been a perfectionist that way. Sam can imagine him staying up late, quietly practising his conjuring under cover of darkness while Sam lay asleep nearby, blissfully and horrifically oblivious.<\/p>\n

Now, Sam stands motionless as John's voice fills the barn, a deep booming drone that drills dread right into the marrow of Sam's bones. He's been here before, trapped inside a circle while his father chants, and it hadn't ended well for him. Maybe it's a good thing that John ordered him not to move. He wants to run.<\/p>\n

Flames burst from the candles. Beside Sam, Dean flinches, startled.<\/p>\n

\u201cEasy now,\u201d Bobby murmurs. The candlelight glints dangerously on the oiled blades. Dean adjusts his stance, shifting on the balls of his feet.<\/p>\n

John's chanting is getting faster and something is loosening inside Sam's chest. It's warm.<\/p>\n

Then it's hot.<\/p>\n

Then it's burning and Sam is screaming and a silvery serpent made of smoke and chains is surging up his throat. It's a sickening, slippery, slithering sensation. Sam gags, choking, as the creature spills out of his mouth..<\/p>\n

Dean yells something and Bobby calls out a reply. Sam has no idea what either of them are saying. The snake is heavy, coiling around his shoulders, sliding down his torso. It moves speedily from his hips to his thighs and down past his ankles, where it swirls around his feet.<\/p>\n

Sam sucks in a deep, desperate breath. His throat feels raw but his lungs swell and his skin tingles. A network of nerves sparkle to life that he hadn't even realised had been deadened. He sways, light-headed and overwhelmed, as ownership of his body returns to him. He has to throw out his arms to steady himself.<\/p>\n

He can move again.<\/p>\n

His legs tremble, though, threatening collapse. He feels unsteady. Disoriented. It's almost like he's forgotten how to stand, how to balance, how to simply be<\/em> in his own body without someone else in command.<\/p>\n

\u201cWatch out!\u201d Bobby yells a warning.<\/p>\n

The misty serpent at Sam's feet has grown darker, thicker, bigger. It circles him, dizzyingly fast, solidifying and expanding, swiftly growing into an enormous column of black smoke with the head of a snake. It rises up before him, huge violet eyes glittering in the candlelight.<\/p>\n

Distantly, Sam is aware of the creature's huge thrashing tail. The yells and cries of alarm that echo around the barn. But the violet eyes are drinking him, drawing him in. He can't look away. The tugging in his bones makes him want to strip out of his skin.<\/p>\n

Something is tearing inside of him. Being dragged inexorably from somewhere deep inside his chest, leaving behind a void so hollow that it seems more like an abyss; a blank nothingness, empty and endless. There's a flash of light so dazzling that everything goes white.<\/p>\n

At the same time, the serpent lets out a high-pitched shriek. The violent pull behind Sam's ribcage relents at once. Whatever was being ripped from him abruptly slams back into place, leaving him gasping, completely breathless and clutching at his chest. The barn has gone dark again.<\/p>\n

Sam's eyes are burning. He blinks away the stars that have imprinted on his retina in the aftermath of the brilliant light that had so briefly filled the barn. There's an ache in his chest and his throat feels pretty much how he'd expect it to feel after vomiting up a snake made of magical chains but he feels lighter than he has in months. It feels like he's been curled up into a tight little ball inside his own skin and now, finally, he can stretch himself out, from his toes to his fingertips.<\/p>\n

Dean is standing in front of him, face flushed with exertion. His shoulders heave, his breathing heavy, and his eyes are a little wild with fright. The machete in his hand is stained with something dark.<\/p>\n

Surrounding Sam, wisps of a shattered smoke monster swirl towards the floor, vanishing into the same glowing sigil from which it had once burst forth.<\/p>\n

The light from the sigil fades.<\/p>\n

With a hiss, the candles on the altar sputter out.<\/p>\n

Sam sways, staggers a step, and Dean tosses down his machete to grab him. Sam latches on and lets Dean hold him up while his head spins and the world threatens to fall out from under him.<\/p>\n

\u201cSammy?\u201d Dean asks urgently. \u201cYou still with me?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods, his face mushed against Dean's chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid it hurt you? Are you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm okay,\u201d Sam says, even though he feels a little loose. Like a wobbling tooth.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt worked, right? That's the end of it?\u201d Dean speaks to Bobby over the top of Sam's head. Sam pulls away, just enough to watch for Bobby's response.<\/p>\n

Bobby looks to John. He raises an eyebrow that manages to be both expectant and disapproving.<\/p>\n

John's lips are pressed together in a tight waspish line. He folds his arms dourly across his chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam, come here.\u201d<\/p>\n

There's no tug towards obedience. Instead, Sam shies away, drawing closer to his brother. Dean's arms tighten around him protectively.<\/p>\n

Sam opens his mouth and says the word he's been wanting to say to his father for months. \u201cNo<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Somehow, John manages to look even more pissed off. His face clouds darkly with disapproval. \u201cHappy?\u201d he snaps.<\/p>\n

\u201cThrilled,\u201d Bobby snarls back.<\/p>\n

They glare at each other.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet's go,\u201d Dean mutters in Sam's ear, and then, louder, to Bobby or John or both, \u201cI'm taking Sam back to the motel. He needs to be in bed.\u201d<\/p>\n

There's a part of Sam that wants to protest being treated like a tired toddler in need of a nap \u2013 that wants to protest doing anything that anyone else tells him to do - but sleeping sounds really good right now.. The longer he stands here, the harder it's getting to keep his eyes open.<\/p>\n

Together, they cross the barn. Sam focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, almost blinded by exhaustion, and lets Dean lead the way. They're almost at the door when John calls out to him.<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn't I make you faster? Stronger?\u201d John's voice is bitter, challenging, rising with anger. Sam flinches as a hand slams down on the altar, creating a sudden violent thump. \u201cDidn't I make you better!\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shrinks against Dean, who tugs him closer, tucking Sam behind him as he whirls around.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe didn't need to be better!\u201d Dean yells furiously. \u201cHe needed you to be a fucking father!\u201d<\/p>\n

Taken aback by Dean's sudden rage, John's eyes narrow. He draws his shoulders back, standing at his full intimidating height. He goes to speak but Dean cuts him off before he can make a sound.<\/p>\n

\u201cI swear, you say one more thing and I'll not only take Sam and make sure you never, ever<\/em> see us again \u2013 I'll put you<\/em> in a circle and set one of those monsters on you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam gasps, stunned by the ultimatum. Dean sounds like he really means it.<\/p>\n

John must hear it, too, because colour drains from his face. His shoulders drop and his mouth snaps closed. He glances at the circle painted on the floor. Suddenly, he seems uncertain.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou boys should head out,\u201d Bobby says grimly. \u201cJohn and I are gonna talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean's arms turn Sam back towards the door. Sam can feel John's gaze following them across the barn but he doesn't say anything and Sam doesn't look back.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, Sammy,\u201d Dean murmurs quietly. \u201cLet's get out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam leans against his brother, and obeys.<\/p>\n

END<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Thank you, to everyone, who left kudos, comments\/reviews, or simply read this and enjoyed. I hope you liked the ending! You have all been so lovely and supportive and I've really loved hearing what you all think.<\/p>\n

Reviews get to run away with Sam and Dean and live happily ever after without John.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47971.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47756.html","pubDate":"Thu, 07 Sep 2023 22:17:15 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 7\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47756.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

Chapter Seven<\/ins><\/p>\n

Getting out of bed in the morning is impossible.<\/p>\n

The pain behind Sam's eyes blurs his vision. It pulses angrily, thumping against his skull, and does its best to claw its way out through his eye sockets. His joints feel like they're made of rusty metal. Sam curls up into a ball and coughs until his lungs are raw and his chest is aching. Dean wakes up and rolls out of bed to bring Sam water and Tylenol, saying something about getting 'something for that cough'. Sam isn't really listening. His head hurts too much to think.<\/p>\n

Luckily, John never bothered to include an order to attend school \u2013 why would he? John doesn't care about whether he goes to school. It's probably only a matter of time before he forces Sam to drop out altogether - so nothing prevents Sam from rolling over and pulling the blankets over his head. He breathes the humid recycled air and falls asleep.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

An insistent tugging in Sam's bones drags him back to the waking world.<\/p>\n

He surfaces unwillingly, clutching at the last dregs of sleep, but the pull is unignorable and the heat beneath the blankets has become unbearable. Sam claws his way free, gasping for fresh air. He's feverishly clammy. Suffocatingly hot. Sweat clings to his skin and dampens what's left of his hair, making him feel uncomfortably sticky and gross.<\/p>\n\n

The alarm clock on the night-stand reads three forty-eight. Normally, Sam would have started his training by now. He's running late, burning daylight. He should get moving.<\/p>\n

Sam closes his eyes and tries to will away his ever-present headache. He feels worse than yesterday.<\/p>\n

Finally, he can't ignore the draw of the spell any longer. Sam heaves himself out of bed and staggers to the bathroom on watery legs, one hand on the wall to hold himself steady. He rinses off quickly, without giving the shower time to warm up, and stumbles back to his room to dress.<\/p>\n

Dean appears in the doorway just as Sam is shoving his feet into his shoes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam has no idea why Dean sounds so incredulous. \u201cGoing for a run.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't be dumb. You're obviously sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

Instead of arguing, Sam coughs into his elbow and focuses on tying his laces. They're being difficult, slipping through his fingers. By the time he has them knotted, Dean has left the doorway and is standing in front of him like a solid wall; arms folded, feet planted.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo back to sleep, Sam,\u201d he says firmly.<\/p>\n

\u201cMove,\u201d Sam complains. He tries to stand up but Dean grabs his shoulders and forces him to sit back down, pressing him back onto the bed with embarrassing ease. John would be ashamed.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're sick,\u201d Dean says. As if that matters.<\/p>\n

Sam shakes his head. The room carries on shaking for a moment too long. He grips the mattress and waits for it to stop. \u201cI have to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you don't,\u201d Dean insists. \u201cMissing one day of training isn't going to kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam isn't so sure about that. The longer Dean stands in his way, the harder it's getting for him to breathe. He has to go, before he's crushed by the invisible weight coiled around his chest, cinching tighter with every passing second.<\/p>\n

\u201cMove,\u201d Sam demands, starting to panic. He smacks Dean's hands off of his shoulders and pushes himself back to his feet. Fending off his brother's attempts at grabbing him, Sam dodges to one side, hoping to skirt around Dean and make for the door. He almost manages it, despite the way his vision is splitting in two, but then Dean latches on to his arm.<\/p>\n

Sam spins around and punches his brother in the face.<\/p>\n

Dean reels. He stumbles backwards, letting go of Sam's arm, and his hands fly to his face. His eyes are wide, more stunned than wounded, Sam thinks, though he feels the force behind his blow. His knuckles sting. He has grown stronger over these last few months. More accurate and powerful. Just like John wanted. Dean will have a bruise.<\/p>\n

Sam wishes he could stop to apologize but Dean is already shaking off the shock. He can't risk his brother trying to hold him back again. His feet are moving, out of the bedroom, out of the motel.<\/p>\n

Dean yells his name but Sam is already gone.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Dean has his cellphone pressed to his ear when Sam returns, pacing the length of the motel room. His voice is low and hurried. Urgent. He seems to wilt when he lays eyes on Sam, sagging with relief \u2013 did he think Sam wasn't coming back? Sam had thought about running away, ages ago, but John must have seen the look in his eyes because he had quickly shot down that idea - but his face is still pinched and panicked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to make him stop,\u201d Dean implores whoever's on the phone.<\/p>\n

Sam closes the door behind him, breathing hard and struggling to stay upright. He leans against it for a moment, back pressed against the wood, head tipped back, allowing himself a few self-indulgent seconds of rest, before he refocuses and gets back on task.<\/p>\n

Pushing away from the door, Sam lurches across the room, towards the duffel bag that sits against the far wall. There's a collection of knives that John needs him to clean. Weapons maintenance is important, John is always telling him that. Sam needs to take it seriously. John will inspect the knives when he returns and if they aren't up to his standards Sam will be ordered to do it again or to complete some other task to make up for his failure. Maybe John will come up with a creative new way to punish him. He needs to get it right the first time. He needs to focus, just a little longer. Once he's finished, he can go back to bed. He can go to sleep. He just needs to do this one last thing.<\/p>\n

Sam blinks away the encroaching darkness. He needs to do this.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is at his side, out of swinging distance this time. His phone is still clenched in his hand. When did he get there? Sam didn't hear his approach. He should be more vigilant.<\/p>\n

What was he doing?<\/p>\n

Knives. He needs to clean the knives.<\/p>\n

Sam is turning back to the duffel bag but Dean holds out the phone.\u201cIt's Dad. He wants to talk to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh. Fresh orders from out of town. That doesn't happen often. What does John want him to do now?<\/p>\n

Sam takes the phone and presses it to his ear. John's voice is tinny and metallic as it passes through the phone lines. Sam sways as he listens, swallowing down a flurry of coughs.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam?\u201d John is asking. \u201cSam, are you there? Dean says you're sick. Is that right? Or is he just trying to get you out of training? Tell the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I'm sick,\u201d Sam says. The phone is growing heavier and heavier, like it's filling up with words. If John keeps talking Sam is going to drop it. He needs to clean the knives.<\/p>\n

Sam reaches for the duffel bag.<\/p>\n

John heaves a frustrated sigh in his ear. \u201cTake a break,\u201d he commands. \u201cDo you hear me, Sam? Take a break. No training until you're well.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam stops, mid-reach. His hand hovers over the bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

He stands there, struck still by indecision. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do with himself, without a task laid out before him. He feels suddenly bereft. Deprived of purpose. Should he go to bed now? How does he take a break? What is he supposed to do<\/em>?<\/p>\n

The phone is taken from Sam's hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cI knew it. I knew it<\/em>.\u201d Dean is yelling \u2013 he sounds really <\/em>mad - but Sam doesn't know whether his brother is speaking to him or to John. Has he done something wrong?<\/p>\n

The spinning of the earth beneath his feet is making him dizzy. Sam blinks again but the darkness doesn't recede. It spreads, creeping across the room. It wants to sweep him away.<\/p>\n

Sam sinks to his knees. Hands grab him when he pitches sideways and he doesn't remember hitting the floor.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Something cold is moving over Sam's skin.<\/p>\n

It sweeps across his forehead and smooths back his hair. Whispers down the side of his face and dabs at his throat.<\/p>\n

Sam's hand twitches towards the thing interrupting his sleep, scrunching up his face in annoyance.<\/p>\n

The cold thing disappears.<\/p>\n

\u201cSammy? You awake?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam slides back towards oblivion, ignoring his brother's voice. He's almost there, almost cradled by the dark nothingness of sleep, when the cold thing returns, resting against his forehead.<\/p>\n

\u201cStoppit,\u201d he complains.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, Sammy, gotta cool your eggs before they scramble.\u201d<\/p>\n

The sound Sam makes in reply isn't really a word. It's more of a noise of confusion that ends in a question mark.<\/p>\n

Dean rephrases. \u201cYour temperature's still pretty high.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam peels his eyelids open. Early morning sunlight is sneaking in between half-drawn curtains and Dean is sitting at his bedside, on a chair he must have dragged in from the kitchen. There's a wash cloth in his hand and exhaustion in his sagging shoulders.. A bruise has blossomed on his jaw. Sam frowns at it and a misty memory emerges.<\/p>\n

\u201cWas that me?\u201d he asks. He casts his mind back but his memories are fever-fogged and vague. Dean was in his way. Sam had needed to make him move. He remembers going for a run that was more of a stumble and then John speaking in his ear. Dean was yelling into a phone.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't worry about it.\u201d Dean shrugs it off. He sets the wash cloth aside and gets to his feet. \u201cOne sec.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean returns with a glass of water and two small white pills. \u201cTake these,\u201d he says. He doesn't wait for Sam's assent before sliding an arm beneath Sam's shoulders and helping him to sit up, and Sam doesn't bother to ask what the pills are before taking them. The glass of water shakes in his hands. Dean takes it back and puts it down beside the wash cloth.<\/p>\n

Sam sinks back down on the pillows.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm sorry,\u201d he says, frowning again at the bloom of purple on his brother's face.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's fine.\u201d Dean waves away the apology. \u201cIt wasn't your fault.\u201d<\/p>\n

This is confusing because Sam is pretty sure it was his fault. There's an ache in his knuckles where they remember making contact with Dean's jaw.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad's on his way back,\u201d Dean says.<\/p>\n

That seems fast. John only just left. Is the hunt finished so soon? \u201cAlready?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean's jaw works. \u201cI told him that if he doesn't get back here and fix what he's done to you, I'd hunt him down and drag him back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's breath catches in his throat, which sends him into a fit of coughing. Dean helps him to sit up a little, propping the pillows up behind him<\/p>\n

\u201cDad didn't do anything,\u201d Sam says, once he can breathe again.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he tell you to say that?\u201d Dean's hands clench into fists in his lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Sam denies. A flutter of hope beats its wings in his chest. \u201cHe didn't tell me to say anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

The breath Dean drags in is full of anger but he exhales, tight and controlled, and a moment later his voice is soft. \u201cIt's okay. I know you're lying, and I know you're not doing it on purpose.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean leans back and retrieves a book that has been discarded on his bed. It's the same one Sam remembers seeing him reading a few days ago. One of John's old leather tomes. Dean flips it open to a page he has marked with a torn scrap of paper and sets the open book down in Sam's lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook familiar?\u201d<\/p>\n

There's a list of ingredients and a long incantation, foreign words written in old swirling ink, but what catches Sam's attention is the illustration. A blank-faced figure stands inside a circle, a smokey snake-like creature twisted around its torso. Sam traces a finger along the coils.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

Dean's nostrils flare. He takes the book back and tosses it onto his bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I think it does,\u201d he declares. \u201cI think Dad did something monumentally stupid and fucked up and you can't talk about it. I think he did it ages ago, right under my nose.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's heart is pounding with excitement now, but his head is shaking back and forth on the pillow.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d John's words tumble from his mouth. \u201cDad didn't do anything. I just want to do better. I want to be better. A real Winchester.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean looks so incredibly angry and so incredibly sad at the same time. His eyes are damp but there's fire in them. He takes Sam's hand and rubs his thumb across Sam's knuckles.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don't need to be better, Sammy. You've always been a real Winchester.\u201d<\/p>\n

To Be Continued...<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get to give Dean a high five for finally figuring it out!<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47756.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47427.html","pubDate":"Tue, 05 Sep 2023 00:22:23 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 6\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47427.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

Chapter Six<\/ins><\/p>\n

Sam thinks he gets it now.<\/p>\n

Looking in the mirror, at the new him, he thinks he finally understands what John has been trying to teach him all these years. What Dean already knows. The thing Sam's brother and father learned the night their house burned and Mary Winchester died. The lesson behind the spell.<\/p>\n

Life is hunting.<\/p>\n

Everything else can be taken away.<\/p>\n

John claps him on the back and instructs him to take a shower and wash off all the scratchy scraps of hair that itch beneath his shirt. Sam stands under the spray, running his hands over and over his head, exploring the unfamiliar fuzz that stretches up the back of his neck, where he's been shaved almost bald. The hair on the top of his head is a little longer. The short strands feel sharp, like fuzzy little spikes.<\/p>\n

He doesn't cry. He thinks he should be crying but he just feels hollow. Resigned. He watches the last few strands of his long hair disappearing down the drain and wonders how he could ever have been so foolish as to think there could be more to life than this.<\/p>\n\n

When Sam finishes, he dries off \u2013 faster than usual. It's so strange, not feeling damp hair sticking to the back of his neck. He dresses in fresh clothes and rejoins his father in the kitchen, without asking whether John still wants his help. Probably yes. Probably he should just get on with it.<\/p>\n

John has just finished sweeping up the mess. Sam slips into his seat. He watches as his father takes the dustpan full of his hair and dumps it unceremoniously into the trash.<\/p>\n

John sits down and opens up his last beer.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis was your idea,\u201d he declares firmly.\u201dDean will ask so I want you to make it clear that you wanted this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Is that really what John believes? It almost seems like it is. Like he has himself convinced that if he says it, if he makes Sam repeat it, somehow it will become the truth.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir,\u201d Sam says. \u201cThis is what I wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n

John nods. For a second, Sam is sure he sees something flash across his father's face; a sneer, some sort of sick satisfaction, and he changes his mind. John isn't oblivious to his distress. John doesn't really think that any of this is his idea. John is simply loving having complete control over his rebellious son.<\/p>\n

And then, the sneer is gone and Sam isn't certain that he didn't imagine it. John returns to his reading.<\/p>\n

Sam bends over his own book. One of his hands raises in an automatic gesture to brush hair from his eyes but nothing blocks his vision. He lets his hand drop and stares determinedly at the page, trying to think of nothing else but reading the swirling black ink. He just needs to find the answers John requires. He needs to get this over with so he can retreat to his room, away from his father's gloating presence, and just... stop.<\/p>\n

He just needs everything to stop.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Sam doesn't look up when he hears a key being fumbled into a lock, too busy trying to make out a particularly smudged sentence. Behind him, the door creaks open and a gust of cold air accompanies Dean over the threshold.<\/p>\n

\u201cI got all of them,\u201d Dean announces. \u201cBobby didn't want to part with one but I promised we'd look after it. I said \u2013 holy shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

There's a thump as something hits the floor. Startled, Sam swivels towards the sound.<\/p>\n

Dean is frozen just inside the doorway, one hand still poised on the door handle. His other hand balances a stack of books, one of which has slipped free. It lies on the floor, splayed open.<\/p>\n

\u201cBe careful with those,\u201d John chastises him. \u201cThey're old. And shut the door.\u201d<\/p>\n

Moving robotically, Dean closes the motel door. He crouches down to pick up the wayward book, missing completely on his first attempt because his eyes don't leave Sam. His mouth hangs open.<\/p>\n

Heat rises in Sam's face. Feeling hideously self-conscious, he turns away, leaning over his book again, and pretends he can't feel his brother staring at his hair. At what's left of his hair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened?\u201d Dean asks.<\/p>\n

John lets out a chuckle, like Dean's shock is amusing. \u201cNothing happened. Sam just felt like a change. Didn't you, Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir,\u201d Sam answers flatly, refusing to look up.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou...\u201d Dean actually sounds a little faint. Sort of like how Sam felt when he looked in the mirror. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFelt like a change,\u201d Sam repeats. He stares fixedly at the pages of the old book. Dean's eyes are itchy on his bare neck. He feels exposed, stripped and on display.<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d Dean asks uncertainly.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt looks good,\u201d John proclaims, a little too enthusiastically. \u201cDon't you think, Dean?\u201d<\/p>\n

Slowly, almost tentatively, Dean's footsteps move forward. He comes to stand beside the kitchen table, in the space between John and Sam. The table wobbles a little as he sets down his stack of books.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam, stop researching for a moment. Show Dean your new look.\u201d<\/p>\n

Reluctantly, like so many things he does these days, Sam raises his head, so that John can show off his work. He seems proud of it. Sam thinks back to the screaming matches they used to have, when he was around 10 or 11 and just starting to be brought into the world of hunting. John had wanted then for him to have a soldier's haircut. Like his own. Like Dean's. And Sam had refused, point blank, every time, no matter how angry John got or how much his father yelled. He'd just... wanted something that was his.<\/p>\n

It may have taken six years, but John had finally gotten his way. Now he wants to revel in it.<\/p>\n

But Dean's gaze skates right over Sam's hair. He seeks out Sam's eyes. His mouth is still hanging slightly open and his own eyes are wide with dismay. He looks completely stunned, and utterly confused, searching Sam's face for an explanation better than John's.<\/p>\n

John clears his throat, prompting Dean for a response. Dean makes an effort to shake off his consternation but his frown doesn't fully go away.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d he agrees softly. He offers Sam a small smile. \u201cYeah, you look good, Sammy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean waits until later, for the privacy of their bedroom, both of them lying awake in the dark, to ask, \u201cDid you really want to cut your hair? Or did Dad talk you into it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's mouth opens. How long has it been since he was able to speak his own words? Lately, it seems like the only words he has are John's. \u201cIt was my idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean props himself up on an elbow. \u201cWhy? And why did you get Dad to do it? I always thought he'd have to tie you down to get his hands on your hair.\u201d There's a beat, then Dean asks, in a tone that only half-suggests he's joking, \u201cHe didn't, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam stares at the ceiling. Even in the dim light, he can make out the nicotine stains. \u201cI felt like a change,\u201d is the only explanation he can offer.<\/p>\n

Dean hesitates, his confusion stretching out across the room.\u201cWhat's going on with you, Sam? You've been really weird for the last...\u201d - Dean seems uncertain on a time frame - \u201cages. You never want to hang out. You don't argue when Dad pulls you out of school, or get pissy about training or going out hunting all night. You're practically failing your classes. Now you just randomly decide to cut all your hair off? I don't get it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam says nothing. Everything he wants to say would only end up stuck in his throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm not saying it looks bad,\u201d Dean continues quickly, maybe interpreting Sam's silence as him taking offence. \u201cYou look fine. Good. You look badass. It's just...\u201d Dean sounds bewildered. \u201cI thought you liked your hair.\u201d<\/p>\n

Finally, tears spring into Sam's eyes. His throat tightens, clogging up with despair. It's going to take forever for his hair to grow back. If John lets him grow it back.<\/p>\n

And it had been humiliating, degrading, being forced to sit before his father like that, immobilized by magical chains and unable to lift a finger to stop John from chopping off his hair. His father hadn't framed it as such \u2013 he'd spoken only of practicality - but it felt like a punishment. Like John was getting revenge for Sam's years of fighting back against his rules. John knew \u2013 he knew<\/em> \u2013 that Sam had liked his hair. John took it anyway.<\/p>\n

Sam closes his eyes. He forces himself to breathe.<\/p>\n

Thinking like this is pointless. Whatever the motivation, whether this is penance or pragmatism, John isn't going to let him grow his hair back. John isn't going to let up on the training regimen. John will never let him be anything other than the perfect hunter. It's time for Sam to grow up and get it through his thick head that this is his life. The spell is never going to be reversed. This is the way things are, the way life is, and, as John likes to tell him, no amount of whining is going to change that.<\/p>\n

\u201cI did,\u201d he tells Dean, his voice entirely flat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, why cut it then?\u201d A tinge of frustration bleeds into Dean's confusion. \u201cTalk to me, Sam. Please. Tell me what's going on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing's going on,\u201d Sam says. He opens his eyes, staring blankly at the stained ceiling as he recites John's script. \u201cI just want to do better.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou keep saying that.\u201d Dean sits right up in his bed. \u201cThis isn't about that stupid wood nymph, is it? Because that wasn't your fault, Sam. You know that. And my leg is fine. Good as new. If Dad is still giving you crap about it...\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean trails off, leaving the threat vague. He doesn't know what he'd do.<\/p>\n

Sam does.<\/p>\n

Nothing.<\/p>\n

There is nothing Dean can do.<\/p>\n

John always wins.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Sam takes out a werewolf and can't find it in himself to feel bad for the human man that gapes up at him from the pavement, blood pumping from his chest where Sam's silver bullet has sunk into his heart. It isn't just the crime scene photos Sam had studied, the people this man had torn apart.<\/p>\n

Sam watches as the life fades from the werewolf's eyes and thinks about how nice it would be if everything would just end.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

An ache settles behind Sam's eyes and refuses to let up. There's a scratch in the back of his throat and gravity seems to be pressing down on him harder than usual.<\/p>\n

He drags his feet through another week of school and can't remember anything from his classes. He feels blurry. Vague like an impressionist painting. Frayed like worn out cloth. He wants to lie down.<\/p>\n

Instead, Sam runs a mile in six minutes and forty-two seconds, then cleans all the guns John leaves out for him.<\/p>\n

Dean sits down next to him and tries to start a conversation. He asks Sam about his day and whether he likes his new school and if he maybe wants to go do something this weekend, just the two of them.<\/p>\n

Sam shrugs every time Dean pauses for a response until finally Dean goes quiet. He stays and helps Sam clean the guns though, which Sam thanks him for before falling into bed.<\/p>\n

The weekend passes in a haze. On Monday morning, Sam pushes cereal around his bowl until it turns to mush, then he scrapes it into the trash. He sleepwalks through his classes. By the time he drags himself through the door of their latest motel room at the end of the long school day the pounding in his head is so loud that he can hardly see and harsh coughs are rattling his lungs.<\/p>\n

Dean is sitting cross-legged on the couch, the TV turned down low. One of John's books is open in his lap, which strikes Sam as unusual. John tends to get Sam to do the bulk of the research because he reads faster and has a knack for following threads that others miss, while Dean's strength lies in getting witnesses to spill their life stories within two minutes of meeting and, well, pretty much everything else. He's even a decent researcher, when he has to be.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d Dean greets him, glancing up. He does a double take. \u201cYou don't look so hot. Are you feeling okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's backpack is weighing him down. He lets it drop to the floor. Answering Dean seems like it would take energy he doesn't have so Sam ignores the question and heads to the kitchen. At the sink, he fills a glass with water and sips it slowly, letting the water trickle down his swollen throat. Then he presses the glass to the side of his face. The cold seeps into his skin, soothing the throbbing in his head, just a little.<\/p>\n

Dean appears at his side. \u201cTylenol?\u201d he offers, holding out a pill bottle. Sam accepts it gratefully and shakes two pills into his palm. He swallows them with another sip of water.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d he murmurs. He really doesn't feel good.<\/p>\n

Dean leans against the counter. \u201cBobby called,\u201d he tells Sam. \u201cWanted Dad's help with something. He'll be back in a few days.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d Sam says. He's too tired to drum up more than a faint sense of relief. He sets the glass down and coughs into his fist.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was thinking,\u201d Dean says, unconvincingly casual. \u201cMaybe while Dad's gone, you could take it easy. We<\/em> could take it easy, I mean. Pull back on the training. Maybe blow it off altogether. We could just hang out. Slack off, eat junk food, watch bad TV. What do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam thinks that life doesn't work like that. He's been under standing orders to complete all his regular training, whether John's around or not, for months now. There is no slacking off. Dean's shoulders sag with disappointment when Sam shakes his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have to train.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou look like you're coming down with something,\u201d Dean presses. He reaches out and touches the back of his hand to Sam's forehead. Sam jerks his head away. He has to grab the counter to steady himself when the room stumbles. Dean drops his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should take a break, Sam, especially if you're sick. I won't tell Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shakes his head again, slowly, so the room doesn't spin. \u201cI want to be better,\u201d he murmurs.<\/p>\n

Dean shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. His eyes are troubled but Sam doesn't have the time or the energy to figure out what Dean is thinking. He turns away, mildly annoyed now that his brother is attempting to interrupt his routine. He just wants to get on with things.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomething's wrong,\u201d Dean announces, following Sam into the bedroom, where Sam changes from his jeans into sweatpants. \u201cWith you. This isn't normal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing's wrong.\u201d Sam slips his feet back into his shoes.<\/p>\n

\u201cBullshit, Sam. This isn't right. This isn't you. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is more insistent than usual but how many times has Dean looked at him like he's lost his mind, or told him that he's acting like a weirdo, over the last few months? How many times has Sam felt hope surging through him only for life to continue on exactly the same?<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing.\u201d Sam shrugs. \u201cI'm going for a run.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean follows him to the door, asking him to 'wait, just a minute, Sammy, please'. Sam doesn't. He can feel his brother's gaze trailing him all the way down the street, until he turns a corner.<\/p>\n

Dean is quiet that evening. He sits on the couch and reads. Sam sits at the kitchen table and practices tying knots.<\/p>\n

To Be Continued...<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47427.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47134.html","pubDate":"Fri, 01 Sep 2023 00:22:25 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 5\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47134.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

A\/N: I swear to Chuck, I have nothing to do with John's choices in this chapter.<\/p>\n

Chapter Five<\/ins><\/p>\n

It had always been somewhat of a relief when John took off to kill monsters with Caleb or Pastor Jim or whatever hunter with a lead he'd bumped into, leaving Sam to his own devices. Especially when Dean was left behind as well and they were able to skive off of training together and watch movies or go grab milkshakes or burgers or drive aimlessly for no reason because Dean just always wants to be driving the Impala and Sam is always willing to do what Dean wants if it means not doing what John wants.<\/p>\n

Nowadays, these are the only times Sam feels like he can breathe.<\/p>\n

It isn't as good as it used to be. Dean doesn't understand why Sam keeps refusing to skip training so that they can hang out, and Sam can't explain that he's incapable of ignoring John's standing orders to keep up with his training schedule (which seems to get more comprehensive and time consuming every week).<\/p>\n\n

So Dean's feelings keep getting hurt and when that happens Dean likes to pretend that the only feeling he has is anger, so Sam ends up doing a lot of jogging or studying a lot of Latin or practising with whatever weapon John has decided he needs to work on while Dean stomps around loudly and obnoxiously in the background, making nasty comments and trying to pick a fight to get Sam to pay him attention.<\/p>\n

It sucks. Upsetting Dean makes Sam upset, and guilty, and angry at John and then sometimes at Dean for being angry at Sam when he should be angry at John and then at himself for being angry at Dean when he <\/em>should be angry at John. But at least John can't spot him reading a book or writing an essay or just trying to watch TV and rest (because he's constantly exhausted these days and sometimes he can't even find the energy to think) and order him to do something more productive, like cleaning knives or push-ups.<\/p>\n

Time keeps rolling along and Sam... Sam feels like he's losing himself. He doesn't stop trying to find ways to drop Dean hints but he does stop expecting Dean to figure them out. He does what John tells him to do and tries to keep up with his schoolwork but sometimes he falls asleep on top of his textbooks and John keeps pulling him out of schools so they can skip town and sometimes he forgets to enrol Sam in a new one for an extra week or so, until Dean speaks up to remind him (because the last time Sam tried John had been busy and annoyed and had snapped at Sam to shut up about school).<\/p>\n

Sam's straight A's begin to be marked with minus signs, before turning into B's, starting to slide towards C's, but John has never cared to keep track of Sam's grades. He praises Sam's new ability to run a mile in under seven minutes, his developing knife skills and strengthening aim. He beams when Sam almost takes down Dean one day while sparring and tells Dean he's going to need to up his game. He claps Sam on the back and says 'good job' and tells him that he's really proud of the effort Sam has been making, as if he's forgotten about the spell. As if Sam is doing all this because he wants to and not because he has to.<\/p>\n

Sometimes, despite himself, Sam feels a warm glow of pride. It's nice when his father looks at him with something other than disappointment. It's satisfying when he beats his best time. It's thrilling to put his new skills to the test and take down a monster three times his size.<\/p>\n

This must be what it feels like to be Dean.<\/p>\n

Most of the time, though, Sam simply simmers with rage. He's a pot poised to boil over. A balloon stretched to bursting. A grenade with no pin, about to explode. All the arguments he hasn't been allowed to make, every snarky comment he's been forced to swallow, it's all stuffed down inside him, desperate to escape, filling him up and forcing him apart at the seams. He feels like, at any moment, he could split open and let out a flood of blood and guts and sharp angry words.<\/p>\n

As much as he can, Sam tries to stay out of John's sight, especially when Dean isn't around to act as somewhat of a shield. Which is why his stomach sinks when he returns from a day of school (spent feverishly trying to catch up on several late assignments) and John is sitting at the kitchen table, bent over several large battered leather-bound tomes, and Dean is no where to be seen.<\/p>\n

Sam closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. Hoping not to draw his father's attention, he slinks silently past. He still has an entire essay to write for history class tomorrow and he'd been planning on getting started before heading out for his daily run.<\/p>\n

Sam is almost at the doorway to the bedroom he's sharing with Dean when John speaks, without looking up.<\/p>\n

\u201cPut your things away and come help me with this.\u201d<\/p>\n

The spell smothers Sam's sigh.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sullenly, he drops his backpack on the floor by his bed and returns to the kitchen, sliding into the seat furthest from his father. \u201cWhere's Dean?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

John turns a page. \u201cI sent him for supplies.\u201d<\/p>\n

'Supplies' could mean anything from a case of beer to an obscure magical talisman only available in a far-off antique store. Dean could be gone for hours.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are we looking for?\u201d Sam pulls one of the books closer and flips it open, shoving his hair out of this face.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomething that strikes on a full moon and likes virgins.\u201d<\/p>\n

They read in silence. John works his way through a six-pack. Sam thinks, despairingly, of the homework in his bag. He'll have to stay up half the night if he wants to make a dent in it. At least John seems to have decided that research is more important than physical training tonight. Unless he plans on sending Sam out later. There's still time before it gets dark.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis could be something.\u201d Sam turns his book around for John to see.<\/p>\n

John glances over. \u201cNo, I already ruled that out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Disappointed, Sam turns the book back, leaning over it again. His hair falls in his eyes and he brushes it aside impatiently. At this rate, there's no way he'll be able to finish that essay. Maybe he could ask for an extension, think up some excuse.<\/p>\n

Sam reads another page before a prickling sensation in his spine makes him look up. John is staring at him, a strange look on his face.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Sam blurts out, shrinking back a little in his seat.<\/p>\n

Another order is coming. Another addition to his already-packed training schedule or maybe instructions to keep reading until he comes up with an answer, whether it's in these books or not. If he's lucky, John will just tell him to go grab dinner.<\/p>\n

\u201cStay there,\u201d John says. He sets down his beer and rises to his feet.<\/p>\n

A flutter of nerves quivers in Sam's stomach. John disappears into his bedroom. Straining his ears, Sam hears the zzzz <\/em>of the zip on John's duffel bag and the faint sound of rummaging, things being moved around. What is he looking for? Another book? More research material?<\/p>\n

John reappears with something in his hand, too small to be a book. He doesn't return to his side of the table. Instead, he comes to stand behind Sam.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Sam asks, twisting in his seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cTurn around,\u201d John says. \u201cSit back and stay still.\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course, Sam obeys, with an automatic 'yes, sir'. He swivels around to face the table again. His spine straightens against the back of the battered kitchen chair. His arms settle on the armrests, fingers curling over the rounded wooden edges. He sits still and stiff, staring straight ahead. The fluttering anxiety in his stomach spreads to his chest and his pulse does an uncomfortably frantic dance.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Sam asks again. He hates how small his voice sounds; tentative and meek. Helpless.<\/p>\n

John's palm presses against the back of Sam's head, tilting it forward until his chin almost touches his chest.<\/p>\n

Sam sucks in a shaky breath. His ears start to ring, a buzzing hum of growing panic. He can't stand being trapped in his own body like this. He wants to move. He needs to move.. He wishes he could look over his shoulder, to see what his father is up to behind his back. He wishes he could do anything other than sit in this chair, paralysed and choking on claustrophobia inside his own skin. Sam feels like a doll, being played with and posed by a dispassionate owner.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's about time you had a proper haircut,\u201d John says.<\/p>\n

Sam thinks that his heart actually stops. He definitely stops breathing. Something touches the nape of his neck and slides upwards and he realises, with a sudden jolt of horror, that the buzzing isn't only in his ears. It's coming from John's electric hair clippers and it gets louder as the blades chew through his hair.<\/p>\n

\u201cLong hair isn't practical on a hunter,\u201d John lectures, matter-of-fact. \u201cIt's a liability. A monster could get hold of it, or it could get in your eyes at the wrong moment.\u201d<\/p>\n

The clippers keep going, higher and higher, creeping closer and closer to the top of Sam's head, before finally pulling away, only to return to the nape of his neck to carve another stripe.<\/p>\n

John tips Sam's head a little to the left, then to the right. Tufts of brown hair tumble over Sam's shoulders and drop to the floor. Sam stares at it, dumbfounded. He can't believe it.<\/p>\n

\u201cDean cuts my hair,\u201d he says, stupidly.<\/p>\n

John doesn't bother to reply to this. His breath is hot against the freshly-bare back of Sam's head as he leans closer and guides the clippers around Sam's ear. Strands of hair slide softly past Sam's cheek, falling like tears.<\/p>\n

This isn't happening.<\/p>\n

None of this is happening. It's all just a bad dream. A nightmare. None of this is real.<\/p>\n

Sam closes his eyes and hides in the darkness behind his eyelids. He's somewhere else, anywhere else, and none of this is happening.<\/p>\n

John steps back, taking the clippers away. The buzz stops and, for a moment, Sam thinks, wildly, that he's reconsidering. Realising that he's gone too far. Then there's a clicking sound, a new guard being snapped into place, and John's fingers curl under Sam's chin, lifting his head. The buzzing returns.<\/p>\n

Sam breathes slowly. In and out. In and out. This isn't happening but he feels the clippers press against his forehead, cold against his skin. He feels them begin to move. There's an all-too-brief tug of resistance before the blades slice through his bangs and he feels hair spill down his face, tickling his skin on the way to the floor. This isn't real but he feels the vibration of the clippers as they continue their glide over the top of his head . He feels John's ruthless determination and he feels the chill that spreads across his scalp, strip by strip, in the razor's unforgiving wake.<\/p>\n

He feels pieces of himself falling away.<\/p>\n

John is whittling him, cutting off the parts he doesn't approve of, that he deems unimportant. The things that make Sam Sam<\/em>. John is carving him into something else. Something new.<\/p>\n

John's hands move with swift practised precision and soon \u2013 so soon it really can't be real, it can't be done so fast, it can't be, it can't be <\/em>\u2013 the buzzing stops. The silence is loud without it. Sam opens his eyes and watches as the clippers are set down on the table beside the book he'd been reading. There are dark scraps of hair lying limply on the open pages. John's hands brush off Sam's shoulders and a few more join them.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere.\u201d There's a smile in John's voice. Maybe a smirk. He sounds pleased with himself, satisfied by his handiwork. \u201cGo have a look, see what you think.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mechanically, Sam rises to his feet. He steps over the fluffy spread of hair \u2013 fuck, there's so much of it <\/em>- that surrounds his chair and walks on legs that feel strangely numb. He's adrift. Detached from his own body. He moves across the room without feeling the floor beneath him and enters the small bathroom. He flips on the light with fingers that may as well belong to someone else, steps up to the vanity, and looks into the mirror.<\/p>\n

The person that looks back at him has large eyes, wide with bewildered astonishment. Their face is pale, tired, and shocked. Their ears seem to stick out a little but maybe that's just because their hair is short. Really short.<\/p>\n

Feeling dazed, Sam raises a hand.<\/p>\n

So does the person in the mirror.<\/p>\n

Slowly, Sam runs his hand up the back of his neck, over the top of his head. The person in the mirror copies him. His palm skates over prickly fuzz instead of the mess of curls he's searching for.<\/p>\n

\u201cA crew cut is much more sensible for a hunter,\u201d John says, remorselessly, from the doorway.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir,\u201d Sam hears himself say. The mouth of the person in the mirror moves along with the words but it can't really be him. It doesn't look like him.<\/p>\n

John actually grins. Like he truly believes that Sam likes the haircut. Or like he enjoys knowing that Sam doesn't. Sam can't tell which.<\/p>\n

John steps into the bathroom and stands behind Sam, taking up most of the remaining space. He runs his own hand over Sam's freshly shorn head, a move that could be meant as affection but feels more like a mocking taunt. A needless reminder of the power he wields.<\/p>\n

They both stare at Sam's new reflection; Sam with a burgeoning sense of devastation. John with an air of thoughtful assessment, like he's wondering what other changes he should make.<\/p>\n

In the end he nods approvingly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're starting to look like a real Winchester now.\u201d<\/p>\n

To Be Continued...<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get to punch John, really, really hard, right in the face.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47134.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47034.html","pubDate":"Mon, 28 Aug 2023 22:55:27 GMT","title":"A Bump in the Night 2\/2","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47034.html","description":"

A Bump in the Night<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: A simple salt and burn takes a turn when the spirit throws Sam into a tombstone. Teen Spirit 'verse.<\/p>\n

A\/N: What year is this set in? Honestly I don't know. Supernatural's timeline is whack. I went by dates of birth and worked it out from there but if it's wrong... shhh.<\/p>\n

(Apparently I never posted part two of this on my LJ. Sorry!)<\/p>\n

Chapter Two<\/ins><\/p>\n

You would think that a blood-stained teenager would garner immediate attention in an emergency room but it turns out that Dean's definition of an emergency differs from that of the stern-faced woman at the front desk. There's no whirlwind of activity, no rushed footsteps or urgent voices. The woman looks Sam up and down critically, hands Dean a clipboard and a pen, and directs them to take a seat.<\/p>\n

Dean's mouth is open to argue, his hand balling up into a fist that yearns to slam itself down on the counter top, but at his side, Sam makes a noise of disapproval and tugs on Dean's shirt. Or he loses his balance and tightens his grip while regaining it. Either way, Dean decides that the kid has been on his feet long enough and if that coincides with obeying the woman's command, well, fine.<\/p>\n

They sit in the waiting area, and then in a small curtained cubical, for an unbearably long time. Sam curls into a little ball on the hospital bed, quietly miserable. Dean feels a lot like punching something, except that he knows that it won't help anything. It makes him want to punch something harder<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n

Silently, he prays to Castiel, which feels only slightly less pointless than punching something. Cas doesn't arrive. Dean tries pacing for a while but there really isn't room for it in the cubical so he settles back into the hard plastic chair at Sam's bedside and glares at the curtains, willing them to open.<\/p>\n

\u201cDean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah?\u201d He looks to Sam and immediately jumps to his feet, snatching up a nearby emesis basin. He shoves it in front of Sam just in time.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's it. There we go. You're okay. Let it out.\u201d Dean murmurs comforting nonsense. He squeezes onto the edge of the bed so he can tuck Sam against his side and help him to stay upright while he vomits.<\/p>\n

Sam is fucking tiny.<\/p>\n

Dean should be used to it by now. It's been months but there's still a part of him that expects Sam to be at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. He'd forgotten, or maybe he never really appreciated, just how small the kid was at thirteen. It's weird, how easy it is to support Sam's entire weight with a single arm wrapped around his skinny convulsing shoulders. How easily both of them manage to fit on the narrow hospital bed. How shamelessly Sam melts against him. Sam hasn't been this clingy since... well, since he was thirteen. The first time. It's kind of adorable. Or it would be, if Sam wasn't blowing chunks.<\/p>\n

A doctor doesn't show up until just after Sam's second puke attack. A tall woman with dark curly hair escaping an exhausted ponytail. She clucks sympathetically.<\/p>\n

\u201cExperiencing some nausea, I see.\u201d<\/p>\n

No shit<\/em>, Dean wants to say but he holds his tongue. Sam nods tightly. He drops his head on Dean's shoulder, curling his fingers around the hem of Dean's shirt. Dean rubs his back reassuringly.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet's have a look, shall we?\u201d The doctor \u2013 her name tag says Smith or Schmidt or something similar, Dean forgets it instantly \u2013 is swift and gentle, deftly parting blood-stuck strands of hair with her gloved fingers. The wound is a jagged split in the skin, still leaking sluggishly. Angry and swollen. Dean winces, remembering the sharp crack<\/em> Sam's head had made when it struck the tombstone.<\/p>\n

The doctor presses her lips together as she inspects Sam's injury. \u201cThat's quite a bump.\u201d Her eyes, light blue and quite pretty, actually, move to Dean. \u201cDid he lose consciousness at all?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe for a moment,\u201d Dean guesses.<\/p>\n

The doctor takes a penlight from her top pocket and shines it in Sam's eyes, first one, then the other. Whatever she sees makes her mouth turn down.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you tell me what year it is, Sam?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty-sixteen.\u201d Sam takes a beat but he answers correctly.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what year were you born?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNineteen-eighty \u2013 oh, no. Um... two thousand and... and...\u201d Sam trails off helplessly. He glances up at Dean, apologetic. \u201cI can't remember.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's okay,\u201d the doctor says, even though it obviously isn't. Worry squirms nauseatingly in Dean's stomach. Not only because Sam's forgotten his fake birth year but because he can't do the simple maths to figure it out. What if Sam's brain is bleeding? What if it's swelling inside his skull? \u201cHow about the president? Can you tell me his name?\u201d<\/p>\n

Distress is rising in Sam, flushing his cheeks. He's not used to failing tests and he isn't exactly nailing this pop quiz. Sam licks his lips anxiously, his eyes darting back and forth as he searches for the answer.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs this necessary?\u201d Dean snaps, irritation building in response to Sam's growing upset. \u201cShouldn't you be doing some sort of scan or an x-ray or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

Doctor Smart or Sharp or whatever ignores Dean's tone with an easy indifference that can only come from years of experience with stressed and snappy family members.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am going to order a scan.\u201d She makes a note on her chart. \u201cAnd I'll send someone in to stitch the wound. Hopefully you won't have to wait long. We're a little slammed tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

The wait is interminable.<\/p>\n

Sam runs out of stomach contents to evacuate fairly quick but that doesn't stop him from continuing to try. He shakes and retches and clings to Dean with clammy little grabby hands and finally, terribly, Sam crumbles into tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cAw, kiddo,\u201d Dean says helplessly, stomach sinking. He smooths his hand up and down Sam's spine.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want my<\/em> Dean.\u201d Sam sobs, which makes Dean want to start smashing things until it somehow grants Sam's wish. If he could make himself a teenager again, he'd do it in a heartbeat.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am your Dean. I just got older.\u201d It feels like a lie. He knows that it's not the same. He isn't the same person he was at seventeen, just like Sam isn't the same person he was when he was thirty-three. Both of those people are gone now. Dean has lived too much and Sam too little.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

The poor kid sounds all of five years old. He looks it, too, rubbing away tears with the palm of his hand. Flushed cheeks and tasselled hair, soggy and sad and breaking Dean's heart into freaking pieces. It feels like someone is stomping on his chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, Sammy. I'm so sorry.\u201d Dean isn't sure what he's apologizing for. For not saving Dad. For not being Dad. For not finding a way to make Sam an adult again or for not stopping Sam from rattling his brains on a tombstone.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to go home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Is Sam talking about the bunker? The Impala? The nineties? 'Home' is a somewhat intangible concept for Winchesters. With none of these options available to him Dean does the only thing he can; he tightens his grip. He draws Sam closer until the kid is almost in his lap, wrapped up tightly in his arms. He rocks side to side, gently so he doesn't start Sam spewing again. It reminds him of childhood nights in motel rooms, trying to get a chubby toddler Sammy to go to sleep while Dad did research under lamplight at the table, a comparison that Sam would undoubtedly find incredibly offensive were he not concussed as all hell. If Dean closes his eyes he can almost pretend that they're both back there, somehow safe in the innocent optimism of childhood. He strokes Sam's hair and rubs his back and murmurs reassurances in place of a lullaby. Sam buries himself in Dean's chest and gets Dean's shirt all wet with tears and probably snot and maybe more blood from his sticky hair.<\/p>\n

There's a faint whooshing sound, a rush of moving air, announcing Castiel's long awaited arrival. Dean is so relieved that he doesn't even care that Cas just caught them in the middle of the world's sappiest chick-flick moment.<\/p>\n

\u201c'bout time,\u201d he tells the angel suddenly standing at the bedside.<\/p>\n

Castiel ignores Dean's tone in the exact same way the doctor had. He frowns down at Sam, brows knitted together in concern, and reaches out his hand.<\/p>\n

The End<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews will get to ride on a rollercoaster.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/47034.html?view=comments#comments","category":["blood loss","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","protectivedean","hunting","concussion","head injury","crying","supernatural fanfiction","cas","hurt\/comfort","hurtsam","angst"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46821.html","pubDate":"Mon, 28 Aug 2023 22:41:41 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 4\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46821.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

Chapter Four<\/ins><\/p>\n

Sam can tell that Dean is watching him closely. He feels eyes on him when he isn't looking and he catches Dean staring at John with wary dubiosity.<\/p>\n

Dean's suspicions make the air prickly and tense and Sam is thrilled because, despite his inability to tell Dean anything, his brother isn't dumb and has obviously figured out for himself that something isn't right. He keeps placing himself purposefully between Sam and John, like he's preparing for an inevitable show down, snapping to attention if either of them moves too fast. He's alert, ready, and Sam is sure that it will only be a matter of time before Dean realizes what has happened, but...<\/p>\n

John is unusually and infuriatingly lenient. Sam is unusually annoyed by the reprieve. If John would just give him some unreasonable order that Sam would never obey without argument then Dean would see his unnatural acquiescence and he would know. Dean is always telling him that he's a brat and Sam is always happy to live up to that reputation. Dean will notice the difference. Dean will figure it out and make John take it back.<\/p>\n

Sam just needs to be patient.<\/p>\n\n

Then John up and leaves town to hunt ghouls with some guy he met somewhere who calls him for help, and Dean is annoyed because if John would wait one more day then Dean would be free from his cast and able to come along. John refuses \u2013 he won't even let Dean join him after he gets the cast off, tells him to work on strengthening his weakened leg instead - and Dean sulks about it for the next week.<\/p>\n

Sam spends that week attempting to compose sentences that will actually leave his mouth. Holding a pen above a blank page, trying to convince the ink to spill his secret for him. He ends up snapping his pen in half out of frustration.<\/p>\n

When it howls with rain on the day their father returns, John actually allows them both to skip training rather than using his new power to force Sam out into the storm. Dean looks happily surprised but Sam's stomach sinks. A smug smile flashes across John's face after Dean has turned away.<\/p>\n

Sam has been waiting almost two weeks for something like this. It would have been a perfect opportunity to alert Dean \u2013 Sam never runs in the rain without complaining bitterly about the injustice of it \u2013 and John knows it. Over the next few days, when Sam completes his training without a word of protest, Dean probably thinks it's out of gratitude for the rare day of rest.<\/p>\n

John is playing the long game.<\/p>\n

Sam should have known. His father is too smart to flaunt the fact that he turned to witchcraft in front of Dean. John doesn't push, doesn't immediately institute an insane new regimen or really do anything out of the ordinary that might set Dean on edge. He acts completely normal, as if he has nothing to hide, and if Sam is less mouthy than usual, well, Dean actually seems to be enjoying the break from all the fighting.<\/p>\n

As the days go by, Dean, now distracted by the newfound freedom of being freshly de-casted, appears to come to the conclusion that whatever happened on the hunt was nothing more than a typical fight between Sam and their father. Not something that he needs to be worrying about.<\/p>\n

Three weeks after the spell, Dean is back to spending his evenings with whatever girl he's in love with lately, disappearing as soon as he can after flawlessly completing whatever tasks John has assigned, and Sam is left behind.<\/p>\n

Once alone, John sets extra books in front of Sam and orders him to keep reading to familiarize himself with the material. John tells him to disassemble, clean, and reassemble all the guns. He makes Sam run extra laps with a stitch in his side and fury in his throat.<\/p>\n

Sam hates it.<\/p>\n

He hates John. He even hates Dean a little bit because he keeps leaving Sam alone with John. Because when Sam sulks about it Dean laughs light-heartedly and accuses him of being jealous of Dean's dating prowess. Because when Sam pleads with his brother, asking him to stay, Dean promises that they'll hang out soon \u2013 maybe they'll catch a movie over the weekend or go out and grab some pie \u2013 and skips out the door to meet his date. After a while, John tells Sam that he needs to stop bothering Dean.<\/p>\n

\u201cDean gets to go out because he knows how to behave. He was miles ahead of you at sixteen because he has always taken hunting seriously. It's time for you to catch up on everything you've been slacking off on all these years.\u201d John pauses his lecture long enough to fix Sam with a disapproving glare. \u201cNo more trying to weasel out of training by asking Dean to stay home. Understand?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d Sam's hands curl into fists and his fingernails cut crescent moons into his palms.<\/p>\n

Dean does keep his promises, most of the time, but he's easily distracted by pretty faces and short skirts and, now without the ability to ask for his brother's attention, Dean sometimes spends weeks chasing down the latest object of his affections, lost in the thrill of new love, or at least lust, until eventually he'll turn to Sam like he's just remembered that he exists and point out that they haven't spent much time together lately.<\/p>\n

Sometimes Sam messes things up by being angry about how long it takes Dean to notice. He'll give Dean the silent treatment or snap something bitchy and then immediately regret it when Dean's expression moves from wounded to defiant and he marches out to spend an evening with his fake ID instead of with Sam.<\/p>\n

If Sam is lucky, Dean will forgive him quickly. If he's not, he has a lot of time to be furious at himself while Dean avoids him and John takes advantage of the distance between them to make Sam spend even more time training.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

John buys a crossbow from some dodgy guy in the back of a roadhouse.<\/p>\n

Sam is dismayed to find out that, while John and Dean take to the unfamiliar weapon like fish take to swimming, for some reason he just can't get the hang of it. It's heavy and awkward and it won't shoot where he wants it to.<\/p>\n

John is disgusted by Sam's lack of natural ability. He scowls, as if Sam is missing the target on purpose.<\/p>\n

\u201cConcentrate!\u201d John snaps. \u201cJust look at the target. Stop messing around.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d The words force themselves past Sam's clenched teeth. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and reloads. Hefting the crossbow, he takes aim and he does concentrate. He really does. It's not like he has a choice in the matter, with John's order drawing his attention to the makeshift target (hastily drawn on an old pizza box in red sharpie) and refusing to allow him to look away. But the crossbow is so heavy that he can't keep it steady.<\/p>\n

The muscles in Sam's arms strain under the weight and it makes his hands shake. Biting down on his lower lip, Sam lets loose the bolt. It sails through the air but the trajectory is woefully off. Before it can reach the target, the bolt slams into the ground.<\/p>\n

Sam's shoulders slump. He lowers the crossbow and huffs out a frustrated breath. \u201cI can't do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you can,\u201d John insists. His jaw is set in grim determination. \u201cWatch Dean again.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean has the decency to look apologetic as he takes the crossbow from Sam's hands but, whatever second-hand embarrassment he feels for Sam, it doesn't stop him from lifting the weapon with ease and sending a bolt directly into the bullseye.<\/p>\n

Sam scowls. Why does Dean always have to be so perfect? It would be nice if he would dial it back a little, if only so Sam doesn't look quite so terrible in comparison.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee?\u201d John says impatiently, as if watching Dean succeed will automatically dispel all of Sam's inadequacies. \u201cJust do what Dean did.\u201d<\/p>\n

Like it's that simple.<\/p>\n

Like Sam can just suddenly be six feet tall and packed with muscle and good at everything.<\/p>\n

He takes the crossbow back, hot with humiliation. He does exactly what Dean did; loads, aims, and releases the bolt. They all watch as it sails past the target, at least a foot off to the left, and thuds into the hill behind it.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe we should call it a day,\u201d Dean suggests magnanimously. \u201cPractice again tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

John glares at Dean, his face stony. \u201cHe'll never get it right if you keep babying him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam can tell that the reprimand stings his brother. Dean ducks his head, shuffling his feet awkwardly. John's frustrated sigh is more of a growl. He looks down at Sam, not bothering to hide his disgust, and if Sam weren't so angry and embarrassed, maybe he'd find it darkly satisfying that not even John's spell is strong enough to make up for his complete lack of talent.<\/p>\n

\u201cDean, you can go get cleaned up for dinner.\u201d John directs. \u201cSam... you can come in once you've hit the target.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean's head shoots up, eyes wide. He visibly braces himself as he looks from John to Sam.<\/p>\n

Sam's mouth drops open, an argument pressed to a tongue that refuses to move. He wants to throw the crossbow at the ground. He wants to smash it into splinters until it's as useless as he is. But he can't, of course, because that would contradict John's standing orders against messing around during training. He can't yell at John for being unreasonable or refuse to complete the task or even point out all the logical reasons behind a sixteen year old failing to measure up to a twenty year old. All he can do is drop his eyes, so he at least doesn't have to look his father in the face while subjugating himself, and murmur a meek, \u201cI'm trying, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean reacts as if he's been standing next to a bomb that has turned out to be a dud. He turns slowly, stiffly, staring at Sam in disbelief.<\/p>\n

\u201cTry harder,\u201d John says.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

It takes another hour.<\/p>\n

Finally, most likely due to the sheer statistical improbability of complete failure after so many attempts, Sam lets loose a bolt that slams into the very edge of the target. It's no where near a bullseye but it's enough that Sam feels the slackening of his magical chains.<\/p>\n

A cheer erupts from behind him.<\/p>\n

Sam's arms have felt wooden for at least the last half hour. His hands are cramping, fingers stinging. The crossbow feels like it weighs a million tons and pain travels all the way down Sam's spine when he lowers it, turning to face the noise.<\/p>\n

Dean claps his hands, approaching from where he has apparently been watching, leaning against the wall outside their rented cabin. \u201cYou did it.\u201d He sounds cautiously impressed, a vein of confusion cutting through his tone. \u201cYou were determined, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shrugs his shoulders. It hurts.<\/p>\n

Dean stares at him. \u201cIs this some weird new tactic against Dad? Malicious compliance or something?\u201d He reaches out and takes the crossbow and, before Sam can withdraw his hand, grasps Sam's wrist. He holds it up, inspecting the blisters forming on Sam's fingers.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Sam says.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo... what?\u201d Dean asks, bemused. \u201cYou really wanted to learn how to use a crossbow?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean cocks his head to the side, regarding Sam curiously. \u201cI don't get it. There's something going on with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's pulse quickens. A rush of hope hits him in the chest and makes his heart speed up excitedly. Dean is still gripping his wrist, staring hard into Sam's face, searching for answers.<\/p>\n

Sam stays still. He holds Dean's gaze, willing his brother to somehow understand. To read the answers in Sam's eyes. They don't need words. Dean knows him. He knows this isn't right.<\/p>\n

Then Sam's stomach rumbles. The moment passes and Dean releases him, stepping back with a sigh.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'll clear this stuff up,\u201d he offers, gesturing to the target and the bolts that litter the field. \u201cGo take a shower and get something to eat. Dad bought pizza.\u201d<\/p>\n

The pizza is cold and greasy. Sam forces down a couple of slices while water drips from the tips of his hair, dampening the shoulders of his t-shirt. He'd been too hungry to take the time to dry himself properly.<\/p>\n

John watches him from the other side of the table. \u201cIs Dean asking questions? Tell the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir. He is.\u201d A droplet of water rolls down Sam's neck and soaks into his collar.<\/p>\n

John sits back in his chair. He folds his arms across his chest and squints at Sam imperiously.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf he asks again, tell him that you want to do better,\u201d he orders. \u201cTell him that you want to be<\/em> better.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam chokes down his mouthful of pizza.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

To Be Continued...<\/strong><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get to smash the stupid crossbow.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46821.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46371.html","pubDate":"Wed, 23 Aug 2023 23:47:07 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 3\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46371.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/h1>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

Chapter Three<\/ins><\/p>\n

John tells Sam to stand up.<\/p>\n

Sam stands up.<\/p>\n

John tells him to help clean up the altar and Sam helps to clean up the altar. Sam tells John that he can't do this and John tells Sam that it's already done. He tells Sam to go get in the truck.<\/p>\n

Sam sits in the passenger seat, simmering. The fear he felt when the creature burst from the sigil has boiled into rage. Of course saying sorry wouldn't cut it.. He feels stupid for even thinking that that would be enough for his father. John doesn't want an apology.<\/p>\n

John wants obedience.<\/p>\n

John returns all the items \u2013 the brass bowl, the candle stubs, the flashlights and EMF meter \u2013 to the trunk and climbs into the drivers seat. He checks the time on his watch and, instead of starting the engine, sits behind the wheel and lays down the rules.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou won't tell Dean about this. You won't tell anyone. No speaking about it, no writing it down, no charades. When Dean asks about this hunt, you'll act normally. You'll tell him that we found a grave out back and salted and burned the body. You'll tell him that everything went smoothly.\u201d There's a pause, then John adds, \u201cYou'll say 'yes, sir' when I'm talking to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam tries to press his lips together but the words spring free, oddly toneless. \u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

John nods, satisfied. \u201cI know you're probably angry-\u201d<\/p>\n\n

Sam is grimly thrilled to learn that he can still bark out a derisive laugh.<\/p>\n

A tic twitches in John's cheek. He sets his jaw and ploughs on. \u201cI know you're angry but you'll soon learn that this is for the best. I'm not unreasonable-\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam scoffs, incredulous, and opens his mouth to spit out something sardonic.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam, be quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's mouth snaps shut. His lips press together and refuse to part. Choking on a mouthful of words that suddenly have no where to go, Sam slams his hands on the dash, enraged.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop acting like a child,\u201d John says firmly. He stares resolutely out of the windscreen, curling his hands tightly around the wheel even though they aren't moving.<\/p>\n

Sam fumes. John sits. Both of them silent. It must be childish to squirm because Sam finds that he can't move, again. He can only sit still and wait, with mounting frustration, as minutes tick past. Eventually, John drives.<\/p>\n

Instead of heading back to the motel, John swings by an all-night drive-through. Sam wonders how he can eat right now, after what he's just done, but John doesn't seem to be bothered. He orders them both large combo meals, in spite of Sam's silence when asked what he wants, and stops the truck again a few streets away. Sam isn't sure why until John checks his watch again. Of course. He's stretching out their absence. It can take hours to dig a grave and burn a body. If they return too fast Dean will know that the story is off.<\/p>\n

John tears into his burger. Sam leaves the sack of food John passes him untouched in his lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should eat,\u201d John says, nodding at it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't want it.\u201d A suggestion is apparently not enough to trigger the spell because Sam feels no urge to comply.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don't eat enough,\u201d John says, like now he wants to play the concerned parent, worried about Sam's well-being. As if he didn't just trick Sam into accompanying him to a shabby old shack in the middle of no where and put a curse on him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm not hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy does everything have to be a battle with you?\u201d John shakes his head. He rubs a hand over his eyes, as if Sam not wanting to eat greasy fast food right now is unreasonable. \u201cJust eat the damn food, Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir. \u201c Robotically, Sam's hands move to open the bag. He unwraps the burger \u2013 an unappetizing slab of mince with a wilt of lettuce and a bun soggy with sauce \u2013 and takes a bite, even as his stomach turns.<\/p>\n

John goes back to his own burger, finishing it off in another two bites. Sam eats his slowly but he can't stop himself from eating it, no matter how hard he tries. He picks out the fries one by one, chewing and swallowing, until the bag is empty and Sam is full. Uncomfortably so. He thinks about trying to throw up \u2013 that'd teach John \u2013 but whether it goes against the order to eat or the order not to be childish, he can't get his body to listen to him.<\/p>\n

Finally, John checks his watch and must decide that enough time has passed. He starts the engine once more but before he drives, he turns to Sam.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm not unreasonable,\u201d John insists. \u201cThis isn't even mind control. Your thoughts are still your own. You're probably thinking some pretty ugly things about me right now. That's okay. When you're older you'll understand that I did this to keep you safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d Sam grits his teeth, appalled by his own verbal compliance. The meal rolls over in his stomach but stays put.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need you to start taking your training seriously,\u201d John instructs him. \u201cNo more back-chat. No complaints. When it's time to move, you pack your things and we go. Trust me when I say that I know best.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

John is right. It isn't mind control. He can make Sam say the words but he can't force Sam to actually trust him.<\/p>\n

John doesn't speak again until the truck has grumbled to a halt outside their motel. The neon vacancy sign flickers overhead. John grips the steering wheel, head bowed, and sucks in a breath.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm sorry I had to do this, Sam,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

He can't force Sam to believe him.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Sleeping Beauty, you get lost last night?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam peels apart gummy eyelids and blinks up at the fuzzy shape hovering above his face until he blinks it into focus.<\/p>\n

Dean's face. It's a lot closer than usual.<\/p>\n

His brother is lying beside him on the bed, propped up on an elbow and looking down at Sam with a puzzled look in his eyes. Dean's lip twitches upwards in amusement but confused concern stops him from forming a grin.<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d Sam asks eloquently.<\/p>\n

Dean raises an eyebrow. \u201cYou're in my bed, doofus.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam looks around the room, confused and only half-conscious. To the right, his own bed sits, neatly made and untouched. The foggy grasp of sleep is still clutching at him. His thoughts are slow and there's a heavy feeling in his chest, pressing him flat against the mattress. He feels sort of like he's waking up from a long illness. His bones weigh more than they should and his skin seems bruise-soft and sensitive. Frowning, he looks back up at Dean.<\/p>\n

What happened last night?<\/p>\n

Memory returns with all the subtlety of a truck crashing through a wall. The glowing circle on the floor of an old house. John standing at an altar, his eyes lit up by flame. Chanting. Conjuring a serpent of smoke and chains.<\/p>\n

Sam gasps, jack-knifing upright. Dean jerks back with a yelp, almost falling off of the bed, and scrambles to sit up, grabbing Sam's heaving shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the fuck, Sam? Are you okay?\u201d His hands skate down Sam's arms, over his chest, searching for injuries in a move that's so familiar and comforting that it makes Sam want to collapse against his brother and cry.<\/p>\n

Sam is so not okay.<\/p>\n

He remembers floating back into the motel room last night, feeling as though he was sleepwalking. Shell-shocked and exhausted and nauseated from being force-fed fast food. John had told him to go to bed but he hadn't specified which bed so, in a fit of defiance and desperation, Sam had elected to lie down beside his brother, who was asleep on top of the covers, still fully dressed. He must have succumbed to fatigue while awaiting Sam and John's return.<\/p>\n

The two of them never shared a bed unless they had to these days. It would be a sign to Dean that something was wrong. Sam had wanted to wake him but John had warned him as they crossed the parking lot to be careful not to disturb his brother so instead, Sam had laid there, still and silent, staring at the ceiling, until sleep had finally claimed him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm okay,\u201d Sam says, his mouth moving without his permission.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened?\u201d Dean demands, staring at him. \u201cIs Dad okay? Did the hunt go bad?\u201d<\/p>\n

Yes<\/em>, Sam thinks furiously but what he hears himself say is, \u201cNo, everything went smoothly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWent smoothly?\u201d Dean makes a face. The wording sounds awkward to Sam, unnatural. Dean must hear it, too. He lets go of Sam's shoulders, leaning back to eye Sam critically \u201cDid you and Dad get into another fight?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d Words are building up behind Sam's teeth. He desperately wants to tell Dean everything. About the altar and the circle and the snake.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, what the hell, then?\u201d Dean huffs, starting to sound frustrated now. \u201cWhat did happen?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam opens his mouth. He needs to let Dean know about the witchcraft. Dean will know what to do, how to convince John to reverse what he's done. John listens to Dean, sometimes. Sam just needs to get the words out.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d Sam says. He wants to scream. \u201cWe found a grave behind the house. We salted and burned the body.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay...\u201d Dean says slowly. He looks at Sam with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. Confused and suspicious. Like he's not sure whether Sam is messing with him or if he's lost his mind. \u201cSo why the hell are you in my bed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI...\u201d Sam's explanation refuses to leave his tongue. He searches his brain for words that would alert Dean to his plight without disobeying John's orders but he can't find any.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you sure you're alright?\u201d Dean can't seem to decide whether he's supposed to be worried, amused or annoyed. \u201cYou sound weird.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm fine.\u201d Sam feels like a ventriloquist's dummy. John's words tumble out of his mouth. \u201cEverything went smoothly.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean definitely looks like he's questioning Sam's sanity now. He grins, a little awkwardly, like he thinks Sam must be pulling some sort of prank that he doesn't get. \u201cHave you turned into a robot or something? What's wrong with you?\u201d<\/p>\n

The bitter taste of disappointment joins the words stuck to Sam's tongue. He can't say what he needs to say. He doesn't know how to make Dean understand.<\/p>\n

Sam flops back on the bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d his mouth says. \u201cNothing's wrong with me.\u201d<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

Chapter Four<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46371.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46141.html","pubDate":"Sat, 19 Aug 2023 19:12:26 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 2\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46141.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n

A\/N: You all are awesome. Dean's cast looks so pretty!<\/p>\n

Chapter Two<\/ins><\/p>\n

The house is creepy. Really creepy. Not all haunted houses are. A lot of them are stupidly normal. Boring beige houses with cute porches and wind chimes and kids toys in the yard. The kind of houses Sam always wanted to grow up in, minus the ghosts.<\/p>\n

Not this house.<\/p>\n

Sitting on the outskirts of town, where the only light is the moon and the only road is dirt, the house is barely more than a shack. The roof droops with rot and the floorboards sag and shriek beneath their feet. The shadows have an oily look to them, lurking in the corners, avoiding the flashlight beams. The EMF meter in Sam's hand stays dark and silent but there is an ominous feeling crawling up his spine. Like there's something looming over him, waiting to pounce the moment he lets down his guard.<\/p>\n

John's hand drops onto Sam's shoulder. Sam's heart jumps into his throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook,\u201d John says. His flashlight is pointed at something in the back room, against the far wall. Some leftover bit of furniture. A table, cluttered with some sort of mess. Probably beer bottles and cigarette butts. Someone's trash.<\/p>\n

The air tastes like chemicals. Like spray-paint. Maybe some kids have been vandalizing the place.<\/p>\n\n

Sam creeps forward, through the slumping doorway. Silently obedient, just like he promised Dean. He glances down at the EMF meter, frowning at the lack of reaction. Maybe this case is a dud.<\/p>\n

Then the beam of Sam's flashlight lands on the jumble of items spread across the tabletop and he pulls up short.<\/p>\n

Stalactites of wax stretch towards the floor, the stubs of melted candles standing sentry in each corner. There's a small pile of little white bones \u2013 probably cat or rabbit \u2013 and a bundle of herbs set beside a shallow brass bowl. The smell of spray-paint is stronger here, hanging heavy in the stagnant air. Sam moves his flashlight beam around the room, searching for the source.<\/p>\n

He finds it at his feet.<\/p>\n

The flashlight beam reveals a red circle painted on the floor in the middle of the room. It's decorated with a series of strange swirling symbols, undoubtedly magical, and Sam is standing right in the center of it.<\/p>\n

\u201cActus<\/em>,\u201d John says, before Sam can step away.<\/p>\n

The circle and the symbols glow. A feeling like warm water rushes over Sam's feet, rising up his ankles, thighs, through his stomach and chest, over his head. Panic sweeps thought aside. He can't breathe. His lungs are frozen. He is frozen. He can't breathe. Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe<\/em> -<\/p>\n

The wave recedes. It washes back down his body in reverse. Sam sucks in a desperate lungful of air and the flashlight and EMF meter drop from his startled hands before he can remember how to grip things. He staggers sideways, stumbling on suddenly unsteady legs. He almost falls but he reaches the curving line of glowing red paint and, rather than crossing it, hits an invisible wall.<\/p>\n

The flashlight rolls away across the room and the EMF meter has skittered across the paint-line but Sam is trapped. His hands push against air that feels solid.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad!\u201d he gasps, alarmed, an automatic plea for help falling from his lips, even as his brain begins to process the sudden turn of events. John said something. Something that made the circle glow. And now Sam is trapped.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's okay,\u201d John says. \u201cThere's no ghost.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Sam's mouth is dry. They're meant to be here for a ghost. John said that this was a haunting. \u201cWhat do you mean? What's happening?\u201d<\/p>\n

John strides across the room, over to the table \u2013 altar<\/em>, Sam's brain supplies \u2013 without looking at Sam or answering his questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Sam demands. \u201cDad!\u201d<\/p>\n

He presses hard against the solid air, palms flattening. He's reminded, ridiculously, of mimes and their invisible boxes.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's okay,\u201d John says again. He isn't surprised, Sam realises. Not by the altar or the circle or the lack of a ghost. He isn't surprised by any of it. John knew that this was here.<\/p>\n

John set this up.<\/p>\n

John set Sam<\/em> up.<\/p>\n

At the altar, John scoops up the pile of bones and drops them into the bowl. They make a hollow clatter that reverberates ominously around the room.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait.\u201d Confusion morphs into fear and it bleeds into Sam's tone. Witchcraft isn't something to mess around with. It's dangerous. \u201cDad, wait. You don't have to do this.\u201d<\/p>\n

He has no idea what 'this' is. John still won't look at him. Is this a test? A lesson of some sort? John's always doing things like dropping him and Dean off in the middle of forests so they can learn to navigate, or tying their hands together so they can practice getting free. Is Sam supposed to escape the circle? He doesn't know how. Usually there's some warning before John pulls something like this, some sort of instruction on how to pull it off.<\/p>\n

John speaks but not to Sam. His voice rings out in a deep booming timbre, speaking in a lyrical language that Sam doesn't understand.<\/p>\n

Blood rushes in Sam's ears, a sudden roar of panic. He spins in a circle, his hands searching for a gap in the barrier, for a way out, but everywhere he touches pushes back.<\/p>\n

The candles on the altar spring to life, flames bursting from their wicks.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad!<\/em>\u201d His voice rises, high-pitched and frightened Sam's hands curl into fists and he slams them frantically against the invisible wall, as if he can beat it down. His blows make no noise. Horror rises in Sam's throat like vomit.<\/p>\n

What if this is a punishment?<\/p>\n

\u201cDad, stop! Stop! <\/em>I'm sorry! Please, stop!\u201d<\/p>\n

He doesn't know what he's apologizing for but every strange word that drops from John's lips deepens the dread in Sam's stomach. Desperate tears spark in his eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad, please,<\/em>\u201d he whispers.<\/p>\n

Somehow, John must hear him because he falters. His eyes slide sideways, to Sam, and his voice loses some of it's confident volume, the words trailing into silence. The candlelight dances across his face and with it, a flicker of uncertainty. He stares at Sam, at the glowing circle that traps him.<\/p>\n

Then John sucks in a steadying breath and he turns away, resuming his chant with fresh determination.<\/p>\n

Sam can't stop the tears from spilling over, hot on his cheeks and blurring his eyes. The candlelight fractures. Despair hollows out his chest. His hands press helplessly against the unseeable wall.<\/p>\n

John adds a handful of the herbs to the bowl of bones. His chanting gets louder, faster. The small shack seems to fizz with a building charge. The air is electric, raising the hair on Sam's arms and the back of his neck. He feels like an elastic band, stretching to breaking point, ready to snap.<\/p>\n

And then, like a strike of lightning, something silvery and snake-like erupts from one of the sigils beneath his feet. Sam screams. He tries to escape, lurching away, but there's nowhere to go. The creature twists itself around his legs, swirling up up up until it reaches his chest and splits itself in two to coil down his arms. A serpent made of smoke and chains.<\/p>\n

Sam claws at the creature but his hands pass straight through it, tearing instead at his own skin and clothes. John reaches a crescendo, shouting the final words of his spell. The candles flare up again, sending a shower of sparks into the air.<\/p>\n

The world turns white.<\/p>\n

Sam shatters and scatters, wisps of him swirling away into emptiness. He's an explosion. An implosion. A star gone supernova. An atom being split. When the pieces come back together Sam finds himself on the floor, lying on his side. The circle is no longer glowing and he is no longer trapped inside of it. One of his outstretched arms crosses the line of paint. The snake-like creature is gone but Sam thinks he can still feel it's slippery weight twisting around him.<\/p>\n

Everything is quiet, except for Sam's ragged breathing. Shudders run up and down his spine. The candles have gone out and darkness has crept back into the room.<\/p>\n

What just happened?<\/p>\n

\u201cSammy.\u201d John picks up his flashlight and thumbs it on, shining a beam of light down on Sam.<\/p>\n

Sam shies away, raising an arm to shield himself from the brightness. Shakily, he pushes himself up. He's stunned speechless. Thoughtless. Numb, dumb, and confused. He sits on the floor and understands nothing.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's okay,\u201d John says. \u201cIt's done now.\u201d<\/p>\n

He steps forward. Panic has Sam scrambling backwards, hands scrabbling, heels pushing against the floorboards, in a burst of desperate uncoordinated limbs. Suddenly, he sees the man that the monsters see. Someone ruthless. Dangerous.<\/p>\n

Suddenly, Sam is afraid of his father.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop,\u201d John says.<\/p>\n

Sam stops.<\/p>\n

He doesn't want to stop but his limbs all seem to turn to stone. He is frozen. A living, breathing statue.<\/p>\n

John crosses the room and stands over Sam. He stares down at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt worked.\u201d He sounds relieved.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d Sam croaks, testing his voice and, thankfully, finding it unaffected.<\/p>\n

John seems to realise that he's looming in a rather intimidating way because he crouches down, dropping to one knee at Sam's side. The closeness is worse. Sam's skin crawls, yearning to back away. He can't even turn his head, forced instead to stare into his father's face. John looks ghoulish. The downward tilt of the flashlight leaves his features lost in shadow, making his eyes appear sunken and empty. He licks his lips, choosing his words.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, Sam-\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d Sam asks again, more forcefully.<\/p>\n

John's face twists. Hardens. His chin rises and his chest puffs out defiantly. \u201cWhat I had to. This is for your own good. I wish there was another way but, well...\u201d<\/p>\n

John's nostrils flare and he manages to convey his dissatisfaction with a single aggravated exhale. It's the sound he makes whenever Sam does something that John deems to be a screw up or says something that John decides counts as back-chat. He's been making the sound a lot lately, ever since Dean broke his leg.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you don't understand,\u201d John continues. \u201cYou're too young and you aren't like Dean. But what I'm doing \u2013 what we're doing \u2013 it's important. So much more important than maths homework or reading assignments. You need to get your head in the game. It's time to knuckle down, start focusing on what really matters. Another mistake could get you killed. It could get Dean killed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam swallows a sour pulse of resentment. His face is still damp and, again, angry tears threaten to wet his cheeks. This is about the hunt for the wood nymph. Because the creature didn't burn like they thought it would. Because Sam wasn't good enough to stop Dean from getting hurt. Obviously, John doesn't care that it was faulty lore that messed up the hunt, not Sam.<\/p>\n

Biting back an argument, Sam tries instead to look contrite. This must be what John wants. To scare him into apologizing. Into taking hunting more seriously. Sam can do that. Whatever it takes to get John to reverse the spell, Sam can do it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm sorry,\u201d Sam says, tongue tripping on the words. \u201cDad, I'm so sorry. I'll do better. I promise.\u201d<\/p>\n

The hard lines in John's face soften. His spine loses some of it's rigidity and he reaches out a hand. Sam wants to duck away but he's still frozen in place. All he can do is sit completely still as John's fingers card through his hair, ruffling it affectionately.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you will, kiddo,\u201d John says, almost proudly. \u201cI'm going to make sure of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chapter Three<\/a><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews get to run their fingers through Sam's hair.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/46141.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45939.html","pubDate":"Wed, 16 Aug 2023 20:45:59 GMT","title":"For Your Own Good 1\/8","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45939.html","description":"

For Your Own Good<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d Sam doesn't know how right he is.<\/p>\n

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

Chapter One<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

It isn't Sam's fault.<\/p>\n

He had done everything that he'd been told to do. John said to carry the pack \u2013 heavy with extra knives and emergency supplies \u2013 so Sam carried the pack. He'd hardly complained at all, considering it must have weighed almost as much as he did. It kept throwing off his centre of gravity, threatening to send him sprawling in the undergrowth as he trudged doggedly through the uneven terrain.<\/p>\n

When John had barked at him to quit bitching Sam had done that too. Instead, he'd entertained himself by compiling a mental list of all the things he'd like to say to his father. All the things he would<\/em> say to his father, if not for the fact that he isn't dumb and he doesn't have a death wish.<\/p>\n

And when the wood nymph had emerged from it's tree, spitting mad and moving freakishly fast on creepy stick-like legs, Sam had been ready with the silver knife John had given him when he turned sixteen, the latest in a long line of weapons as gifts that would inevitably end up in the back of John's truck. (Sam is convinced that John uses their birthdays as an excuse to add to his own weapons collection.)<\/p>\n\n

Slashing at the creature, Sam had forced it back, giving John time to douse the tree in lighter fluid. He'd heard the striking of a match and the 'whoomph'<\/em> of the flames and the wood nymph had screamed, shrill and seriously pissed off, but it didn't crumble to ash as the lore had promised.<\/p>\n

The wood nymph had made use of their moment of surprise. It twisted like a falling leaf caught in a gust of wind, slipping around Sam, and Sam doesn't see it but he hears it when Dean hits a nearby tree. There's a 'crack' <\/em>that sounds like a branch breaking, except branches don't yell in pain like Dean does.<\/p>\n

It isn't Sam's fault. Later, Dean will tell him this over and over and Sam even thinks he believes it. After all, is it his fault that he isn't as fast a a supernatural stick monster juiced up on hikers?<\/p>\n

Sam doesn't think so but John still yells at him the entire way to the hospital.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's really not that bad, Sammy, honest.\u201d Dean is hiding pain behind a deliberately casual sprawl and a grin. His leg, in it's gleaming white cast, is propped up on the arm of the couch. He waves away the painkillers Sam is offering. \u201cI've had broken bones before.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't be dumb.\u201d Sam shakes the pill bottle insistently in front of Dean's face, getting between his brother and the TV he's trying to watch. Dean cranes his neck in an attempt to see the screen. \u201cDad isn't even here. You don't have to pretend you don't feel pain.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean rolls his eyes but he holds out a hand. \u201cWhatever. If it makes you feel better I'll take the pills. But if they make me loopy you don't get to laugh.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo promises.\u201d Sam drops two pills into Dean's outstretched hand. \u201cWant water?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNah.\u201d Dean tosses back the pills, swallowing them dry. \u201cHappy?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam makes a face. \u201cEcstatic.\u201d He sits down on the floor, seeing as Dean is taking up the entire couch, and watches absently as a glamorous woman on the television screen slaps a second woman across the face.<\/p>\n

Dean drops a hand onto his shoulder. \u201cIgnore Dad. You know what he's like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's not like I let it past me on purpose,\u201d Sam complains<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe lore said it would burn with the tree. Not that we needed to burn it and <\/em>the tree.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDude, I know.<\/em>\u201d Dean squeezes his shoulder. \u201cYou didn't do anything wrong. Dad's just... well, he's still pissed off about the bitch-fit you threw when we moved here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam spins around, looking up at his brother indignantly. \u201cI worked hard on that project, Dean! One more week and I would have been done. It wasn't fair!\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean raises his hands as if fending off blows.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, I get it,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

But he doesn't. Not really. Dean never wanted to go to college. He thinks Sam is just fighting with John for the hell of it. Teenage rebellion or something dumb like that. Dean has never looked at good grades and seen an escape route.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't shoot the messenger, Sammy. And don't worry about Dad. He'll get over it eventually.\u201d<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

Dean's prediction seems to prove correct. Gradually, John stops see-sawing between scathing lectures and glowering silence. He slides back into the demeanour Sam is more accustomed to; stern and distant, with a terminally disappointed scowl.<\/p>\n

It takes a while. Dean's leg has almost healed by the time John seems to get over himself and forgive Sam for not being the perfect hunter John wants him to be. Dean points out that Sam isn't exactly helping matters.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou make 'yes, sir' sound like 'fuck you'.\u201d Dean is sitting on Sam's bed, watching Sam prepare for the night's hunt.<\/p>\n

\u201cI do not,\u201d Sam denies as he rubs his hair dry with one of the rough motel towels, even though the observation makes him smile a little in smug satisfaction. He hopes John hears the insult, too.<\/p>\n

Dean shakes his head. He swings his plastered leg up onto the bed and leans back against the headboard.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour smart mouth is gonna get you in trouble one day,\u201d Dean warns.<\/p>\n

Sam wonders if Dean has been sitting here waiting for him to get out of the shower just so they can have this conversation.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat's Dad gonna do? Make me run laps? Clean weapons? Stay up all night hunting monsters when I should be studying?\u201d Sam scoffs. \u201cHe already does all that, Dean.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam tosses the damp towel aside and looks around for his sweatshirt. Dean tugs it out from beneath him \u2013 Sam makes a face \u2013 and holds it out.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you just... try not to piss Dad off tonight?\u201d Dean asks. \u201cPlease?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam takes the sweatshirt. \u201cI don't have to try. It just happens.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm being serious.\u201d Dean sounds serious. There's a tightness to his expression, something pinched and stressed.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo am I.\u201d Sam pulls his sweatshirt on and starts looking for his shoes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have a bad feeling about this \u2013 you and Dad, hunting without me.\u201d Dean glares down at his cast, somewhat battered now and covered in the girly hearts and flowers that Sam had made a habit of drawing whenever he caught his brother sleeping, much to Dean's continued annoyance. \u201cI should just cut this thing off.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you shouldn't. That would be stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean seems to actually be considering it. Sam softens. Being left behind sucks. Waiting. Worrying. Sam has had far too much experience with it. The only thing worse than being dragged out on a hunt is not being dragged out on a hunt. The hours between your family leaving and your family returning safe and alive tend to stretch into years.<\/p>\n

Sam sits down next to Dean, bumping shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt'll be fine,\u201d he assures his brother. \u201cDon't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean shoves him off of the bed in response.<\/p>\n

Chapter Two<\/a><\/p>\n

A\/N: Reviews will get to draw flowers on Dean's cast.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45939.html?view=comments#comments","category":["hurtdean","family","drama","bigbrotherdean","teenchesters","sicksam","supernatural fanfiction","john","trauma","hurt\/comfort","cursedsam","hurtsam","protective dean","angst"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45764.html","pubDate":"Tue, 18 Jul 2023 05:39:31 GMT","title":"Come as You Are 6\/6","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45764.html","description":"

Come as You Are<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.<\/p>\n

Chapter Six<\/ins><\/p>\n

Nothing is better when Sam wakes up.<\/p>\n

The blankets are twisted around his legs and one of his pillows has made its way onto the floor, remnants of a restless night. Sam's dreams had all stunk of sulphur and blood.<\/p>\n

The alarm clock reads eight fifteen. Sam stares at the little red numbers, watching the five flick to a six, to a seven, to an eight. Finally he gets up because he doesn't know what else to do.<\/p>\n

In the bathroom, Sam stares at himself in the mirror, searching for... something. Some sign of the secret beneath his skin. Something abnormal. Unnatural. But he looks the same as always. Same brown eyes staring back at him, tired and trepidatious. Same dark hair, doing it's usual morning impression of an unkempt hedgehog. It's getting long. Dad would have made him cut it by now but Dean hasn't said anything. Other than the ten or so times a day that he calls Sam 'Samantha' or 'Princess' or some other girl's name, of course, but that happens no matter the length of his hair so it doesn't count.<\/p>\n

He looks entirely ordinary. He doesn't look like someone with demon blood in their veins. Or maybe he does. What does he know?<\/p>\n\n

Without bothering to change from the t-shirt and sweats he slept in, Sam heads out into the hallway. Maybe he'll go to the library and find some books on demons The Men of Letters must have known something about this sort of thing. There could be a way to... purify himself somehow. Make his blood clean again.<\/p>\n

The warm smell of coffee is emanating from the kitchen, along with a rumble of voices. Sam slows, bare feet silent as he drifts towards the doorway.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't know,\u201d Dean is saying, in response to something indecipherable said in Castiel's low tones. \u201cHe just sort of... shut down. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo good has ever come from you and Sam lying to each other,\u201d Castiel says, prompting a rush of gratitude from Sam. \u201cHe deserves to know the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, he shouldn't have to.\u201d Dean sounds angry. \u201cIt's not fair. Everything that happened to him; what the demon did, and those fluffy-winged dickbags \u2013 no offence, Cas \u2013 it's too much to put on a kid.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would be difficult for a child to understand,\u201d Castiel concedes, which tempers Sam's gratitude somewhat, until the angel continues with \u201cbut Sam is smart and more resilient than you give him credit for.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know he is,\u201d Dean snaps. \u201cThat's not the point.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is the point?\u201d<\/p>\n

Something is set down with a soft thud. A coffee cup, maybe.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't want him to know.\u201d Dean's voice is so quiet Sam has to step closer to hear. He presses himself against the wall. \u201cHow bad I've let him down. So much of what happened is my fault.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour fault?\u201d Castiel sounds as confused as Sam feels. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is quiet for a long moment, then it all comes out in a rush. \u201cIt was my job to keep him safe, Cas. I was supposed to look out for him. I should've saved him from those damn psychic Hunger Games without selling my soul, or killed Ruby before she got the kid drinking demon blood. I should have held out longer in Hell. I shouldn't have broken the first Seal so Sam wouldn't have broken the last. Then Lucifer wouldn't have crawled out of the Cage and under Sam's skin. The world wouldn't have almost ended.\u201d Dean laughs but not in a happy way. \u201cAll because I couldn't do my damn job.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam realises that he's crouched on the floor with his arms wrapped around his stomach and no memory of getting there. He feels sick. Dean told him ages ago about the archangels Michael and Lucifer and how they wanted to have a big fight that would have destroyed the world. But he didn't say anything about breaking seals or drinking blood or Lucifer wearing Sam's skin. Dean said that they saved the world, not that they almost ended it.<\/p>\n

\u201cDean.\u201d There's a frown in Castiel's voice. Sam imagines the angel looking at Dean, brow drawn together, little lines pressed into his forehead, eyes bright and piercing. \u201cThe plan for the Apocalypse was aeons old, prophesied in the Book of Revelation. Both of you were manipulated by some of the most powerful beings in creation. There was nothing to be done.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's not true.\u201d Dean spits out the words like they're bitter. \u201cIf Sam could-\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's foot slips on the tile. The gasp he lets out as he regains his balance is barely audible but Dean breaks off mid-sentence. Something, a wayward spoon or fork, clatters to the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam?\u201d Dean calls sharply. A chair scrapes back.<\/p>\n

Sam stands up. He should go into the kitchen. He should be calm and mature and face up to his brother and Cas and an apocalypse that sounds like it was at least partially his fault. He should ask some questions, like what is a Seal and how do you break one? Who is Ruby and did he really drink blood from demons? Why would he do that? He should probably ask how they got the devil out of him. He should definitely start breathing again because he's starting to feel like water circling the drain.<\/p>\n

Sam turns and runs.<\/p>\n

XXX<\/p>\n

The problem with living in a locked underground bunker is that running away is impossible.<\/p>\n

He could head for the store room and it's not so secret tunnel to the woods but Dean would be on him in a heartbeat, checking the wall for fresh smears of blood. The Impala is a tempting option. Sam even knows where Dean keeps a spare key. He could take it and smash his way out of the garage like something from an action movie. Of course, he'd need to keep driving forever because Dean would destroy him for treating the Impala that way. Plus there's a chance he'd simply end up pancaked among a heap of twisted metal and Dean would double destroy him if he did something as stupid as getting himself killed.<\/p>\n

He can't go to his room, or Dean's room, or the library or the shooting range or anywhere else that Dean would expect. Instead, Sam runs along hallway after hallway, taking turns at random, with no clear idea where he's heading other than 'down', which feels as close to 'away' as he can get. Finally, he trips his way down a winding set of stairs, into a dungeon chamber tucked behind shelves of boxes and books \u2013 still ajar from previous a previous poke around \u2013 and skids to a halt just before he crosses into the huge Devils' Trap painted on the floor.<\/p>\n

Sam sinks down beside the sigil, panting. His head is spinning. The room is spinning. He might actually be dying somehow because everything is spinning, trying to throw him into dark and weightless space, and he can't catch his breath and his heart is beating way way too fast to be okay. Maybe he's having a heart attack. How old is he supposed to be? Thirty-something? That's old enough for a heart attack, right? Or maybe it's, like, a seizure or something. He's shaking pretty hard. What does a seizure feel like?<\/p>\n

Sam curls up on the cold concrete. He wraps his arms around himself to hold himself together and presses his forehead to the floor. The swooping line of the Devil's Trap is inches from his eye. He can't remember how to breathe.<\/p>\n

Time passes. Sam doesn't know how much. Somehow he doesn't die. He comes close to throwing up a couple times, revolted by the phantom taste of blood, and at one point he hyperventilates so much that the room goes dark while he imagines himself with black eyes, like a demon. Or yellow eyes, like the demon that killed Mom. Why was it different? He never asked. What colour were Lucifer's eyes?<\/p>\n

He wishes he would pass out, if only so he could stop thinking. He wants to erase his memories of the last few days and all of the horrifying revelations. He wants whoever or whatever stole two decades of his life to come back and takes away the last week.<\/p>\n

But he doesn't pass out, or throw up, or magically forget everything that he's learned. Eventually he remembers how to breathe somewhat properly, which calms the swirly puke-y spinning of the room. The violent beating of his heart slows to a much less frantic rhythm and the shaking stops before he rattles himself to pieces. Sam lies on the floor, breathing in and out. In and out. The cold from the concrete seeps through his clothes and into his skin, the fuzzy Devil's Trap comes back into focus, and finally Sam becomes aware of Castiel, sitting quietly against the wall. Sam doesn't know when he came in or how much of Sam's breakdown he witnessed. The angel's face is unreadable. His unblinking eyes watch Sam impassively.<\/p>\n

Heat rises in Sam's face. Self-conscious, he forces himself to sit up. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d he snaps.<\/p>\n

Castiel cocks his head to the side, regarding Sam without any hint of irritation at the rudeness. \u201cDean and I were looking for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Well duh. \u201cSo you found me. Now go away.\u201d<\/p>\n

Infuriatingly, Castiel doesn't leave. \u201cI think we should talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

Scowling, Sam turns his head away, looking stubbornly at the grey wall. \u201cI don't want to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNonetheless, I think we should.\u201d The angel is unexpectedly firm. Sam frowns. He can feel Castiel's eyes on the back of his head, staring him down.<\/p>\n

What does Castiel see when he looks at Sam? Can angels see souls? Sam feels naked. What does his soul look like now, after everything? After demon blood. After the devil. He imagines a vein of darkness, like a coiling black vine, spreading through him. A corruption.<\/p>\n

Sam draws his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around himself in a pointless attempt at concealing the evil in him. His toes brush the painted outer line of the Devils' Trap and he curls them back, away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould I be able to get out?\u201d he blurts. \u201cIf I stepped into it? Or would I be trapped like the other demons?\u201d<\/p>\n

He glances over at Castiel. The angel looks back at him, seemingly unperturbed. An angel should be more bothered, Sam thinks, by a boy infected with demon blood. By a boy the devil dressed in to end existence.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are not a demon, Sam. You have never been affected by Devils' Traps.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam looks back at the Trap, unconvinced.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou could test it, if you like,\u201d Castiel suggests.<\/p>\n

Sam shakes his head. What was it that Castiel said to him, after that sparring match with Dean? That angels don't need to lie. That an angel could manipulate a person with the truth. Is that what happened to Sam? Did he let Lucifer lead him astray?<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it true?\u201d Sam's throat is dry. \u201cDid I drink blood and free Lucifer? Did all those people die because of me?\u201d<\/p>\n

Castiel is silent for a long moment, thinking. At least, Sam assumes he's thinking. Castiel stays very still and looks even more serious than usual. When he speaks it's with the slow deliberate cadence of someone choosing their words carefully.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo mortal being could have brought about the Endtimes alone. You and Dean were unwilling participants in a war between angels and demons. Pawns being used by the forces of Heaven and Hell to carry out plans that were put into place generations before your birth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat sounds like a roundabout way of saying yes,\u201d Sam points out.<\/p>\n

Castiel smiles a little, not unkindly. \u201cDean said that I should hit you if you tried to take the blame for everything but I don't think he was being serious.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe might have been.\u201d Sam rubs his shoulder, where Dean punched him last night.<\/p>\n

\u201cEven so, I am not going to hit you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Castiel's smile fades. \u201cI am going to tell you that the story of the apocalypse is long and complicated. The creatures of Hell are devious and determined. My brothers and sisters in Heaven do not always do well without our Father's guidance. What is right is not always obvious. Mistakes were made. By all of us. Myself included. I am not proud of some of my decisions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're an angel<\/em>,\u201d Sam says dubiously. He can't imagine Castiel doing anything worth being ashamed of.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo was Lucifer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shudders. The devil had always seemed like somewhat of an abstract, even when Dean told the story of Lucifer's assault on humanity. Even when Sam read the news articles chronicling the unusual storms and plagues and entire towns of people vanishing, hundreds, thousands of people dying. It was like reading about a war that happened before he was born. Distant. Detached. Worse, it had seemed like an adventure. One that Sam regretted forgetting. Him and Dean, driving around America. Saving people, hunting things. Collecting rings to make a key to lock the devil in a cage. Like action heroes. On a quest to defeat a monster and save the world.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said that angels need permission to possess someone,\u201d Sam remembers. \u201cDoes that mean I let him do it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Castiel's silence is answer enough. Fresh anguish sparks tears in Sam's eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy would I do that?\u201d he demands. \u201cAm I evil? Because of the demon blood? Am I a monster?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d Dean would have been tripping over himself with blustering denials but Castiel's reply in calm. Matter of fact. \u201cThere was a time that I might have answered differently but that was before. Before I met you and Dean. Before I learned more about how wonderful, terrible, and complicated it is to be human. And before I watched you prepare to say 'yes' to Lucifer. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen.\u201d<\/p>\n

The angel's bluntness is strangely reassuring, even though Sam is hopelessly confused.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow was that brave? I don't understand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. I'm sorry. It is difficult to explain.\u201d Castiel is silent and still again, thinking. \u201cYour actions were the culmination of months of fighting a losing battle. Months of struggle and suffering and loss. The world was ending. Saying 'yes' to Lucifer was the only way to stop it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo stop it?\u201d Maybe he didn't hear Cas right. How could handing himself over to the devil stop the apocalypse?<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. The world is still here, as you may have noticed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause we locked the devil back in Hell. Dean said...\u201d The penny drops. Obviously Lucifer didn't go back to Hell willingly. Someone must have had to push him. Or drag the devil down with them. Dean left out that detail.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went to Hell?\u201d Sam realizes. He's starting to feel weird and floaty again. Probably forgetting to breathe. He feels like he's dreaming.<\/p>\n

\u201cLucifer's Cage is separate from the rest of Hell. But yes, essentially. You allowed Lucifer to possess you, then threw yourself in.\u201d Oddly, Castiel smiles. Soft. Impressed. He looks at Sam with something warm that could actually be pride. \u201cSam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood, destined to end the world. Who defied the will of angels and demons alike. Who tore prophesy to shreds and sacrificed everything. To save Dean. To save everyone. You are not evil, Sam. You are a miracle.\u201d<\/p>\n

He really must be dreaming. Sam stares at the angel. He doesn't know what to say. A denial is pressed against the back of his teeth.<\/p>\n

Finally his brain settles on the simplest, most obvious question. \u201cHow did I get out?\u201d Because unless Hell is being thirteen again \u2013 and there could be an argument to be made there \u2013 the eternal damnation part of his sacrifice doesn't seem to have stuck. \u201cDid you go get me, like you did for Dean?\u201d<\/p>\n

Something indecipherable flickers, almost imperceptibly, across Castiel's face. His eyes lower and his lips press together, just for a second before his gaze returns to Sam and whatever it was that flashed across his face is gone.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d Castiel gets to his feet. \u201cBut that is another long complicated story, best saved for another time. Dean will begin tearing down walls if I ignore his messages for much longer.\u201d<\/p>\n

At first, Sam thinks Cas means that Dean is praying \u2013 which is weird \u2013 but then Castiel pulls a cellphone from his pocket \u2013 which is weirder. Who ever heard of an angel with a cellphone?<\/p>\n

\u201cIs he mad?\u201d Sam asks, rising to his feet. He wants to push Cas for more details. He wants to know every part of every long complicated story. But he recognises a refusal when he hears it. Castiel isn't ready to share, or he thinks that Sam isn't ready to listen. And Dean is alone and he'd sounded so broken when he told Castiel that everything was his fault. Sam feels a stab of regret. He shouldn't have run away.<\/p>\n

\u201cDean is worried.\u201d Castiel thumbs through several messages. \u201cSo yes, he is mad.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sometimes Sam is jealous of how well Cas knows his brother.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you think he'll yell at me?\u201d Sam follows the angel out of the room with the Devils' Trap, trailing behind as they cross the storeroom and climb the winding stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think he will yell at me,\u201d Castiel says, \u201cfor not letting him know the moment I found you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean meets them in what he calls the War Room, the bunker's door closing behind him with an angry bang, boots clanking heavily down the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was here<\/em>?\u201d Dean immediately fulfils Castiel's prediction, barking at the angel before he reaches the bottom step. \u201cAnd it took you this<\/em> long to find him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe were talking,\u201d Castiel says, unphased by Dean's anger.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were talking,\u201d Dean repeats, eyes flashing dangerously. \u201cAnd you couldn't take a second to send me a text? You know, one of those quick easy messages I taught you how to do that lets me know that Sam hasn't gone and gotten grabbed by yet another monster? I was out there searching the woods, Cas!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, Dean,\u201d Sam offers, a twist of guilt tightening in his stomach. Dean is pretty loud \u2013 he must have been really worried.<\/p>\n

Dean looks past Castiel, at Sam, and deflates. He licks his lips, suddenly uncertain.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam.\u201d It comes out sounding like an apology and a plea. Dean opens his mouth but whatever words he's searching for don't come.<\/p>\n

\u201cCas said that I'm a miracle,\u201d Sam blurts out. It sounds dumb when he says it out loud. His voice doesn't have the same gravity as Castiel's deep rumbling. But he can't stand the stretching silence or the bleak guilt in Dean's eyes.<\/p>\n

Dean goes still. Braces himself. He glances back at Castiel, uneasy, a question in his quirked eyebrow.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh really?\u201d Dean's voice is neutral but Sam can sense his brother's brewing panic. Dean is looking at him like he's waiting for Sam to throw a punch or a scathing accusation. Like he thinks Sam is going to scream at him for breaking some stupid Seal. For not killing some chick named Ruby. For allowing Sam to go to Hell. Dean might be older now but he looks exactly like the teenager Sam remembers, standing in front of their father, ready to be verbally beat down for his transgressions, real or imagined. Dad always seemed to find something and it doesn't surprise Sam to find that Dean has carried on the tradition. \u201cWhat exactly did you tell him, Cas?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe truth,\u201d Castiel says, \u201cabout the end of the Apocalypse.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean looks stricken. His eyes go wide and his face loses a shade of colour. \u201cJesus, Cas, you'll scare the shit out of him! He'll have nightmares.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm not scared,\u201d Sam argues, automatically. \u201cWe saved the world. That's really cool.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt wasn't at the time.\u201d Grief makes Dean's words heavy. \u201cYou went to Hell, Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam shrugs. He doesn't really know how he's supposed to feel about Hell. He doesn't remember any of it. It may as well not have happened.\u201cI'm not there now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean glances at Castiel. Eyes meet in silent understanding. There's a story about Sam's release from Hell, unshared, that Sam plans to ask about, later, when Dean doesn't look so devastated.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's okay,\u201d Dean says, looking back at Sam, \u201cif you're mad at me. I know I let you down. I didn't keep you safe and I should have.\u201d<\/p>\n

The way Dean's looking at him, Sam gets the feeling that his brother never stopped seeing him as the little kid that he kind of is right now, even when he was an adult and they were working together to save the world from squabbling archangels. Just like when Dean was a teenager and wanted to beat up anyone who looked at Sam wrong, even though Sam was capable of kicking a bullies ass six ways to Sunday.<\/p>\n

\u201cI kept you safe,\u201d Sam points out, echoing Castiel's assurance, and Dean's face does a familiar dance between embarrassment and pride, the same expression he would make if Sam ended up saving him from peril on a hunt.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause I'm a miracle,\u201d Sam says earnestly, suppressing a grin. If he can get Dean to call him a miracle, Sam will be able to lord it over him for the rest of eternity. Dean, being Dean, sees right through him and the tension, the fear of blame and rage, dissipates.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe miracle is that I haven't attached some kind of tracking device to you. Take your phone next time you disappear, would you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Castiel has drifted from the room, perhaps sensing that a private brotherly moment was imminent, and Sam takes the opportunity to strike, surprising Dean not with a punch but a hug.<\/p>\n

It will never not be weird. How tall Dean is now. How his build tricks Sam's brain into thinking of Dad when he wraps arms around his brother's waist and presses his face against the broad chest. He even smells like Dad. Like gun oil and beer.<\/p>\n

Dean stiffens, startled by the sudden show of affection. Sam guesses that they probably didn't embrace a lot as adults. They didn't do it much as kids either. Living in each other's pockets, sharing too-small motel rooms and the Impala's back seat, shrinking with each growth spurt, had inspired a desire for space that living in the bunker doesn't. Sam would be embarrassed by how often he finds himself following Dean around \u2013 getting told off for sitting on the counter while Dean cooks, passing tools and feigning interest when Dean works on one of the cars in the garage \u2013 if he didn't notice Dean doing it too \u2013 playing on his cellphone while Sam browses books in the library, suggesting movies or TV shows and then crushing himself in beside Sam on one of their beds to watch.<\/p>\n

Uncertainly, Dean returns the hug, huge arms curling around Sam's back.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't think it was your fault,\u201d Sam says. His voice is a little muffled by Dean's t-shirt but he can tell by the breath Dean sucks in that his brother hears the absolution. He can tell by the brief tightening of Dean's grip that his brother's first instinct is to refuse it, and then by the loosening that Dean has decided to accept.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't think it was your fault either,\u201d Dean says, voice firm. Convicted. Sam wouldn't be allowed to argue if he wanted to.<\/p>\n

Sam doesn't want to. He closes his eyes, enjoying the weird \u2013 not bad<\/em> weird, just weird<\/em> weird \u2013 hug. It feels safe. Safer than his room or the Impala or anywhere else in the world.<\/p>\n

And then Dean, still incapable of displaying more than a moments honest emotion, twists around and turns the hug into a headlock. Without mercy, he noogies Sam's already-messy hair into a hopelessly tangled birds nest while Sam squirms and yelps out the obligatory (and pointless) protests. Castiel is in the next room, saying something about bacon that makes Dean laugh, and life is really strange but well, what else is new?<\/p>\n

The End<\/p>\n

A\/N: Okay, ending this was hard. One revelation leads to another and I got kind of tied up in my head trying to get Cas explaining everything without explaining the entire plot of Supernatural. So... I don't know. Tell me what you think?<\/p>\n

Reviews will be given huge slices of birthday cake.<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45764.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","supernatural fanfiction","cas","hurt\/comfort","trauma","hurtsam","angst"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45383.html","pubDate":"Mon, 10 Jul 2023 04:00:05 GMT","title":"Come as You Are","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45383.html","description":"

Come as You Are<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.<\/p>\n

Chapter Five<\/ins><\/p>\n

There's a knock, Dean's knuckles tapping out a familiar rhythm warning of his imminent intrusion, and Sam's bedroom door swings open. Dean steps inside, raising the keys to the Impala and an eyebrow.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou wanna go for a drive?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam looks back at the ceiling. Artemis Fowl<\/em> rests beside him on the bed but he isn't even pretending to read. He can't focus. He keeps thinking about the look on Allison's face after she bit him, and the heavy silence that followed them home from the hunt. He keeps interrupting whispered arguments between Dean and Cas.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean pauses, surprised by the refusal, maybe, or offended. Sam has never turned him down before. Sam isn't entirely sure why he's turning him down now. To avoid talking about what they both heard the vampire say about him, perhaps. Or maybe it's to punish Dean for avoiding talking about what they both heard the vampire say about him. Because it's obvious to Sam that Dean knows exactly why Allison described his blood as tainted. Castiel obviously knows as well, and they've been back in the bunker for two whole days and neither of them have let Sam in on the secret, which is annoying and confusing and a relief.<\/p>\n\n

\u201cOkay then,\u201d Dean says but he doesn't leave. He crosses the room and casts the keys aside, dropping them onto Sam's bedside table. He sits down on the bed, an insistent hip nudging at Sam's leg until Sam huffs an exasperated sigh and pushes himself upright, resettling with his back against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you would have asked by now,\u201d Dean comments. An invitation.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't know what to ask. Of if you'd tell me the truth if I did.\u201d Sam watches through his bangs for Dean's reaction.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's fair.\u201d Dean nods a little, thoughtful. \u201cI don't know if I should.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam should be mad that Dean would consider lying to him but he's not. He's scared.<\/p>\n

\u201c'cause it's bad?\u201d he ventures.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's... complicated.\u201d Dean has an infuriatingly prefect poker face and an unreadable tone. Complicated. What does complicated mean?<\/p>\n

\u201cThere's something wrong with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

It's strange to finally give voice to the bleak suspicion that has nagged him his whole life, since long before a vampire spat out his blood. To put into words the gnawing certainty that something about him is off<\/em>. It feels almost as if someone else is using his mouth to speak, spilling out a secret he was supposed to keep.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I've always known it, since I was really little. There's always been something wrong with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

It says a lot that Dean doesn't immediately deny it. It says more that Dean can't hold his gaze, looking instead to the doorway, like he's checking his escape route.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou told me that before, once,\u201d Dean admits, wistful in the way that says he's thinking about a different Sam. The older Sam. \u201cYou were sick. Had a fever so high you were practically on fire.\u201d He shakes his head at what obviously isn't a happy memory. Sam wishes he could remember it anyway. It never gets easier, being on the outside of memories that he and Dean used to share. \u201cI wish you hadn't grown up feeling like that. I don't want you to grow up feeling like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Right now, Sam feels numb. He breathes slowly, deliberately, because his body seems to have forgotten how to do so by itself. \u201cBut there is<\/em> something wrong with me,\u201d he concludes, more certain of it now than he ever has been. It isn't just a feeling anymore. It's a fact. Something is wrong with Sam<\/em>. He knows it. Dean knows it. Cas knows it. \u201cDid Dad know?\u201d<\/p>\n

Again, Dean's hesitation admits everything before he does. \u201cI'm not sure what Dad knew, or when he knew it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam must be breathing too slow because the room is starting to spin. A fuzzy static buzzes in his ears. Maybe Dean notices because he continues in a rush.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I do know that Dad loved you, Sammy. Always. Even when you two were at each other's throats. There is nothing \u2013 nothing<\/em> \u2013 that could change that.\u201d<\/p>\n

The buzz becomes a whine, like rushing wind or gushing water, threatening to overpower him, to press him flat and smother him. Somehow Sam knows where this is going. \u201cIs it... is it something to do with the thing that killed Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean's face twists. His mouth opens. Closes. Wordless. His eyes flick towards the door again.<\/p>\n

Sam can't get his voice to rise above a whisper. \u201cWas it my fault?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo<\/em>.\u201d Dean's focus snaps back and he scoots closer, leaning in urgently. \u201cNo, Sam. None of it was your fault.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is lying. Whatever happened, it happened because of Sam. Mary Winchester died because of Sam. Dad started hunting because of Sam. Dean is still hunting because of -<\/p>\n

\u201cOw!\u201d Sam grabs his suddenly throbbing shoulder, staring reproachfully at Dean.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't.\u201d Dean shakes out his fist.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're making your 'everything bad in the world is entirely on me' face and if I have to beat that dumb idea out of you, I will.\u201d Dean makes his point by punching Sam's shoulder again.<\/p>\n

\u201cOw<\/em>! Stop it! I'm not making a face!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are.\u201d Dean draws back his fist and Sam raises his hands to fend him off.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop! I don't have an 'everything bad is on me' face.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do and you're making it.\u201d Dean's fist hovers. \u201cThis is exactly why this conversation should wait. Why Dad didn't tell you \u2013 or me \u2013 anything. It's complicated. And you're a kid and, more importantly, you're you <\/em>so there's no way I can explain everything without you turning into an angsty little emo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat's an emo?\u201d Sam asks, which throws Dean off, like it always does when Sam asks for the meaning of modern slang.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's, uh...\u201d Dean's fist loosens as he thinks. \u201cLike... fuck, I dunno. It's one of those sad teenagers that hides in their room listening to romantic chemicals and falling in love with sparkly vampires.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt's... what?\u201d Dean's definitions are often more confusing than they are helpful.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh never mind.\u201d Dean abandons the attempt at explanation, along with the threat of a third punch, dropping his fist completely. \u201cI just mean... it's a lot to wrap your head around. I don't want you freaking out and blaming yourself for something that happened when you were a baby.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut what happened?\u201d Sam presses. \u201cWhy does my blood taste bad? What's wrong with it? What does it have to do with Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n

Growing up, Dean used to get angry when Sam tried to talk about their mother. Dad used to get angry, too. Like the grief was sharp and spiked. Something jagged that shouldn't be touched. Asking for details was really just asking to be frozen out for the next few hours.<\/p>\n

Dean's silence now isn't a barrier, constructed to push Sam away. Instead it's thoughtful, searching for words. He rubs his jaw.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe thing that killed her,\u201d Dean says finally. \u201cI told you that it was a demon, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam nods, his hand moving automatically to the anti-possession charm that hangs from a silver chain around his neck. Dean seems to have come across an alarming number of demons over the last two decades. Enough that he has a similar (and seriously cool, not that Sam will tell Dean that) sigil tattooed onto his chest to ward against possession. Sam used to have one, too, when he was older. Dean has floated the possibility of getting him re-inked, if they can find a tattoo artist dodgy enough to work on a thirteen year old.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd I told you that I killed it,\u201d Dean continues. \u201cWe killed it. You, me, and Dad. It's gone. Dead. So whatever I tell you, you don't need to be scared. It can't come after you or hurt you or carry out any plans-\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe demon had plans?\u201d Sam interrupts what is obviously supposed to be reassurance. \u201cFor me? What did it want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt wanted...\u201d Dean's shoulders rise as he sucks in a deep breath. Fall as he blows it out. He adjusts his position on Sam's bed. Bracing himself. \u201cIt wanted to feed you it's blood. Mom tried to stop it but... she couldn't.\u201d<\/p>\n

The room seems very silent all of a sudden. The anti-possession charm is cold against Sam's skin. He closes his fingers around it and grips it tight, feeling the ridges pressing groves into his palm. It doesn't make sense. What Dean is saying doesn't make sense.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy would it do that?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean rubs his jaw again. \u201cIt needed something. A human with the powers of a demon, to open a gate to Hell.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI opened a gate to Hell?\u201d The room is spinning again.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. No, there was this other guy. Other kids with powers. One of them did it. We couldn't stop him in time. It was...\u201d Dean clears his throat and shakes his head, warding off memories that are undoubtedly dark and bloody. \u201cIt was a mess.\u201d<\/p>\n

A black haze is creeping into the edges of Sam's vision. In a blink, Dean's huge hand is wrapped around his arm, steadying him.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam, are you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

Is he okay? He isn't sure. \u201cDid I have powers?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're freaking out. You need to breathe.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam does as he's told, sucking in a lungful of air. The haze recedes a little. \u201cDid I?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean releases Sam's arm but his hand hovers, ready to intercede. \u201cYou had visions.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVisions,\u201d Sam repeats. The word feels strange in his mouth. Foreign and far-fetched.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf the future,\u201d Dean clarifies, unnecessarily. \u201cMostly of people dying, actually, and they used to give you the worst headaches. You puked in my car once.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam wrinkles his nose. \u201cThat sounds like a lame superpower.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, it wouldn't be my first choice,\u201d Dean agrees, a sympathetic smile quirking a corner of his mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill I have them again?\u201d Sam asks, feeling a stab of panic at the idea. He doesn't want to watch people die.<\/p>\n

Dean shakes his head. \u201cNo, I don't think so. They stopped after the demon died. I told you, there's nothing to worry about.\u201d<\/p>\n

Nothing to worry about. Just a little demon blood running through his veins.<\/p>\n

Maybe this is some kind of insane prank. Do they still have prank wars? Dean used to love messing with him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know it sounds bad-\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam barks out a laugh at the understatement. Dean looks at him like he's worried that Sam is losing his mind.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt sounds bad but believe me, Sammy, it's not a big deal. It doesn't change anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam looks down at his wrists, the thin blue veins. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest, beating out a harried rhythm as it pumps infected blood around his body. How could this not change things?<\/p>\n

Sam swallows, closing his eyes. \u201cI'm tired. I want to go to sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n

He can feel Dean's eyes on him but he doesn't look up. He waits, silently willing his brother to leave. He's not sure what will happen if Dean doesn't. Maybe he'll scream. Or throw a punch. Maybe he'll shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d The mattress shifts as Dean stands. \u201cI'll be down the hall if you need me. For anything. Any time. Wake me up if you have to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt'll all be better when you wake up,\u201d Dean says, just like he had on Christmas Eve, years ago, when Sam found out the truth about monsters. \u201cPromise.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chapter Six<\/a><\/p>\n

(A\/N: Reviews will be wrapped in warm blankets and given marshmallows.)<\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45383.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","bigbrotherdean","psychic powers","hurt\/comfort","angst","supernatural fanfiction"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45152.html","pubDate":"Wed, 05 Jul 2023 02:16:33 GMT","title":"A Bump in the Night 1\/2","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45152.html","description":"

A Bump in the Night<\/strong><\/ins><\/p>\n

Summary: A simple salt and burn takes a turn when the spirit throws Sam into a tombstone. Teen Spirit 'verse.<\/p>\n

A\/N: This story bit me and I had to scratch. Set in the universe of my stories Smells Like Teen Spirit and Come as You Are (I promise the next chapter isn't far away!).<\/p>\n

(Sam is thirteen, for reasons I never explain.)<\/p>\n

Chapter One<\/ins><\/p>\n

Match sparked, Dean lets it slip from his fingers.<\/p>\n

The flame falls. A tiny flash of a shooting star, racing towards the corpse of William Christensen. Unearthed and exposed. His body salted, soaked in lighter fluid, and milliseconds from oblivion, William Christensen's ghost flickers into existence in between heartbeats, towering over Sam, and Dean knows.<\/p>\n

It's too late.<\/p>\n

Dad must have been crazy, taking Sam out to hunt monsters when he was this small. Kid's all eyes and hair and not much else. Made tinier by the shotgun in his hands, almost as long as he is tall. Sam raises it. He's ready. His finger is on the trigger, starting to squeeze.<\/p>\n

Too late.<\/p>\n

One ghostly hand wraps around the barrel of the gun and wrenches it from Sam's grasp. A second hand fists in Sam's shirt. And there's a moment, a mere second that seems to stretch itself out, as the match tumbles in slow motion, in which Sam looks past Christensen, across the yawning grave, and his eyes find Dean's. They both know what's about to happen.<\/p>\n

Dean must be crazy, taking Sam out to hunt monsters when he's this small.<\/p>\n\n

The ghost lifts Sam like he's weightless and flings him into the air. Dean's heart drops all the way down into his boots. The match lands, William Christensen explodes into a spray of scarlet sparks, and Sam slams head-first into a tombstone.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean is sprinting, hurdling graves. Sam crumples, ragdoll-esque, a small dark lump in the thin moonlight, motionless of the ground. Dean skids to a stop beside him.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean crouches down. Sam's eyes are open, blinking up at the night sky, but they don't see. They wander, vague and disconnected.<\/p>\n

\u201cSam<\/em>. Hey, Sammy. Look at me. Look at me, Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

It takes a beat, as if the words are slow to filter through, but Sam obeys. He focuses, in a foggy sort of way, and Dean starts breathing again.<\/p>\n

\u201c'm okay,\u201d Sam mutters. He lifts one small hand, fingers drifting towards his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon't,\u201d Dean says. \u201cDon't move.\u201d His own hands hover, uncertain. A Sam this small feels fragile, hollow-boned like a bird, breakable in Dean's rough hands. He's afraid to touch him, afraid of adding to his injuries. Sam is tough, Dean knows this. Sam is strong and fast and braver than anyone Dean knows and he has promised, over and over, not to baby him or treat him with kid gloves. But it's hard, with that stupidly adorable baby face of his and the insanely dangerous job that they do. And hell, it can't count as babying if Sam is actually hurt, right? \u201cLet me look at you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI'm fine,\u201d Sam insists. \u201cLet me up. I'm fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stubbornly, Sam struggles to drag himself off of the ground, using Dean to pull himself up into a sitting position, and just for a moment Dean thinks that Sam is right. It's fine. Sam is fine. It's just a bump. A bruise. Nothing serious.<\/p>\n

Then blood slides down from Sam's hairline, like fingers trailing down his face. Sam wavers, his eyes lose focus, and he slumps sideways.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa.\u201d Dean grabs his suddenly limp little brother and gathers him up in his arms before the kid can hit the ground- again. Heart pounding, he cradles Sam's head in the crook of his arm. \u201cSam. Sam!\u201d<\/p>\n

The whites of Sam's eyes flash in the moonlight, silvery slits between flickering lashes. Dean's throat tightens, panic crushing his lungs. He throws his head back, yelling into the sky. \u201cCas!\u201d<\/p>\n

He waits but there's no rush of displaced air. No hand on his shoulder. Wherever Cas is, whatever mess he's cleaning up in Heaven, he's obviously too busy to find out why Dean is screaming his name.<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn it.\u201d This wasn't supposed to happen. It was meant to be a simple salt and burn. \u201cSammy, wake up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMm.\u201d Sam's eyes slide back into focus. He blinks at Dean, slow. His brow crinkles faintly in confusion, like he's not sure how he ended up here. \u201c'm awake.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. I need you to stay that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d Sam's promise is automatic. Perfunctory. Unsettlingly obedient and therefore entirely unbelievable. The blood running in rivulets down his face shows no sign of stopping. Time to move.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, stay with me, kid.\u201d Dean tucks an arm under Sam's knees and scoops him up, getting to his feet. Sam's head lolls, his precarious promise already threatening to break. Dean hitches him up, tucking Sam's head under his chin, and starts for the car, as fast as he dares in the darkness.<\/p>\n

\u201cOww,\u201d Sam moans. His breath is hot against Dean's neck. His hair is damp with warm sticky blood, soaking into Dean's shirt, making his skin itch. \u201cAre you carrying me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike a baby.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam groans. \u201cI hate when you carry me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI hate when you smash your head on tombstones.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid I?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean picks up the pace, hurrying away from the still-smouldering remains of William Christensen, through the maze of graves. \u201cYou need a hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNooo.\u201d Sam's protest turns into another moan. He pushes his face into Dean's collarbone. \u201cFuck.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHang on, Sammy.\u201d<\/p>\n

This would have been impossible had Sam still been his former self. Moving this fast, sweeping Sam into his arms. Sometimes, back when Sam was older and gigantic and Dean was struggling to drag him home at the end of a rough hunt, he would think wistfully of a time when Sam was pint-sized and pick-up-able.<\/p>\n

Careful what you wish for, right?<\/p>\n

\u201cI can walk,\u201d Sam mumbles into Dean's shirt.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't believe you.\u201d There. The Impala, dutifully awaiting their return in the small cemetery parking lot.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat's mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo is lying.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLemme down.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean ignores Sam's insistent whining, only setting Sam on his feet when they're right next to the car and only then so that he can fish his keys out of his pocket. By the time he has the door unlocked Sam has proven how full of shit he is by turning grey and threatening to face-plant on the concrete. Dean snatches him up before his knees give out and crams him \u2013 gently \u2013 into the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cStay,\u201d he orders. He shuts the door and hurdles the hood to pop the trunk. He searches for a towel but comes up empty so he settles for one of his shirts instead, tugging it free from his duffel before racing back to Sam.<\/p>\n

Sam has curled up, legs tucked beneath him on the seat, turned towards Dean. His eyes are closed, squeezed shut against the pain that pinches his cheeks and presses his lips tightly together. Blood-slicked locks of hair stick to his forehead and his face is smeared with red. Fresh blood trickles along one eyebrow, slides down the curve of his nose, drips from his chin. Like scarlet tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere.\u201d Dean presses the shirt into one of Sam's hands, closing his fingers around it and guiding it to his head. \u201cHold this to the bleeding. Keep it there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam winces when Dean presses the flannel to the wound, swallowing something that sounds like it might have been a whimper. He bites down on his lower lip, refusing to cry out. Dean leaves his hand over Sam's a moment longer than is necessary, smothering small fingers with his larger ones.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUh-huh.\u201d Sam starts to nod but stops, fast.<\/p>\n

Dean squeezes Sam's hand, carefully. \u201cHang in there, Sammy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Chapter Two<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/45152.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","blood loss","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","hunting","concussion","head injury","supernatural fanfiction","hospital","hurt\/comfort","hurtsam"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44818.html","pubDate":"Sun, 25 Jun 2023 20:10:14 GMT","title":"Come as You Are","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44818.html","description":"


<\/p>\n

Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.<\/p>\n

Chapter Four<\/ins><\/p>\n

The first thing Sam notices, as he swims groggily towards consciousness, struggling with eyelids that seem to weigh a thousand pounds each, is that someone is crying.<\/p>\n

He tries to remember how to move his lips. He wants to ask the crying person whether they're okay and if they need something and maybe see whether they know what the hell is going on, but he can't get the words to form and after that he notices the second thing, which completely wipes every other thought from his mind because the second thing is that his skull might very well be caving in.<\/p>\n

Pain, white hot and violent, radiates from the crown of his head, crushing him. Sam cowers beneath it, curling into himself as if making himself small can somehow hide him from the agony.<\/p>\n

It doesn't work.<\/p>\n

He has no choice but to learn to live with it. Sam forces himself to breathe through the waves of pain, to slow his panicked pulse and racing thoughts. He's a Winchester, damn it. Winchesters don't give up because of a headache, not even a headache that makes it feel as though his brain is about to start leaking out of his ears, and definitely not when someone needs help.<\/p>\n\n

Because he knows who the crying girl is now, and he remembers the other girl, the supposed-to-be-a-ghost girl, ambushing him and Yvonne in the school parking lot, along with a whole group of supposed-to-be-dead teens, and he doesn't know where they are now but if he wants to get out of this alive \u2013 and get Yvonne out of this alive \u2013 he's going to have to start figuring things out.<\/p>\n

Sam forces his heavy eyelids to open, squinting against a glow that emanates from a low ceiling, stretching fuzzy beams of light towards him. He blinks and the glow focuses into a dangling bulb, casting just enough light to illuminate a small, windowless room, empty but for a risky-looking wooden staircase leading up to a trap door in the far corner, and Yvonne, huddled against the wall beside him, whimpering quietly to herself.<\/p>\n

\u201cYvonne?\u201d Sam hauls himself upright, swallowing thickly against a lurch of nausea. His head throbs menacingly and the room swirls. \u201cYvonne, are you okay? Did they hurt you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Yvonne sniffs. She shakes her head. \u201cNot really,\u201d she says quietly, possibly the shortest sentence Sam has ever heard from her. He's not sure which of his questions she's answering. Maybe both.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know where we are?\u201d he asks hopefully. \u201cHow long was I out?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUm...\u201d Yvonne sniffs again. She wipes her tear-stained face with the back of her hand and sits up a little straighter. \u201cI don't really... A few hours, maybe? We're in the woods. A cabin in the woods.\u201d She chokes out a sob. \u201cOh my God, this is literally a horror movie!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShh!\u201d Sam warns, glancing anxiously at the trap door. All is silent up above but he feels certain that their captors haven't gone far and that it won't be long before they make a reappearance. \u201cIt's going to be alright. We just need to stay calm.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yvonne's eyebrows disappear behind her bangs. \u201cStay calm?\u201d she hisses incredulously. \u201cA dead girl just locked us in her basement!\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam ignores this very legitimate point. \u201cMy brother will be looking for us,\u201d he reassures the frightened girl. Remembering the cellphone Dean bought him, Sam feels his pocket. He finds it disappointingly empty. \u201cDo you have your phone?\u201d<\/p>\n

Yvonne shakes her head miserably. \u201cI think they took it when they grabbed me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam tries to recall what happened in the parking lot but it just makes his head swim. Feeling for his blade, he lets out a sigh of relief when his fingers find the hilt. Allison Reed, whatever she is, obviously wasn't expecting him to be armed. Sam doubts that any of her other victims were.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow many of them are there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUm... like, seven or eight, maybe?\u201d Yvonne's fingers twist in Sam's shirt sleeve and tug urgently. \u201cAnd Sam, I think I recognised some of them. That girl that ran away to be an actress. And a guy that vanished right before graduation a few years ago. But what are they doing here? What do they want us for?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don't know,\u201d Sam admits. He rubs his temple, grimacing, and leans back against the wall while he thinks. Allison Reed hasn't aged \u2013 Sam guesses that none of the teenagers have \u2013 so she's certainly not human, at least, not anymore, but she isn't a ghost, either. She doesn't chill the air or flicker in and out of sight, translucent and ethereal. She's something solid, something intelligent that hunts in a pack and stores prey in a basement. For what? To add to her clique of creepy kids? Or are they food? There are plenty of creatures that feed on human hearts or livers or...<\/p>\n

Sam has to close his eyes until a fresh swoop of nausea ebbs away. He wants Dean. He'd even settle for Castiel, if it meant getting out of here before he finds out the answers to his questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat else do you remember?\u201d he asks Yvonne, mostly to distract himself from his gruesome thoughts. \u201cWhat happened after they showed up in the parking lot?\u201d<\/p>\n

It's a good thing that Yvonne likes talking so much. Terrified as she is, she tells Sam all about the group of 'freaky ghost kids' stepping out of the shadows to swarm them, describing a few in detail, such as the pretty girl that apparently didn't run off to LA and the tall boy with a crowbar who turns out to be responsible for Sam's headache, and pointing out, somewhat unnecessarily, how completely horrifying it is to be swept into a car, driven deep into the woods, and locked away in a dingy basement.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey were so strong, and fast<\/em>.\u201d Yvonne shakes her head in wonder. \u201cI don't know how they moved like that. It wasn't normal<\/em>. And then one of them...\u201d She shudders, one hand fluttering towards her neck. \u201cEurgh<\/em>. One of them bit<\/em> me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam's stomach does a funny little somersault. He leans closer, gently moving Yvonne's collar aside to see the wound. He hisses sympathetically at the angry rows of punctures. It isn't a human bite mark. Too many teeth.<\/p>\n

Dad used to tell stories about super-strong, super-fast creatures. Creatures with fangs and a thirst for blood.<\/p>\n

Vampires.<\/p>\n

Dad used to say that they were gone, hunted to extinction, but Dean said that Dad had been wrong. Sam remembers because Dean never used to say that Dad was wrong about anything and it always gives Sam a strange little thrill whenever it happens. He's less than thrilled now though. He wishes Dad had been right.<\/p>\n

Overhead, a floorboard creaks. Yvonne lets out a small shriek and digs her nails into Sam's forearm.<\/p>\n

What else did Dean say? Something about vampires being 'sparkly prissy boys' but Sam doesn't think he was being serious, just making a reference that had flown over Sam's head. Did Dean tell him how to kill them? Not a stake to the heart, or garlic, or sunlight. One of the books he's read must have said something but he can't remember. His head keeps pounding. Think. Think<\/em>. He can't remember.<\/p>\n

Footsteps now, moving towards the trapdoor, then the sound of something heavy being shoved aside, scraping across wooden floorboards.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh my God,\u201d Yvonne moans.<\/p>\n

Sam pries her fingers off of his arm and tugs his knife free from it's sheath. He climbs shakily to his feet. \u201cStay behind me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yvonne gapes at him, her mouth dropping open. \u201cWhere did you get that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy brother gave it to me.\u201d Sam's hand is sweating, making the handle of his blade slippery. His heart pounds in his chest and suddenly his throat is so dry that he can barely swallow. He never had these problems when he was sparring with Dean, but then, he never had to worry about Dean eating him if he lost.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy did your brother give you a knife?\u201d Yvonne asks.<\/p>\n

This, Sam thinks, is the wrong thing to be worrying about right now and he finds himself frustrated by the question, which actually helps. Being angry is easier than being scared. It helps him to focus. He steadies himself with a deep breath, taking up the fighting stance Dean had taught him.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo kill monsters.\u201d<\/p>\n

Up above, the trapdoor's hinges screech as it swings open. Allison Reed descends the stairs.<\/p>\n

She isn't particularly tall, nor does she appear particularly intimidating. She's wearing a yellow sundress that reaches her knees. Her lank blonde hair skims slender shoulders and her skin is so pale that she reminds Sam of a porcelain doll. Following her are two other teens; a dark-skinned boy with curly hair and a brunette with half a dozen piercings in her face. They stop at the foot of the stairs. Sam can't help focusing on their mouths. They don't look like they have fangs.<\/p>\n

\u201cLooks like we have a fighter.\u201d Allison glances at Sam's knife with an insulting lack of concern.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe this one will actually be worth the effort.\u201d The boy leers.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe the last one wouldn't have run dry so fast if someone<\/em> knew how to control themselves,\u201d the girl with the piercings says pointedly.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow, now, children.\u201d Allison smirks. \u201cMarco's a growing boy. He needs his vitamins.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe always takes more than his share!\u201d the girl complains.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, this time there are two of them,\u201d Allison says placatingly, like a mother mediating between her kids. \u201cAnd you can have first pick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo fair!\u201d Marco protests. The girl looks at him smugly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes fair,\u201d Allison says firmly. \u201cIt's Jackie's turn. Jackie, which one do you want? Rambo or the wallflower?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jackie's tongue flicks out of her mouth, licking the ring in her lower lip. \u201cI want the girl.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yvonne's terror is so strong that Sam feels it hit his back like a wave. He steps sideways, shielding Yvonne from Jackie's hungry eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d His voice is surprisingly steady. \u201cLeave her alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOr what?\u201d Jackie taunts, grinning. \u201cYou'll stab me with that toothpick?\u201d<\/p>\n

Marco and Jackie laugh but Allison is scowling. She stalks forward, shrinking the space between them.<\/p>\n

\u201cMove,\u201d she orders.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sam dodges the first strike, just. Allison's fist comes so close that he feels the rush of displaced air against his cheek. Yvonne screams. Allison growls and swings again and Sam slashes at her, ducking under her arm. The blade slides through the thin fabric of Allison's sundress and slices a long gash into her stomach. The vampire doesn't flinch - Sam's not sure she even notices the wound - and her next swing catches Sam in the shoulder, knocking him clear across the cellar.<\/p>\n

The floor slams into him with what feels like the force of a freight train and the pain is like an explosion. He shatters. He can't breathe. There's no air. He struggles to move anyway. He has to get up. He has to fight. But his arm...<\/p>\n

Sam recognises the unnatural jut of bone immediately. Dad's had half a dozen dislocated shoulders, relocated in motel rooms by Dean and, once, by Sam. He has to learn<\/em>, Dad said, and never once did he let on how much it hurts<\/em>, how each movement grinds bone against bone and sends sparks shooting up his neck and down his arm. Dad just had a shot of whiskey and told Sam to pull.<\/p>\n

Sam wishes he had whiskey. He wishes he had Dad.<\/p>\n

Yvonne is screaming. With Herculean strength, Sam uses his good arm to push himself up. He staggers to his feet, determined to ignore the sway of the room and the wooden way his bad arm hangs at his side, but Allison blocks his path immediately. Jackie is standing over the screaming girl, reaching for her. Sam swings wildly with the knife he's somehow still holding but Allison twists and the blade finds only air. She sweeps out her arm, as if swatting at an annoying bee, and bats the weapon aside. It skitters across the floor and disappears into the shadows beneath the staircase. Sam gasps, snatching back his stinging fingers, and moves to follow it and,, again, finds Allison in his way. She moves like an animal, lithe, swift, and deadly. Springing forward, she presses her hands flat against Sam's chest and slams him back against the wall. He hits with a thud and a yelp as his shoulder erupts again in agony.<\/p>\n

Allison smiles, wide, showing off all her pretty white teeth. Wider, until her upper lip draws back into a snarl and suddenly a second set of teeth appears, erupting from her gums. Horrible teeth, long and curved and alarmingly sharp. No, not teeth. Fangs. Terrible, vicious fangs. She doesn't look like a girl anymore. She looks like a monster.<\/p>\n

Sam kicks out as hard as he can. He twists and shoves and jabs at her with his one working arm. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, loud and frantic and drowning out even the sound of Yvonne's screams. Time seems to slow, to stretch, as Allison leans eagerly forward and sinks her fangs into the soft exposed skin of Sam's throat.<\/p>\n

The world flashes white and red and Sam yells, a wordless howl of pain. His knees threaten to buckle, eyes rolling in his head. Allison's lips are cold as ice but the pain is hot, burning and blinding, and, suddenly, gone. Allison pulls back, releasing Sam abruptly and drawing away, leaving him gasping. He grabs at the wall for support, clamping his hand to his bleeding throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is that?\u201d Allison touches her fingers to her lips, staring down at the smear of blood. \u201cWhy do you taste like that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike what?\u201d Sam is confused, and oddly offended, by the disgust in her voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou're bitter.\u201d The vampire spits on the floor. \u201cYou're tainted. What's wrong with you?\u201d<\/p>\n

The two of them stare at each other. Sam doesn't know what to say. What does Allison mean, tainted?<\/p>\n

There's a creak and a blur of movement over by the stairs. Allison spins around and Marco, standing on the bottom step, widens his eyes. He makes a short startled choking sound and his head slides from his neck. It tumbles to the floor, followed quickly by the rest of him, and in his place stands Dean, wild-eyed and wielding a large bloody machete.<\/p>\n

Sam's spirits soar. He sees his own relief reflected in his brother's face when their eyes meet across the cellar. The creases in Dean's forehead smooth out and a twitch of a smile teases the edge of his mouth, which Sam returns, even though his shoulder is throbbing savagely and blood is spilling between his fingers. Over Allison's shoulder, he sees Jackie drop a fear-limp Yvonne and turn towards Dean, hissing angrily.<\/p>\n

\u201cCatch.\u201d Dean tosses the machete. It sails across the room, above Allison's head, and Sam, surprised, only just manages to move in time. He throws out his good arm and and snatches the machete from the air, fingers closing around the smooth handle. Muscle memory kicks in; Sam adjusts his grip, aims, and swings, hard.<\/p>\n

The sharpened blade slices through muscle, sinew and bone with surprising ease. Allison's head separates from her slender neck with a disgusting squelch and she drops, suddenly a pile of thin pale limbs, lifeless and still. Jackie lets out a grief-stricken howl. Sam swings again. A third body and separate head thump to the floor.<\/p>\n

Castiel appears at the top of the stairs, his tie askew.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou get the rest of them?\u201d Dean barks up the stairs.<\/p>\n

Castiel nods gravely. \u201cAnd you found Sam.\u201d He has no machete. Sam wonders how angels kill vampires. \u201cThe girl?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dean moves aside. Half-forgotten in the corner, Yvonne stares at the headless bodies sprawled across the floor, at the blank faces of the body-less heads. Her mouth hangs open. Sam thinks that this might be the first time she has ever been truly speechless.<\/p>\n

Yvonne's gaze travels from the bodies, to the heads, to the machete in Sam's hand, and finally up to Sam's face. A brief hopeful fantasy rises up unbidden in Sam's mind; the pretty girl falling gratefully into his arms, maybe even proclaiming him to be her hero before pressing her lips to his in a romantic gesture that Dean will somehow refrain from mocking relentlessly. And then Yvonne's expression crumples into horror and disgust, and the daydream deflates.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho the fuck are you people?\u201d<\/p>\n

A large bead of blood rolls down the machete's blade, dripping audibly into a growing puddle. Sam looks down. Allison's head is at his feet, staring up at him with flat accusatory eyes. Her lips are stained red with his blood. Blood the vampire had described as tainted.<\/p>\n

Sam turns Yvonne's question over and over in his head but he can't find the answer.<\/p>\n

He has no idea who he is.<\/p>\n


<\/p>\n

Chapter Five<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44818.html?view=comments#comments","category":["awesomesam","family","drama","bigbrotherdean","protectivedean","casefic","hunting","concussion","supernatural fanfiction","bamf!sam","vampires","hurt\/comfort","hurtsam","kidnappedsam"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44559.html","pubDate":"Thu, 08 Jun 2023 01:51:10 GMT","title":"Come as You Are 3\/6","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44559.html","description":"

Come as You Are<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.

<\/div>
Chapter Three<\/u><\/div>
Sam seethes.

It's so unfair, being treated this way. He had gotten sick of being stuck behind salt lines way back when he was little and Dad was the one disappearing into the night, taking Dean with him and leaving Sam to wait and fret and conjure up an imaginary friend named Sully to help him through the loneliness.

Dean running off to hunt with Castiel only makes it worse. At least when it was Dad Sam could pretend that, given the chance, Dean would choose to stay at the motel and hang out with him. And Sam knew how much Dean craved Dad's approval, how badly Dean wanted to impress their father all the freaking time, so when Dean would return, muddy and sweaty and flushed with the thrill of a successful hunt, radiating pride because Dad had bestowed some rare drop of praise, Sam always managed, eventually, to forgive his brother for ditching him.

But Castiel isn't Dad. Castiel isn't even family. And here Dean is, choosing him over Sam. Okay, fine, looking at it objectively, an Angel of the Lord, with super-strength and magical healing powers would probably be a more useful hunting partner than a thirteen year old, even if that thirteen year old can hit a target nine times out of ten and knows at least three different forms of hand-to-hand combat. And all right, objectively<\/i>, tempting fate by dangling a teenager in front of a deranged spirit maybe shouldn't be Plan A. Had it been Dad's suggestion, Sam would probably be complaining that normal teenagers get to do their homework rather than stay out all night playing bait to monsters.

Whatever. Sam is in no mood to look at things objectively.

He sulks in the bathroom until Dean and Cas head out for the hunt (only after Dean yells through the door until Sam gives up the silent treatment and grudgingly promises not to leave the motel and yes, he'll call immediately if he needs anything and of course he won't mess up the salt lines, he isn't stupid) and then he stomps around the empty motel room, hating dumb old Dean and dumb weird Cas, and wishing that it was the year 1996, back when he was actually supposed to be thirteen and Dean was seventeen and Castiel wasn't there, getting in the way.

Sam holds on to the anger for as long as he can but eventually it morphs into sadness and he crawls into his bed, feeling miserable and alone.


XXX
<\/div>Sam tosses and turns under the scratchy sheets. He'd forgotten how terrible motel bedding could be, spoiled by the last few months of sleeping in the bunker, where the sheets are soft and clean and the mattress completely free of strange lumps and wayward springs. He starts to worry as the hours crawl on, a familiar knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

This has always been the worst part of hunting; not the long hours of research or the endless training or the creepy monsters hiding in the dark. It's the waiting, the not knowing, that gnaws at him. The wondering. What's happening? Is Dean okay? Sam even worries about Castiel, though he's not sure he needs to. What's a ghost going to do to an angel? In fact, what's a ghost going to do to Dean with an angel around? There's probably no reason to worry at all.

Sam tells himself this over and over again, but the tight feeling in his stomach doesn't loosen until finally he hears the throaty grumble of the Impala pulling up outside. He can't help but feel smug when Dean stomps in, tired and grumpy and obviously unsuccessful.

“Maybe she would have shown if I'd been there,” Sam says into the darkness, as the shape of his brother drops down onto the bed nearest the door and starts tugging off his boots.

“Maybe you should shut up.”

“Where's Cas?” Sam asks.

“Keeping an eye on the school.” A boot thuds to the floor. “I don't think anything's going to happen but, I don't know if you've noticed, the dude doesn't sleep. And neither do I when he's sitting quietly in the dark like a damn weirdo.”

A second boot joins the first and Dean shucks off his shirt.

“Are you going back tomorrow?”

“Guess so.” Dean kicks off his jeans and slides into bed.

Sam chews on his lip. Should he push it? Probably not. He should just leave it alone.

“Tomorrow isn't a school night,” Sam pushes. He can't help himself.

“Tonight is so go the hell to sleep.” Dean tugs the blankets up over his head.

“I was waiting up for you,” Sam says, because he still knows exactly how to play his big brother. He doesn't even need to lie; if Dean's out hunting, Sam's up worrying, and that's just a fact.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Dean moans, because Dean still knows that Sam still knows exactly how to play his big brother. He re-emerges from beneath the blankets. “Go to sleep and I'll think about it.”

“Really?” Sam props himself up on an elbow to squint suspiciously at the dark lump that is Dean. “You're not just saying that to shut me up?”

“Does anything<\/i> shut you up?” Dean wonders. “Thirty-three years and I'm still looking.”

“Jerk.” Sam tosses one of his lumpy motel pillows at his brother. “Promise?

Snatching the pillow from the air, Dean tosses it back in one smooth motion. Sam has to react quickly to avoid being hit in the face.

“Yes, bitch, I'll actually think about it. I promise, okay? Now go the hell to sleep.”

Satisfied, Sam lies back down. He wriggles himself into a comfortable position and does as he's told.

XXX<\/div>
School the next day is an exercise in patience. Sam swings between worrying that Dean will decide against bringing him along and being certain that his brother is regretting not just taking him last night. Dean let him pick breakfast, probably because he's feeling guilty, and on the way to school he mentioned seeing the spot under the bleachers Sam had told him about, where there's a slight depression, like maybe something buried there had rotted and displaced the earth, and stated generously that it seemed like it would be a good place to dig. Surely that implies that Sam will be there for the digging. Just in case, Sam spends most of the day composing outraged arguments in his head and being annoyed at Castiel, because for some reason he feels like it will be the angel's fault if Dean leaves Sam behind.

Any time left over is spent thinking about actually hunting for the first time in months. For the first time with his new old brother. His stomach is full of fluttering butterflies, a quiver of nerves warring with excitement. He wants to put his new skills to use in the field and prove to Dean that he can be a good hunting partner. And, maybe even more than he wants to prove himself, he wants to feel normal. As weird as it would be for most people, as much as he used to whine and butt heads with Dad over it, it turns out that hunting is his normal. There aren't many familiar things left in his world anymore but one thing Sam knows is monsters. Maybe if he can finally get back to fighting them he won't feel so out of place all the time. Maybe he can stop feeling like he doesn't really belong here.

Castiel is in the passenger seat again when Dean picks Sam up after school. Sam excuses himself from a mostly one-sided conversation with Yvonne, who has moved on from death omens to celestial beings, wondering aloud, at length, about whether Allison Reed could actually be an angel sent to collect souls and bring them to Heaven. Sam does a lot of nodding and internal eye-rolling. Dead girls don't turn into angels and angels don't collect souls, reapers do. Of course, Sam can't say this without sounding both rude and like a lunatic so it's a relief to escape the conversation and slide into the backseat of the Impala, even if the first thing Dean says is “How's your girlfriend?” with an infuriating grin.

“Wondering how your boyfriend is,” Sam shoots back, maybe a little harsher than he should considering he's supposed to be buttering his brother up to make sure he ends up on the hunt tonight. It does have the desired effect of getting Dean to shut up, but Castiel turns to address him instead.

“Did your girlfriend have any new information?” the angel asks, seeming earnestly oblivious to the joke.

“She's not my girlfriend!” Sam snaps, exasperated.

“Oh,” Castiel says, but he keeps staring until Sam breaks down and answers the question anyway, just to end the increasingly unbearable discomfort.

“She doesn't know anything. She was telling me that she thinks Allison Reed could be an angel.”

“A human cannot become an angel,” Castiel says gravely, like Sam is a moron and needs to be told this.

“I know that.” Sam tries not to sound as annoyed as he feels.

Castiel sits back in his seat, staring thoughtfully out of the windscreen. “I suppose Allison Reed could have been taken as a vessel,” he muses. “Though I cannot sense the presence of any of my siblings.”

Sam blinks in surprise, intrigued in spite of his bad mood. He sits up straighter, leaning forward. “Wait, angels take vessels?” he blurts out. “Like demons? Angels possess people?”

Castiel is shaking his head. “No, not like demons. An angel needs permission in order to take a vessel. There is a choice.”

Sam is dumbfounded. For some reason he had always assumed that Castiel's form was some sort of... celestial illusion.

“Who would choose that?” he asks, before it occurs to him that this is probably another one of those questions that might be considered rude and maybe not something he should be asking an Angel of the Lord. Cas looks uncomfortable, like when Sam asked him whether angel's could lie, and Dean clears his throat loudly.

“It's a spirit,” he announces briskly. “Not an angel. And seeing as the local rumour mill agrees that the girl ended up under the bleachers, along with the fact that that's where people keep seeing her spooky ass, I say we try digging there tonight. What do you think, Sammy? You up for burning some bones?”

Sam is certain that his brother wants to steer the conversation far away from angels and their vessels, which makes Sam pause just a moment to wonder what the story is behind Castiel and his person-suit, but he's desperate enough to get out and prove himself on a hunt that he's willing to let the subject drop. He doesn't even hit Dean up about the infantile nickname, which Castiel tells him Dean had used frequently with the old Sam, too. Sam isn't sure if he finds this exasperating or endearing. Either way, he lets it slide and nods eagerly.

“Definitely.”

“Good, 'cause” - Dean heaves an exaggerated sigh - “my back's acting up. You might need to do most of the digging.”

“Liar!” Sam exclaims. Dean never admits weakness, ever, unless he's trying to get out of something. “There's nothing wrong with your back!”

“Maybe not,” Dean admits. “But you have all that youthful energy.”

The bickering continues to the motel, where it almost turns serious when Dean suggests that Sam take a nap.

“I'm not calling you a baby!” Dean says hurriedly, in response to whatever withering look Sam must have on his face. “Dude, I love naps. Naps are where it's at. I napped while you were at school. So, like, pretty please will you rest for a couple hours? I'll wake you for dinner, we'll eat, and we'll be all set to take down Casper.”

Grudgingly, Sam backs down, even though he's sure that the anticipation will make falling asleep impossible. He must need the rest for than he realised though; he's surprised when he lies down and closes his eyes, only to open them what feels like mere moments later to the smell of takeaways and a freshly showered brother. He's starving but too wound up to swallow more than two bites of the burger Dean hands him. He chews robotically on some fries and tries not to look as nervous as he feels.

Finally, Dean finishes double-checking all the weapons and, after reminding Sam of a bunch of stupidly obvious things, like 'if anything happens to your shotgun, remember that your knife is made of iron' and 'if things get out of hand, make a salt circle and get in it' they pile into the Impala. Sam calls shotgun and tries not to look smug as he slides into the front seat while Castiel gets in the back. Dean offers up a few more helpful tips on the drive, all of which boil down to 'if you get yourself killed, you're grounded until the end of time', which leads Sam to argue that Dean is not Dad and therefore not allowed to ground him, and they end up reaching their destination before Sam has a chance to work up any serious anxiety over what's to come. Before he knows it, they're loaded up with weapons and shovels, salt and lighter fluid, and they're trudging across the football field, under the thin light of a crescent moon, with wary ears and watchful eyes.

Adrenaline hums through Sam's veins, keeping him alert and focused. Everything seems a little sharper, a little brighter, when your life is on the line. When your brother's life is on the line. Things you don't usually notice become obnoxiously loud, like the swish of clothes and the thud of boots against earth. Like the sound of your own breathing or the beat of your heart in your chest.

Like the digital click of a cellphone camera.

Flash-light beams dart towards the noise, shotguns rise like the noses of dogs scenting prey, and a small shape stumbles out from behind the bleachers, arms raised and eyes squinting against the sudden brightness.

“Yvonne?”

“Sam<\/i>? Oh my God, you scared me! I thought you were Allison Reed!”

There's a rush of awkward fumbling as shovels and shotguns are secreted behind backs. Sam presses his weapon into Dean's hands, disappointment and irritation prickling his spine. He understands immediately that Yvonne's presence here means that he has just been demoted to babysitter.

Sam moves forward to close the gap between them before Yvonne gets close enough to notice their strange assortment of equipment. He hopes she doesn't catch a whiff of lighter fluid.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, working very hard to sound curious rather than annoyed. “It's almost midnight.”

“I snuck out!” Yvonne announces happily. “I'm taking ghost photos!”

Sam keeps walking after he reaches her and Yvonne easily falls into step with him, showing off a series of photos of the empty field. They're all dark and shadowy, lit only by the slender moon and a weak camera flash, but Yvonne doesn't seem at all bothered. She points out a bit of fuzz that Sam is sure is actually the blur of a moth but he feigns interest anyway, steadily steering the girl away from Dean and Cas and the spot picked out as the most probable grave site. He doubts Yvonne would be as thrilled to meet a real ghost as she thinks. It's difficult not to roll his eyes. Civilians.

Sam swallows a sigh. Babysitting duty is the worst. He'd rather be digging, working up a sweat and blistering his palms. He'd rather be watching Dean's six, keeping him safe. So much for all those glorious daydreams of doing something badass and heroic and somehow managing to seriously impress his seriously impressive older brother. Instead, Sam sits in the empty parking lot and feels the minutes crawling by, impossibly slow. Yvonne chatters non-stop, of course, scrolling through her photos and inspecting each one with a satisfied smile, as if her blurry pictures of an empty field are irrefutable proof of the paranormal. Sam studies them, too, just in case Yvonne actually has managed to capture a shot of the spirit, and strains his ears for any sound of trouble in the distance. He hasn't heard any shotgun blasts. That's probably good.

“What are you doing here?” Yvonne finally gets around to asking, frowning slightly as she looks over her last photo. Sam is relieved to see that the camera mostly missed them; only half of Dean is caught in the flash, a hint of a shovel at his side, and not a shotgun in sight.

“Looking for ghosts.” Sam decides on honesty because exactly how else is he supposed to explain turning up at the school in the middle of the night? “I told my brother about Allison and he wanted to come check things out.”

Yvonne's eyes light up, glinting brightly in the glow of her phone screen. “Does he like ghost stories, too? Should we go find him? I could tell him about my death omen idea, or-”

She's already on her feet. Sam jumps up with a surge of panic, picturing Yvonne walking obliviously into the middle of a salt and burn.

“No, wait!” Sam snatches her wrist.

“Why?” Yvonne asks. She frowns down at his hand, her confusion quickly headed towards suspicion, and Sam needs to do something to distract her, fast, and there's no time to think so he does the first thing that pops into his head – closes the space between them and presses his lips to Yvonne's.

Yvonne stiffens in surprise. For a moment, Sam is sure she's going to push him away and slap him across the face. This is the kind of move Dean gets away with, not him. But then...

Then Yvonne sort of melts against him, all warm and soft and returning the kiss with eager enthusiasm. She smells nice, like fruity shampoo and freshly washed clothes, and she tastes nice, like bubblegum, and it's... nice. Really nice. Like, really really<\/i> nice. Sam forgets that he's distracting her from the grave-digging going on beneath the bleachers. All he's thinking about are his hands in her hair and her hands on his back and her body pressing against his and suddenly Sam completely understands why Dean used to ditch him all the time to go make out with his girlfriend of the week. This is way better than re-runs on fuzzy motel televisions, fighting his brother for control of the remote, and it's definitely better than breaking his back and blistering his hands digging up a smelly old corpse. Maybe he isn't actually that mad about Yvonne interrupting the hunt.

Someone clears their throat.

Sam and Yvonne spring apart, quickly re-adjusting clothes and smoothing rumpled hair, and Sam has already begun to die inside from the embarrassment of being caught wrapped around a girl – the girl he's been insisting is not<\/i> his girlfriend – by his brother and an angel<\/i>, which adds a whole other level of weirdness to the experience, like he's sinning in front of a priest or something, when he realises that the sound came from the direction of the road, not the field that Dean and Cas would have had to cross.

Yvonne gasps. “It's her!”

The temperature hasn't dropped and the figure before them isn't transparent but Yvonne is right. It is Allison Reed.

And she isn't alone.


Chapter Four<\/b><\/a>

A\/N: Thanks everyone for the kudos and comments! I love hearing what you think!<\/div><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44559.html?view=comments#comments","category":["awesomesam","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","protectivedean","casefic","hunting","supernatural fanfiction","banter","cas","hurt\/comfort","angst"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44341.html","pubDate":"Sat, 27 May 2023 04:18:51 GMT","title":"Come as You Are 2\/6","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44341.html","description":"
Come as You Are<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.
<\/div>
Chapter Two<\/u><\/div>
High school doesn't seem to have changed all that much since the first time Sam attended, other than the increase in computers and all the cellphones that the teachers are constantly confiscating from protesting students. Their prevalence makes Sam grateful that Dean had insisted on buying him a phone of his own, stating emphatically that a teenager without a cellphone would be weirder than most of the cases Dean has worked. At least half of it's functions are still a mystery to Sam – the last phone he had made phone calls, full stop – but at least he has something to fidget with while doing the typical new kid routine of sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria while the rest of the students stare.

Sam settles into the background, feeling even more awkward and out of place than usual among kids who actually grew up in this decade, and tries to make subtle inquiries about local legends without making himself seem like a total weirdo. It's almost the way things used to be, back when they would roll into a town, chasing down Dad's monster of the month. Right down to Dean dropping Sam off at school in the mornings before heading off to follow leads and talk to witnesses. Only now, Dean is old enough to be<\/i> Sam's father and, of course, Dad isn't here to work the case with them. Instead they're accompanied by an angel in a trench-coat who, Sam privately thinks, is so socially awkward that it's hard to imagine him being all that helpful to the process. Castiel says a lot of odd things and he has a way of holding himself so stiff and still, like he's not even breathing, that he tends to make people shift uncomfortably and cast about nervous glances as if searching for help, so Sam probably has an easier time getting information than Dean does.

The school is still buzzing with gossip about the most recent disappearance. Actually, Sam's problem is that there's so much information, most of it contradictory. The missing student was quiet and studious and would never disappear on purpose, but really, he was into drugs and parties and probably ran away, and also maybe he was murdered, or overdosed, or killed himself. The only thing everyone seems to agree on is the mysterious blonde girl he was seen with on the night he vanished, although only a few buy into the idea that she was the ghost of Allison Reed, the first name on the growing list of vanishing school students.

Luckily for Sam, one of those few is Yvonne Martin, a short dark-haired girl a year above him who is thrilled to find someone willing to take her seriously. She actively seeks Sam out in the hallways between classes or shows up by his locker at the end of the day, usually accompanied by one of her sighing, eye-rolling friends, and talks Sam's ear off about what she saw. She's a good source of informations and, seeing as she barely pauses for breath between sentences, Sam doesn't need to talk much, which he likes because it means she's less likely to notice anything off about him.

“I swear, she looked exactly the same as she does in the photo of her that's up in the gym.” Yvonne hops up and down the steps Sam's sitting on, out front of the school, as he awaits his ride after the final bell of the day.. She seems incapable of staying still and she uses her hands a lot as she talks. “Like, her hair was the same, and her face was the same, except, like, she was real pale-”

“Like, transparent pale?” Sam interjects quickly, before the unnecessarily long description of sameness continues.

Yvonne nods excitedly. “She definitely could have been! It was kind of hard to tell because they were across the football field, by those bleachers where everyone<\/i> says she was buried, and it was sort of dark – because she only comes out in the dark, of course – but I am super sure it was her and she definitely might have been see-through, just like a real live ghost!”

“Wow,” Sam chimes in dutifully, hoping that he sounds suitably impressed.

Yvonne seems satisfied with the reaction. “My friend's brother Eli swears that he saw her, too, like, five years ago, right before this girl in his class disappeared. Everyone thought that she ran away to LA to try to be an actress 'cause she was this huge theatre geek and she was so pretty, but then no one ever heard from her again.” She pauses momentarily, twisting a strand of her hair thoughtfully around her finger. “Maybe Allison Reed is some sort of death omen. Do you think?”

Yvonne looks at Sam like she actually wants his opinion, which is unexpected and, thankfully, he's saved from answering by a familiar grumbling engine and the beep of a horn from across the parking lot.

“Is that your dad?” Yvonne asks, sounding impressed. Typical. Teenage girls always find Dean impressive, even now that he's ancient, apparently. “Or” - Yvonne looks closer at the Impala, squinting through the windscreen - “dads?”

Castiel is in the passenger seat.

“My brother,” Sam explains, shifting uncomfortably. It feels like a betrayal somehow, having Dean mistaken for his father. Like John Winchester is being erased. “And his...”

Actually, how is he supposed to explain Castiel? He can't say 'hunting partner' because that sounds crazy, or 'angel' because that sounds crazier, and Cas doesn't resemble either of them enough to pass as family.

“Friend,” Sam finishes lamely, which only serves as confirmation of Yvonne's theory. She nods conspiratorially.

“That's cool. My aunt, she's lived with this awesome lady named Gail all my life and I only realized last year that Gail is Auntie Pam's girlfriend! Talk about dense, right?”

Sam is inching backwards. “I gotta go.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow!” Yvonne smiles brightly.

Sam raises a hand in an awkward wave. “See ya.”

Yvonne sets off down the footpath, swinging her backpack in one hand, and Sam crosses the parking lot to the Impala, sliding into the backseat. He tries not to feel jealous of Castiel, sitting beside Dean in what is usually Sam's spot.

“Got a girlfriend already?” Dean asks, flashing a grin at Sam in the rear-view mirror as he pulls out onto the street.

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes at the teasing. “She was just telling me that you and Cas make a cute couple,” he says instead, deadpan, which has the desired effect of making Dean choke on air, spluttering in surprise.

“That's not- We aren't-” Dean looks over at Castiel for back-up. Castiel looks back at him, unblinking.

“I am unaware of the parameters involved in defining a 'cute couple',” the angel states.

Sam has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing out loud. He ducks behind a curtain of hair so Dean doesn't see him smirking.

“That's really unhelpful, Cas.” Dean clears his throat. “Did you set her straight? 'cause you know we're not, right, Sam? A couple, I mean. Not that there's anything wrong with that. With people being... a couple. That's fine. That's- whatever. But we're not. So, uh. Yeah.”

Dean sounds so hilariously uncomfortable that, of course, Sam arranges his face into an expression of surprise before he meets Dean's gaze in the rear-view.

“You're not?” he asks innocently, then sits back and lets Dean's stammering denials and increasingly insistent (probably exaggerated) stories of sexual exploits with women across the US entertain him for the rest of the drive.

XXX<\/div>
They swap notes over a dinner of Chinese takeaways. Castiel doesn't eat but he sits with them at the motel table and interjects occasionally with his thoughts. Dean and the angel had spent the week interviewing the parents of missing children, a task that sounds both frustratingly fruitless and intensely distressing. The last thing any of the grieving parents wanted was to answer more questions, especially weird ones about cold spots and phantom smells, and those that did talk didn't know anything about what could have happened to their lost kids or why Dean and Cas were asking them questions about a random girl who had vanished over a decade ago. Obviously that girl couldn't be the same one seen with their child before their mysterious disappearance.

Sam relays everything Yvonne had told him about what she had witnessed the night of the most recent disappearance and the most consistent rumour involving Alison Reed dating an older man, maybe a teacher, who killed her and disposed of the body beneath the bleachers, which is pretty shaky evidence but it's more than Dean and Cas turned up so Sam can't help feeling pleased with himself.

“So, stake out at the high school tonight?” Sam asks, twirling up a forkful of noodles. “See if she shows up?”

He senses the change in his brother immediately. Suddenly, Dean is having trouble looking him in the eye but his jaw sets in grim determination, reminding Sam of Dad, right before he gives an order Sam won't like.

Dean swallows his mouthful of noodles. “I'll go with Cas. We can take care of it. You should stay here. Do your homework. Get some rest.”

Sam's mouth drops open. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Dean said that they would be partners on this hunt but he hasn't stopped side-eyeing Sam since they left the Men of Letters' bunker and Sam is certain that his expression implies a serious struggle with an urge to pack up and head back there, to tuck his littler-than-he-should-be brother away somewhere safe, along with all the other supernatural oddities that are kept down there. But Sam had let himself believe that Dean was going to take him seriously. After all, he's done everything his brother asked; ran every mile, struck every target, cleaned every stupid knife and gun and freaking crossbow.

“That's not fair!” Sam drops his fork, appetite soured. “We're supposed to be doing this together. You said!”

He looks to Castiel for support but the angel has become incredibly fascinated with a scratch on the table top and refuses to look up.

Dean visibly steels himself, sitting straighter, squaring his shoulders. “In case you haven't noticed, Sam, you're kind of the spirit's type,” he points out, infuriatingly reasonable.

Sam glowers. “In case you haven't noticed, Dean, I know how to use a shotgun.” Resentment builds behind his ribcage, hot and bitter. Did Dean ever actually intend to hunt with him or was it always the plan to ditch him at the motel and run off with Castiel? Was all that training just a giant waste of his time?

“It's a school night,” Dean says.

Unbelievable.

“I wasn't even enrolled in a school until last week!” Sam explodes. “You promised<\/i> that if I trained we would hunt.”

“We are hunting!” Dean growls. “We're here, aren't we? You're checking the school for clues, witnesses-”

Sam snorts derisively. “Listening to gossip and rumours, you mean, and keeping out of the way while you and Cas do the real work.”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing back and forth between them. Sam would be feel guilty for bringing Cas into it – he actually quite likes the strange celestial being – but right now he wishes Castiel was gone, back at the bunker or up in Heaven where things are 'complicated', whatever that means, or anywhere that isn't here, taking up the space that Sam is supposed to fill.

“Gossip and rumours are exactly what crack cases. Right, Cas?” Dean looks to Castiel, his narrowed eyes most definitely instructing the angel to agree with him.

Castiel squirms, made even more uncomfortable by Dean's request for back-up, but obediently he turns to Sam. “Gossip can be a useful source of information,” he says, apologetically.

“Exactly,” Dean says, as if this somehow wins the argument. He aggressively stabs a piece of pork. “So you do your part, and Cas and I will do ours.” He shoves the pork into his mouth and chews determinedly, deliberately ignoring Sam's glare. He gestures his fork at Sam's takeaway container. “Eat your dinner.”

Sam shoves his chair back instead, taking what small satisfaction he can in the obnoxiously loud scraping noise it makes against the floor and the slight wince it elicits from Dean.

“I'm not hungry,” he says icily, rising to his feet. He's so furious that he can hardly see straight. He wants to spin around and storm out of the motel room in a dramatic rage but there's no way Dean would let him leave – not at night, alone, with a spirit in town that targets teens – so he has to settle for stalking to the bathroom.

“Sam.” Dean calls after him. “Sam, come on-”

Sam slams the door behind him and flattens himself against it, as if physically holding it closed. He feels like punching something. Maybe Dean.

“Honestly,” Sam hears his brother say to Castiel, “that went better than I thought it would.”

Definitely Dean.

Chapter Three<\/b><\/a><\/div><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44341.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","drama","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","protectivedean","casefic","hunting","supernatural fanfiction","cas","hurt\/comfort"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44273.html","pubDate":"Tue, 16 May 2023 20:13:03 GMT","title":"Come as You Are 1\/6","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44273.html","description":"

Come as You Are<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.

<\/div>
Chapter One<\/u><\/div>
Dean's fist flies towards Sam's face.

Reacting swiftly and moving on the balls of his feet, Sam ducks under an outstretched arm. He whirls around and stomps on the back of his brother's knee, which buckles, and Dean stumbles, off balance. With a rush of excitement, Sam presses his advantage, aiming another kick at his brother's back, but already, Dean is prepared. Before Sam can land his blow, Dean drops forward to one knee, twists, and a long leg lashes out and sweeps the ground. Sam barely manages to jump out of the way before it bowls him over, and then Dean is back on his feet, closing in. Sam dodges another swinging fist, then another, and another, and almost<\/i> another but Dean jabs with his left when Sam expects a right and it catches him square in the nose.

“Ow!” Sam stumbles backwards. His hands fly to his face and his stinging sinuses. “That hurt!” he complains.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I barely touched you,” he scoffs, but Sam notices that Dean doesn't really relax until Sam moves his hands. “See? It's not even bleeding.”

“Still hurt.”

Dean grins. “Want Cas to kiss it better for you?”

Castiel stands in the shade of a nearby tree, watching the sparring session.

“I do not need to kiss someone in order to heal them,” Castiel informs Sam seriously. Dean barks out a laugh.

“I'm fine.” Sam waves off the angel's questioning look and shakes out his fists, turning back to Dean. “Let's go again.”

Dean's mouth drops open.”Again? Seriously? We've been at it for-” Dean looks to Castiel, who obediently answers for him.

“An hour and thirty-six minutes.”

“An hour and- Jesus Christ, aren't you worn out by now?” With the back of his hand, Dean wipes at the sweat glistening on his brow.

“Maybe you're just getting old,” Sam suggests innocently, after making sure that he's standing out of Dean's reach.

“Maybe you should respect your elders,” Dean shoots back, so Sam turns to Castiel.

“How old are you, Cas?” he asks the angel, ignoring Dean's indignant 'I meant me<\/i>, brat.'

“Older than you can imagine,” Castiel tells Sam. “Older than the earth and the stars. Older than the cosmic dust that makes up this universe.”

“Wow,” Sam says.

“Yes, yes, we're all very impressed,” Dean says flippantly. “I'm starving though. I say we break for lunch.”

Sam has to hide his disappointment. He was doing so well.

“You just don't want to spar because I almost beat you this time,” he accuses Dean, only half teasing.

“Oh sure, that must be it,” Dean agrees sarcastically. “I'm definitely terrified that my pint-sized baby brother might beat me in a sparring match.”

“My size is what makes it so embarrassing for you.”

“Sam did appear to come close to 'knocking you on your ass' that time,” Castiel tells Dean seriously, using air quotes. Sam stifles a giggle.

“Why are you ganging up on me?” Dean complains indignantly, gathering up the various weapons he'd discarded before he and Sam had begun their hand-to-hand training. “Whose side are you on?”

“Was I supposed to pick sides?” Castiel asks.

“Oh, never mind.” Dean shakes his head in exasperation but Sam can see that he's grinning a little. “I'm going to make lunch. You wanna stay here?”

He directs his question at Sam, who's already nodding. Dean doesn't keep him locked up in the bunker 24\/7 anymore but he still doesn't get to spend as much time outside as he'd like. Recycled air has nothing on fresh.

“Be back inside in twenty,” Dean instructs. “Got that? Cas, keep an eye on him.”

Dean slings the weapons bag over his shoulder and heads towards the bunker, pausing just a moment to call back to Sam. “You did good, Sammy.”

Sam has to work to not look too pleased by the praise, because Dean would tease the crap out of him if he knew how stupidly happy it makes Sam when he manages to impress his older brother. He turns away from Dean, towards the lake, and drops down to sit cross-legged on the grass, watching the sunlight dance across the water.

After a moment, Castiel comes and sits next to him, straight and stiff and out of place in his suit and trench coat. He stares out at the lake.

“Do you really think I came close to beating Dean?” Sam asks curiously.

Castiel bobs his head in a slight nod. “I think it was a possibility. You have improved greatly since Dean began to train you.”

Sam plucks a blade of grass. He isn't sure he believes the angel. Maybe Castiel is just being nice. Then again, do angels even understand the concept of deception as encouragement? White lies? Sam twists the grass around his index finger, considering this.

“Do angels always tell the truth?” he asks. “Is it, like, a rule or something? Can angels lie?”

Castiel's posture doesn't change but Sam senses a stiffening of his demeanour, a darkening of the angel's mood. Sam bites his lip, regretting the question. Maybe it's a rude thing to ask an angelic being. He's about to apologize when Castiel answers.

“Angels can lie,” he confirms, speaking slowly as if choosing his words with extreme care. “But they can manipulate with the truth, as well. If they wanted to, an angel could lead you astray without ever speaking a falsehood.”

Sam frowns, puzzled. He untwists the blade of grass. “Why would an angel want to lead someone astray? Don't you all, uh, do God's work?”

Castiel looks away from the glassy lake. His unblinking gaze seems to look right into Sam's soul. “Not all of us.”

A shiver slips icily up Sam's spine, even though it's warm out and he's still heated from the work out. He looks away, unnerved, and thinks back to bible lessons with Pastor Jim. “Oh, like Lucifer? He was an angel, wasn't he? Before he challenged God and got banished? Or is all that just myth?”

Castiel rises abruptly to his feet. “I do not believe Dean would approve of this conversation.”

Sam blinks up at him. “Why not?”

“We should return to the bunker,” the angel says, turning away, even though it can't have been the allotted twenty minutes.

Too confused to argue, Sam gets to his feet as well, slowly brushing stray bits of grass from his jeans. Maybe Castiel thinks that Sam is too young to be discussing the devil, worried that Dean will hold him accountable should Sam get scared and end up having nightmares or something. Last month, Castiel had told Sam about creatures called Leviathan that could swallow a person whole and take their place so that no one would even know that they were missing, and maybe because it reminded him so much of the shifter that had pretended to be Dean, Sam had had trouble sleeping for a week. Eventually he resorted to creeping down to the garage and curling up in the back seat of the Impala, something he hadn't done since his early days in the bunker. Dean had been furious at Castiel when he found out.

Sam doesn't want to get Castiel into trouble so he follows the angel back to the bunker and he doesn't bring up Lucifer again.

XXX<\/div>
“What do you think?”

Dean, doing his usual check of the morning news over breakfast, slides the laptop across the table and turns the screen towards Sam.

Sam chews absently on a piece of toast as he reads, and then re-reads, the article carefully. Dean has been asking for his opinion more and more often and Sam is all too aware of the responsibility that comes with the privilege, especially after he overheard Dean on the phone to a hunter named Garth one day, asking him to look into the rash of graveyard vandalism spreading across Indiana that Sam theorized was the work of ghouls.

Dean has devoured his plate of scrambled eggs and toast and is tapping impatient fingers against his coffee mug by the time Sam decides on his answer.

“It sounds like a restless spirit, tied to something at the high-school. Maybe the first missing girl was killed there.”

Dean nods. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“The kids at the school might know something. Some ghost story they scare each other with that could have more truth than they realise.”

Dean sets down his mug and rocks back in his chair, arching an eyebrow. “Wouldn't it be handy if I knew a hunter that could go undercover in a haunted high-school?”

Sam's heart does a funny little skip.

“Seriously? We're going on a hunt?” Suspicion wars with excitement. “But I haven't beat you at sparring yet.”

Dean scoffs. “Dude, you are never going to beat me at sparring. I'm way too good. But I think you can hold your own against a dead chick.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, and grins across at Sam. “What d'ya say? You wanna go save some people, hunt some things?”

Sam drops his toast. “When do we leave?”

Chapter Two<\/b><\/a><\/div><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/44273.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","drama","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","hurt\/comfort","supernatural fanfiction"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43826.html","pubDate":"Tue, 26 Jul 2022 02:13:09 GMT","title":"Smells Like Teen Spirit 3\/3","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43826.html","description":"


Smells Like Teen Spirit<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Dean says that the world outside the bunker is far too dangerous for a thirteen year old Sam Winchester to wander about in but thirteen year old Sam is dying of boredom and honestly, what's the worst that could happen?
<\/div>

A\/N: I'm so sorry this is so late! The school holidays snuck up on me and time just disappeared!

XXX

Chapter Three<\/div>
Dean lets Sam get away with spending the next two days hiding in his bedroom. At first, Sam really is too tired to do anything other than sleep but then, once he's rested and rehydrated enough to think straight, he's so humiliated and angry at himself for making such a mess of things that he can't bring himself to do anything other than hide beneath his blankets and ignore his brother each time Dean checks in on him. But on the third day, Sam wakes up to Dean watching him from a chair pulled up next to the bed and he knows that his brother is done with letting him pretend.

So Sam sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and bed-tasselled hair out of his face and steels himself for whatever is coming. He wonders if Dean will yell, like Dad used to.

“I'm sorry,” he says, before Dean can get started, hoping that a pre-emptive apology will temper some of his brother's anger.

Dean sighs though, appearing, if anything, more disappointed than before Sam opened his mouth. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't allowed himself to rest at all even though Sam has spent a good 48 hours doing nothing but. “Don't be,” Dean says.

Sam bites his lip. “I should have listened to you,” he admits, unable to look Dean in the eye. There's a band-aid taped across the back of his hand where he has a vague memory of an IV needle attaching him to a bag of clear liquid, saline or something. Sam runs his thumb over it anxiously.

“Yeah, you should have,” Dean agrees wearily. “But this is my fault, not yours.”

Sam frowns. “Your fault?” he asks dubiously. Dean didn't do anything wrong. It was Sam's own stupid, childish decision-making that got him into trouble. How could any of this be Dean's fault?

“Dude, I know<\/i> you. Doing the opposite of what you're told is Sam Winchester 101.” Dean huffs out a rueful laugh. “I knew it was only a matter of time before all your poking around paid off and you'd find a way out of here.”

Sam can't tell if he's being admonished or praised. Dean doesn't sound angry – he almost sounds proud, like he finds the lengths Sam is willing to go to to be disobedient somewhat impressive – but maybe that's just because he's tired. Or maybe it's because Sam can't actually read his brother anymore. He doesn't know this man, not really. He has no idea what this older version of Dean might be thinking.

“I won't do it again,” Sam promises, and then, because he can't stop himself, he blurts out, “Don't send me away. Please. I'll follow orders. I can still help with research, and we can keep looking for a way to make me grow up again, and I won't act like a brat, I swear.”

Stupid tears are smarting in his eyes. He blinks them back before he risks a glance at Dean, who's suddenly sitting up straight and looking seriously pissed off.

“I'm not sending you anywhere!” Dean exclaims indignantly, like this thought has not only never occurred to him but as if it personally offends him. “What the hell did that Shifter say to you?”

Thinking about repeating Shifter-Dean's list of his short-comings makes Sam want to crawl back under the blankets for at least another week. He settles for ducking behind his hair, fidgeting with the band-aid on the back of his hand.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “It doesn't matter.”

“Sam-”

“What happened to it?” Sam diverts. “Does it still look like me?”

Dean's jaw works for a moment, then he nods tightly. “That's how it works,” he confirms. “Cas said he'd deal with it. I didn't ask his exact plans.”

“Oh.” It's creepy, thinking about the dead Shifter, forever trapped in the shape of Sam Winchester. Did Castiel burn it or bury it? Is it ash or is there a copy of Sam still out there somewhere, rotting in an anonymous grave? Sam keeps dreaming about his own empty eyes, staring at him.

“Sam.” Dean has to clear his throat before he can continue. Sam wonders if those eyes have been watching Dean as well. “Look, I know what Shifters are like. They're cruel. They like to mess with people's heads. They're all alone and they want to make everyone else feel alone, too. So they twist things. They lie<\/i>. Because they just want to hurt you, however they can.”

Sam slides his fingernail under the edge of the band-aid, peeling it away from his skin. Dean obviously means for this to be comforting but it's not, because “It didn't need to lie,” Sam tells Dean. “It was right. I'm just in the way like this. If we can't figure out how to fix me, what's the point in keeping me around?”

“What's the point?” Dean echoes incredulously, rearing back in his chair. “Because you're my brother<\/i>, Sammy.”

“You don't even like me!” Sam loses his fight with the tears he's been holding back. They spill over, hot and furious. “You just want your real brother back!” he accuses Dean.

Dean is shaking his head, trying to deny it. “You are<\/i> my real brother,” he says. “Sam, whatever the Shifter said-”

“It wasn't the Shifter!” Sam cuts him off angrily. “It's you! You're never here. You're always running off to hunt and leaving me behind. You never want to hang out with me. You just want to research ways to get the old Sam back!”

“Because I fucking miss you!” Dean is on his feet, yelling and clasping Sam by the shoulders like he wants to shake him, and Sam is astonished to see that Dean's face is wet with tears as well. “I miss <\/i>the rest<\/i> of you. The last twenty years<\/i> of you. I thought I'd find a way to put things right before anything bad happened but I can't... I can't find anything. And when I'm with you, it reminds me of how badly I'm letting you down, because I can't find anything<\/i>, and I don't know how to make things right. I don't know what to do. I just- fuck!”

Dean releases Sam and sinks back down into his chair, burrowing his hands in his hair. “I just really fucking miss you,” he mutters to the floor.

Sam sags against the bed's headboard and stares in amazement, startled out of his own breakdown. He has never seen Dean cry before, ever, or heard Dean sound so upset. He doesn't know what to say. For some reason, it never occurred to him that Dean might miss Old-Sam the same way Sam misses Young-Dean. It had just seemed so much more likely that Dean was sick of dealing with him. It was all so obvious, once the Shifter had pointed it out...

“I'm not gone,” Sam offers eventually, which feels like a pathetic attempt at consolation. He knows it's not the same. Sometimes Sam finds himself wanting Young-Dean so badly that it's like his lungs are crumpling inside his chest.

Dean seems to find solace in Sam's statement anyway. “I know.” He sits up straighter and wipes his face on his sleeve. “I think that's the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. When I realized that the Shifter had tricked me, that it had lured me away so it could get to you...” Dean trails off, shaking his head, like the memory is too awful to put into words. “I could have lost you. All of you, not just twenty years. I'm so sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have left.”

Dean looks so disappointed in himself that, even though Sam was just yelling about being left behind all the time and the apology should vindicate his anger, immediately all Sam wants to do is make his brother feel better. Sam reaches out tentatively. His fingers look stupidly small as they curl around Dean's large hand.

“It's not your fault,” he assures Dean earnestly. “It was me. I was being a brat.”

Dean lets out a small, somewhat soggy, laugh. He squeezes Sam's hand. “Of course you were. You're thirteen. You're supposed to be a brat. Honestly, you never grew out of it. I'm<\/i> the big brother. I'm supposed to keep you safe.”

“You did,” Sam insists, desperate to ease his brother's guilt. “You killed the Shapeshifter.”

This is the wrong thing to say. Dean's face clouds over at the reminder of the monster that looked like Sam and he pulls back, withdrawing into the memory. “Yeah. Sorry I wasn't there sooner. I would've shot it while it still looked like me but I wasn't close enough. I couldn't risk missing.”

Sam hugs his knees to his chest. “You wouldn't have had to do anything if I'd listened to you and stayed in the bunker,” he points out, but Dean shakes his head, refusing any absolution.

“I knew I was pushing my luck, keeping you shut up in here. Even Cas could see that you were going stir-crazy.” Dean lets out a heavy sigh. He looks Sam up and down. “It's just... fuck, Sam, you're so small<\/i>.”

Sam makes a face, entirely unimpressed by this description. “Am not.”

Dean's lip twitches. Sam has managed to amuse him with the juvenile retort.

“I'm not, though!” Sam pushes on determinedly. “I can do things. I can hunt; you know I can. And you could teach me the things that I've forgotten. I learn fast. I hate being left behind, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I know you can hold your own. Believe me when I say that there's no one else I'd rather have watching my six on a hunt.” The glow of pride in Dean's eyes convinces Sam that his brother is telling the truth about this, crazy as it may seem. Imagine being a good enough hunter to impress a grown-up Dean Winchester. Of course, Sam is quickly brought back down to earth when Dean continues with, “But, damn, Sammy, were you really this small the first time you were thirteen?”

“De-ean,” Sam complains, which draws a chuckle out of his brother.

“Well, I'm sorry but I've been looking up <\/i>at you for the last decade and I still<\/i> worried about you whenever we were hunting. I'm not about to stop now that you can barely see over the Impala's steering wheel. I don't know how Dad wasn't a nervous wreck all the time.” Dean gives his head a rueful shake. “Maybe he was. Maybe that's why he was so hell-bent on teaching us how to kill everything. So we could protect ourselves.”

Sam can't imagine John Winchester, the gruff, order-barking, monster-killing drill sergeant, being nervous about anything, but maybe Dean's right. It's easier to give their father the benefit of the doubt, now.

“Teach me<\/i> how to protect myself,” Sam begs. “I need to go outside. I need to see things other than walls.”

Dean looks pained. “If I can just figure out what happened to you-” he starts.

“But what if you can't?” Sam interrupts, growing frustrated. “What if I'm stuck like this? Are you going to make me grow up alone in a bunker?”

“No!” Dean quickly denies, horrified by the suggestion, or maybe by the realization that so far this is exactly what he's been doing. “No. That's not...” He rubs his temples, the way Dad used to do after hours of witness interviews, usually right before reaching for the bourbon. “It's hard,” he admits, after a moment. “I can't give up on you. On getting back the missing twenty years of you.”

“I'm not asking you to.” Sam has no problem re-gaining twenty years of lost memories and returning to his former, older self, if<\/i> they can figure out how to make it happen. It's definitely weird to think about suddenly skipping forward a couple of decades but, well, he's already grown up once and it's kind of infuriating that he can't remember any of it. TV shows are full of references he doesn't understand. Dean<\/i> is full of references he doesn't understand. Three months into this new existence and Sam is starting to think that he'll never be able to properly catch up with the world. Like he's always going to be out of step. “But...” Sam takes a deep breath. “Dad's gone. And Uncle Bobby, and Pastor Jim, and Caleb, and... everyone. Everyone's gone, except you. We can keep trying to fix me. I just... I don't want to be alone anymore, Dean. Please let me hunt with you.”

Dean is silent, head bowed and forehead furrowed, for what seems like an incredibly long time. So long that by the time he finally looks up, Sam has almost convinced himself that the answer is going to be no.

“You really want me to train you?” Dean asks, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

Sam feels a swell of excitement in his chest. “Yes!” he nods eagerly.

“I won't go easy on you,” Dean warns him. “If you want to hunt, you'll have to prove that you're up for it.”

“I will,” Sam promises, still nodding. “I am.”

“I must be nuts,” Dean mutters, and Sam stops trying to contain himself. He jumps up and throws his arms around his brother, almost knocking Dean off of his chair.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I'll work hard and I'll follow orders and I won't be a brat, I promise!”

Deans laugh sounds genuine now as he hugs Sam back. “I'm gonna hold you to that.”

XXX<\/div>
It's past ten that evening when Dean appears in Sam's doorway but Sam is still wide awake, sitting cross-legged on top of his bed-covers with an open book in his lap. Dean looks much better than he had earlier – Sam was right to enlist Castiel's help in convincing his brother that Sam would not go out and get himself kidnapped again the moment Dean allowed himself to get some rest – and the smile directed at Sam is the brightest smile Sam has seen on the face of his grown-up older brother.

“Hey,” Dean says, rapping a knuckle on Sam's open door.

Sam sets aside the copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince that he's reading. Or re-reading, probably. “Hey.”

Dean holds up the keys to the Impala. “Feel like going for a drive?”

Sam doesn't need to be asked twice. He scrambles off of the bed and shoves his socked feet into his shoes before Dean can change his mind.

“Bring your jacket,” Dean says. “It's kind of cold outside.”

“Yes, 'Dad',” Sam quips, ducking away from the hand that tries to slap him upside the head and grabbing his jacket from the closet.

“Watch it,” Dean says, but his amusement shows.

Sam practically vibrates as he forces himself not to race ahead down the hallways, hoping to portray something other than 'excitable child'. He settles for walking backwards, a few steps ahead of Dean.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Dean spins his keys around on his finger. “Does it matter?”

“Not really.” Anywhere is fine. Anywhere other than the bunker and the sewer. “Is Castiel coming?”

“Not this time.”

“Can I drive?”

Dean traps the keys in his palm, pulling them away from Sam. “No way in hell.”

“I have a license,” Sam points out.

“I don't care,” Dean replies. “No driving until you're sixteen... or thirty-three, whichever comes first.”

The bunker has a garage full of classic cares and Sam has spent a decent amount of his endless free time wandering among them, idly admiring the old-fashioned styles. He isn't into cars the same way Dean and Dad always have been but even he can appreciate the impressive collection. However, the only car that Sam is really interested in is the one car that's hardly ever there.

The Impala is the only thing that looks the same now as it did the first time Sam was thirteen, the only place that feels like home. There were a few times, especially early on after Sam woke up in an underground bunker with an old, oddly-familiar, stranger explaining that actually, he's Dean, just a Dean who is thirty-seven rather than seventeen, and this is thirty-seven year old Dean's friend, Castiel, who inhabits a human body but is actually an Angel of the Lord, and by the way, it's the year 2016 and no one knows why or how Sam is suddenly replaying puberty, yeah, early on after that<\/i>, that Sam had snuck down here in the creepy midnight hours. When Dean was between hunts and sleeping behind the closed door of his room, and Castiel was doing whatever Castiel does instead of sleeping, and Sam was wide awake and trying not to start screaming because the bunker was so quiet and lonely that it seemed like it would crush him, the army man jammed in the ash tray and the jaggedly carved initials were the only things that could calm him down.

Then, he had crawled into the backseat, pressing his face into the upholstery. It didn't actually smell quite right and Dean had said something once about rebuilding the Impala multiple times, which meant that maybe it wasn't even the same army man and maybe they weren't the same initials Sam remembers carving when he was little, but he had curled up anyway, closing his eyes and pretending that he was back where he was supposed to be.

Now, Sam slides into the passenger seat. Dean gets behind the wheel and starts the engine, and Sam rolls down the window so that the wind can rush into the car, wild and free and whipping his hair around as they drive, fast – probably too fast, if Dean still drives the way he did as a teenager – with the tape player screaming Led Zeppelin and the stars growing brighter as the roads get longer and rougher, and it's the most okay that Sam has felt in three months.

Dean stops in a field in the middle of no where, turning the music down to a mumble. He twists to grab a cooler from the backseat.

“C'mon,” he says, motioning Sam out of the car.

Curious, Sam follows his brother to the front of the Impala. Dean sets the cooler on the hood and hops up beside it, extending a hand to help Sam do the same. Accepting it, Sam climbs up next to Dean.

“Do I get beer?” he asks, as Dean opens the cooler and pulls out two bottles.

“Ha,” Dean scoffs. “You get soda.” He pops the top off a coke and passes it to Sam before opening a beer for himself.

Unbothered, Sam takes a sip and copies Dean, leaning back to stare up at the sky. He can sense that, whatever they're doing, it's important.

There are only wisps of cloud, drifting lazily across an ink-black backdrop, and a stunningly bright array of stars, splashed carelessly across the night. Sam inhales deeply, breathing in the reckless beauty of it, and for a while there is nothing but the music rolling across the field, the lights sparkling in the sky, and Dean's solid, steady presence at Sam's side.

“When you turned fourteen, we were in Arizona,” Dean says eventually. Sam looks at him quizzically, momentarily confused, before he remembers that, of course, he did turn fourteen, once upon a time. Dean doesn't take his eyes off of the stars. He clears his throat and continues. “Dad was hunting a restless spirit, I think. He was gone all day and most of the night, whatever it was, so it was just you and me in a crappy motel room with a busted TV. You were so mad. Not because of the TV – because Dad had promised that he'd be there. He did show up eventually, some time after midnight, with a somewhat decent excuse and a cake with only a tiny bit of blood on it, but at the time, it seemed like he'd flaked on you.”

Dean takes a long pull from his beer, then uses the bottle to gesture at the sky. “That was the first time we did this.”

Dean keeps talking, moving on from birthdays to Christmases to 4th of Julys, describing monsters and girlfriends and all the different diners they stopped at that had amazing pie. He tells Sam about Dad, sacrificing himself for Dean, and then Dean, sacrificing himself for Sam, and how they met Cas and the way that they all worked together to save the world. Sam gets the feeling that he's being given the PG13 version of events but he doesn't care. He can always bug Dean for more details in the future. Or maybe they actually will find a way to make him grow up one day and he'll get back all the memories that he's lost.

Sam shuffles closer, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. He closes his eyes, trying to picture everything just as Dean describes it, and falls asleep beneath the stars, lulled by a bedtime story of a life he can't remember and the melodic murmurings of an '80s rock band.

The End<\/b><\/div><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43826.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","drama","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","guiltydean","supernatural fanfiction","hurt\/comfort","angst","kidnappedsam"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43521.html","pubDate":"Fri, 01 Jul 2022 00:13:34 GMT","title":"Smells Like Teen Spirit 2\/3","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43521.html","description":"

Smells Like Teen Spirit<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Dean says that the world outside the bunker is far too dangerous for a thirteen year old Sam Winchester to wander about in but thirteen year old Sam is dying of boredom and honestly, what's the worst that could happen?
<\/div>
XXX

Chapter Two<\/div>
A short chase, an even shorter scuffle, and then an unknown amount of time spent unconscious is enough to convince Sam that yes, he really should have listened to his brother.

He'd give anything to be back in the Men of Letters' bunker right now, making awkward conversation with Dean's angel friend or meandering down lonely grey hallways, going out of his mind with boredom. He'd give anything to be anywhere other than here, tied up in what he's pretty sure is an actual sewer. It smells like a sewer. It's dark and cold and filthy enough to be a sewer. Why do monsters have to be so gross?

“I had to see it for myself,” the Shifter cackles, unpleasantly gleeful. “Little Sammy Winchester – actually little again. What happened? You piss off the wrong witch?”

Sam sets his jaw and stubbornly looks away, as if he has answers to withhold.

Of course Dean would be right. Of course there actually are monsters that want to get back at Sam Winchester. It isn't that he thought Dean was lying to him – the world is a dangerous place and hunters' kids have been known to be targeted before – but the idea that he was really worth a monster's time and effort, that one really would go out of it's way to hurt him in particular? It just seemed so ridiculous. It's not like he ever excelled at target practice or hand-to-hand or any of the other skills Dad had tried so hard to drill into him. According to Dean, Sam's older self even quit hunting and went to college for a while, so how good could he have been? Dean says that Sam was an incredible hunter but, well, Dean is his big brother. Of course he says that. Sam didn't think that the monsters actually agreed.

The Shifter isn't bothered by Sam's lack of response. “And out for a walk all by your little self,” it continues, shaking Dean's head and 'tsking' tauntingly. “After I warned you about how dangerous that could be.”

“You're not my brother!” Sam spits. He wishes the creature would take a different form. Suddenly, a terrible thought occurs to him. “Where is Dean? If you hurt him-”

The Shapeshifter barks out a laugh. “You'll what? Stick your tongue out at me?”

Sam glares, which feels annoyingly close to sticking out his tongue, but he has no rebuttal. The reassuring weight of his blade in it's ankle-holster is gone. He's been trying to loosen up the bindings around his ankles ever since he woke up and has so far only succeeded in giving himself rope burn. His wrists are bound equally tight and tied to a rusted pipe that runs along the wall above his head. Already his fingers are numb, either from the cold or a lack of circulation, and he's definitely concussed. His head is throbbing and a tender spot at the base of his skull seems to be the cause of both the pain and the non-consensual nap. What exactly does he think he's going to do?

“Where is Dean?” he repeats anyway, which only makes the Shifter laugh again.

“You're too adorable! Where is Dean?<\/i>” the monster mimics him squeakily, reaching out and squeezing his cheeks together, like he's a toddler, and, worse, like the real Dean would do if he was teasing Sam for acting like a toddler. Sam shakes his face free angrily.

“Don't touch me!” He sounds infuriatingly similar to the Shapeshifter's imitation.

“Don't touch me!<\/i>” The Shifter punctuates it's mockery with a slap that snaps Sam's head to the side and re-opens his split lip. He swallows a yelp of pain along with a mouthful of blood and grits his teeth, furious and frustrated and seeing stars. At least he knows one thing – Dean must be okay. If he wasn't, Sam is sure that the Shifter would be dying to tell him so. The knowledge calms some of the terror currently crawling up his throat.

“What do you want?” Sam asks the creature, mostly just to keep it talking and distracted while he tries to wriggle free. His swollen fingers aren't cooperating though and he can't get them to twist and bend the way he needs them to.

“Honestly? I haven't even decided yet.” The Shapeshifter narrows Dean's green eyes, regarding Sam thoughtfully. “The possibility of a baby Winchester to play with seemed worth the road-trip but I didn't think the rumours would actually turn out to be true. What should<\/i> I do with you?”

Sam isn't about to come up with suggestions so he stays quiet as the monster considers him, tapping Dean's chin in an uncomfortably familiar gesture. It really does look exactly like Dean. It sounds exactly like Dean. The only thing wrong are the eyes. Something is missing from them. Whatever it was that helped Sam to recognise his brother when he found himself facing a Dean two decades older than the one he remembered – it's gone. This copy of Dean is cold and malevolent and it's malignant stare makes Sam feel like bugs are squirming over his skin. He thinks it's the malignant stare. Maybe there really are bugs crawling on him.

“I could get you to take me to this 'batcave',” Shifter-Dean muses. “That sounds interesting. Dean knew it was only a matter of time before you found a way out. A secret door somewhere? Another magic key?”

Oh no.

“I'm not taking you anywhere,” Sam says defiantly.

“I could make you.” The Shifter leans in close enough that Sam can feel it's breath on his face and suddenly, a blade is pressed against his cheek, just below his left eye. Sam freezes. The Shifter smiles. “Or I could just hurt you for the fun of it.”

The blade is so sharp and Shifter-Dean's movement is so quick that the pain doesn't sink in right away. First, Sam feels a warmth spill down his face, a ticklish trickle of blood, and then he feels his skin split, tugging apart along a path carved across his cheek. Before he can do more than gasp, the Shifter raises the knife again and adds a matching slash just below the first. The pain hits faster this time and Sam yelps, panic swelling in his chest. He turns away, pressing his face into his outstretched arm, curling into himself against the wall.

The blade skitters across his collarbone.

“Stop!” Sam cries, but the Shifter doesn't, of course. Sam tries desperately to tug his hands free, to kick the rope from his ankles, twisting and screaming and trying, fiercely and fruitlessly, to get away, away, away from the knife and the pain and the monster with his brother's face.

“Feel like changing your mind?” Shifter-Dean asks, finally pausing. “Wanna take me on a tour of your bunker?”

Sam blinks back tears, shuddering and struggling to catch his breath. His shirt is damp with blood.

“Screw you!” he gasps, and the Shifter smacks him across the face, hard enough to bounce his head off of the concrete wall behind him. The sewer blurs, darkness fizzing at the edges of his vision. Sam sags, head lolling as the world spins. The Shifter fists a hand in his hair and forces his head back.

“Being stubborn is pointless,” Shifter-Dean growls in Sam's face. “I can take your form. I can take your memories.”

Sam squints the Shifter's features back into focus. “Why don't you then?” he asks, wincing as the Shifter's tight grip threatens to tear hairs from his scalp.

“Because, Sammy<\/i>” - Shifter-Dean spits out the nickname like it's something distasteful - “why would I want to be you<\/i>? Look at yourself. No wonder Dean spends all his time trying to turn you back into a brother that's actually worth having. Maybe he won't even bother coming to look for you.”

It's not Dean. He knows it's not Dean. But somehow hearing this in Dean's voice is like another blow.

Dean does spend a lot of time researching how to make Sam grow up. A lot more time than he spends with Sam. In fact, sometimes Sam gets the impression that Dean doesn't even like<\/i> hanging out with him, just puts up with it, like he's just going through the motions until he gets his real<\/i> brother back.

“That's not true,” Sam argues anyway. “Dean's coming and he's gonna kick your ass.”

“You sure about that?” The Shifter releases Sam's hair, leaning back to look Sam up and down, quirking a disdainful eyebrow. “You really think you're worth the trouble? All I see is a brat who can't follow orders. Can't hunt, can't watch your brother's back... you can't even look after yourself. Honestly, kid, I think I'd be doing Dean a favour if I just got rid of you.”

“Stop it,” Sam demands.”You're lying. I know you're lying.”

“Am I though?” Shifter-Dean asks slyly. “How well do you really know Dean? This<\/i> Dean – not the punk teenager that beat up your bullies back in high school. Do you really think he wants to be stuck raising you all over again?”

“Stop.” It sounds like a plea this time. A slither of doubt is worming it's way into Sam's certainty. What if the Shapeshifter isn't lying? Maybe he really is nothing but a burden like this. If they can't find a cure for unexpected adolescence, what will Dean do with him? What if Dean sends him away somewhere for someone else to deal with? Would being kicked out be worse than being locked up in the bunker until he's old again?

Maybe... maybe it really would be better for Dean, better for everyone, if Sam just disappeared.

XXX<\/div>
Sam is summoned back to consciousness by Dean's voice, sternly demanding that he wake up. Sam tries very hard not to because being awake hurts and unconsciousness is by far the easiest way to rebel against the Shifter's wishes.

“Sam<\/i>.” Shifter-Dean insists. “C'mon, Sam, open your eyes.”

“Nuhh,” Sam refuses. He presses his face into his arm, hoping to sink back into the darkness.

“Damn it,” the Shifter breathes. “Sam, wake up!<\/i>”

It emphasizes this order with a shake that revives Sam's injuries. Torn nerves come to life and wail their complaints, letting loose a flood of pain. Sam chokes back a moan, twisting away from the monster.

“Don't,” he pleads. He can't do this anymore. Everything hurts. He just wants to go to sleep. “Lemme alone.”

“Sam, it's me. It's Dean.”

“Y'r not Dean,” Sam mutters, keeping his eyes stubbornly closed. “Go away.”

“Hang on,” the Shifter says. Something scrapes across the pipe above Sam's head and then he's crumpling sideways, the rope that had held him upright suddenly slack. Hands reach out and grab him, halting his descent.

“Hey.” One of the hands cups Sam's face, lifting his chin. Hesitantly, Sam cracks one eye open.

Dean's face lights up. “There you are.” He grins. “One sec.”

Dean is holding a knife, Sam realises, stiffening, but the blade carves through the remaining bindings, not flesh, and Sam relaxes again.

“Did you get it?” he asks, carefully flexing his newly-freed fingers. The rush of blood is hot and prickly.

“The Shapeshifter? Yeah. Don't worry about it.” Dean untangles the rope from Sam's ankles and tosses it aside. “Think you can walk?”

“Mmhm.” There's no way he's letting Dean carry him. Needing to be rescued is embarrassing enough. It's difficult – his limbs are heavy and wooden and his balance is shot – but Sam makes it to his feet with minimal help from his brother. Once he's upright, he's too unsteady to do anything other than allow Dean to take his elbow and steer him through the sewer system. The hardest part is the ladder leading to the surface. Sam's deadened limbs aren't particularly cooperative and his fingers struggle to grip the rungs but Dean stays close behind him and somehow, Sam makes it through the manhole without falling.

The sun has sunk below the tree-line and the darkened sky is splattered with stars. The days warmth has dissipated, replaced by a sharp wind that bites at Sam's wounds. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering, and looks up and down the empty street.

“Where's Castiel?” he asks. The curve of the road and the trees that flank it block his view of everything other than his immediate surroundings but Sam had expected the angel, and Dean's car, to be nearby.

“Huh?” Dean climbs through the manhole and brushes his hands off on his jeans. “Oh, he's back at the bunker. Come on.”

To Sam's surprise, Dean takes off into the forest. Apparently, they're walking. The bunker must be close. Sam hurries to catch up before Dean's longer strides take him too far ahead. He has no desire to be alone outside anymore.

“So,” Dean says flatly, once Sam reaches his side. “You found a way out.”

Oh. Dean is mad at him. Of course Dean is mad at him. Dean must have spent who knows how long searching for him. Dean must have just fought and killed a Shapeshifter, all by himself. A Shapeshifter with Dean's own face. That can't have been fun. And none of it would have happened if Sam had just done as he was told. No wonder Dean is pissed off.

“I'm sorry,” Sam offers meekly, wincing as he ducks around an outstretched branch. A lengthy cut across his ribcage tugs painfully as he twists. Dean is walking fast. Sam bites his tongue and resists the urge to ask him to slow down. “I just...” His reasoning seems so stupid in retrospect. “I just wanted to go outside.”

Sam risks a glance up at his brother's face but Dean is impassive, striding quickly through the trees.

“How'd you do it?” Dean asks, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Sam doesn't feel like arguing though. The fantasy of a secret escape tunnel has lost it's magic and he has no energy for anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. Even that is becoming a real struggle.

“There's a passageway,” Sam explains. “In one of the storage rooms. It comes out in the woods.”

Dean comes to an unexpected halt. “Where?” he barks.

Sam stops, too, taken aback by the abrupt question. He looks around, trying to catch his breath, and his bearings, in the moonlight. “Um...”

They've arrived in a small clearing, indistinguishable from any other, until Sam looks up and recognizes the space between the tree-tops – the wonky octagon of sky he had spent his brief glimpse of freedom staring up at.

“Is this where the Shifter found me?” he asks, confused. He's so tired; he's not sure he can remember how to get back to the tunnels entrance.

“Which way?” Dean insists impatiently, obviously frustrated by how slow Sam is being.

Sam looks around, somewhat desperately this time, searching for his path through the trees. He hadn't paid as much attention to his route as he maybe should have but he also hadn't done anything to avoid leaving a trail of footprints and disturbed foliage that would have been easy enough to follow in the daylight, but now, in the dark...

Sam shudders as the wind slips cold fingers down his t-shirt. Why can't Dean just take him back to the bunker? Couldn't they do this another time, when Sam doesn't feel like a walking bruise?

A sense of unease creeps up on him, slowly raising the hairs on the back of Sam's neck. Would Dean really make him stagger through the forest in the middle of the night, injured and exhausted?

Uncertain, Sam looks up at his brother. If it is his brother. What if it's not his brother?

“I...” What if it's not his brother?<\/i> Sam takes a small step backwards, wavering. “I'm not sure,” he hedges.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Screw it,” he says. “We'll do it the hard way”

He reaches out, closing vice-like fingers around Sam's wrist, and twists. The bone snaps with a sharp crack.

Sam screams, dropping to his knees. He tries to tug his arm free but the grip is unbreakable, and when he looks up, the face in front of his is changing. Skin softens and rearranges itself like putty on a shrinking skull. Dirty blonde hair turns chestnut brown and grows several inches to flop over darkening eyes. Within seconds, Sam is staring at a perfect copy of himself, unmarred by cuts and bruises, and smirking back at him.

“I'll find it myself,” the Shapeshifter says with Sam's voice. “I'm sure Dean will be pleased to see me.”

“No!” Sam gasps, horrified. He can't let it find it's way into the bunker. He has to do something.

But he can't. He can't do anything. He can't stop the monster. He can't save his brother. Dean – the real Dean – was right. Sam should have listened to him. None of this would be happening if he had just hung out in the bunker and caught up on the years of movies and TV shows that Dean keeps recommending for him. Why does he always have to act like such a brat? Why can't he ever just do as he's told?

“Time to say goodbye,” the Shifter says.

“Goodbye,” a new voice says, an old familiar voice, somewhere to Sam's left. Sam flinches at the sudden gunshot that splits the air and the Shifter jerks, eyes widening in shock. It starts to turn, releasing Sam's mangled wrist, and three more shots follow the first, each one slamming into the creature's chest. It staggers back a step, then drops, thudding to the ground. Sam watches as the life drains from his own face. The moonlight glints off of flat, empty eyes.

“Sam. Hey, don't look.” If the Dean that crouches down between Sam and the dead Shifter isn't the real one, Sam is too tired to care. He crumples forward, obediently closing his eyes on the gory sight, and Dean's arms wrap him up and hold him in a way that's somehow both incredibly gentle and possessively tight.

“Cas, get over here!” Dean yells over Sam's head.

A moment later, the angel is crouching at Dean's side. Sam doesn't hear the approach – like always – but he feels new hands reaching out for him, trying to move him. He cringes away with a whimper of protest, pressing his face against Dean's chest.

Dean tangles a hand in Sam's hair, cradling the back of his head so carefully that Sam barely flinches when fingers brush over the tender knot at the base of his skull.

“Let Cas help,” Dean says. “Trust me.”

Reluctantly – he keeps trusting Dean and it keeps biting him in the ass – Sam turns to face the angel. Castiel looks even more solemn than usual, the edges of his mouth turned unhappily down. He lifts a hand and presses two fingers to Sam's forehead.

A hazy warmth spreads through Sam's body, rolling over him like a wave, erasing injuries as it goes. The thumping in his head fades, slashes knit themselves back together, and the throbbing pain in the wrist Sam clutches defensively to his stomach vanishes as the bones realign. When the angel pulls back, all of Sam's wounds have healed like magic.

“Better?” Dean asks.

Sam flexes his fingers in astonishment, raising a hand to touch the unmarked skin on his face, suddenly self-conscious of the damp tear-tracks that remain. He ducks his head, quickly palming them away, and hopes that Dean and Castiel will do him the favour of pretending not to notice. Not that he deserves any favours, after what he just put everyone through.

Sam bobs his head in response to Dean's question, running his tongue over his freshly un-split lip.

“'m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn't know what else to say. The trees around them are starting to move, quivering unsteadily.

“What for?”

Dean sounds far away.

“Sam?”

And getting further. And there are so many things that Sam needs to apologize for but they're all slipping away. Dean and Castiel and the forest are fading into an encroaching darkness. Sam grabs at one last thought.

“For making you carry me,” he manages to say, before he gives in and lets the darkness swallow him completely.

Chapter Three<\/b><\/a><\/div><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43521.html?view=comments#comments","category":["blood loss","drama","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","exhaustion","supernatural fanfiction","bruises","hurt\/comfort","hurtsam","angst","broken bones","kidnappedsam"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43471.html","pubDate":"Sat, 18 Jun 2022 07:49:16 GMT","title":"Smells Like Teen Spirit 1\/3","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43471.html","description":"

Smells Like Teen Spirit<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Dean says that the world outside the bunker is far too dangerous for a thirteen year old Sam Winchester to wander about in but thirteen year old Sam is dying of boredom and honestly, what's the worst that could happen?<\/div>

A\/N: Based on a prompt I read somewhere, sometime, that rattled around in my brain until this fell out.

XXX

Chapter One<\/u><\/div>
It takes forever for Sam to find a way out.

It's not that he's trying to escape<\/i>. That would imply that he's somewhere that needs to be escaped from and, as weird as the whole thing is, Sam actually does believe the man who lives in this bunker and talks like Dad when he says that he's Dean and his weird friend who doesn't seem to blink is an angel called Castiel and, for reasons yet to be determined, Sam is suffering from a severe case of being thirteen when he is supposed to be thirty-three.

And it's not like he's being held prisoner here. Not really. Even if it does kind of feel like he is. He totally does understand that Dean is worried about letting Sam out into the big scary world with all it's big scary monsters, even though, from Sam's point of view, he's been helping his family hunt all those big scary monsters that lurk around out there in the big scary world for almost two years now so Dean can't have been this over-protective the first time Sam was thirteen.

It's not like he doesn't know how to look after himself, or as if he hasn't been taught how to fight, or like at least one blade isn't a common clothing accessory for a Winchester.

And Sam is so freaking bored<\/i>.

Dean does hang out with him sometimes. The bunker isn't all bad. The extensive library does have some pretty interesting collections, though the genre options are somewhat slim, mainly monsters and magic. Dean has a room containing the biggest television Sam has ever seen. The kitchen is always well stocked and it turns out that Dean is an even better cook than Sam considered him back when his big brother's highest achievement was making hot-dogs edible for six days in a row.

But, well, Dean is a grown up hunter now and sometimes he can't ignore calls from people who need help. When he is home, he's poring over huge old books, searching tirelessly for a way to get his huge old brother back (and the old Sam really was huge, and old, and it's really weird looking at photos of himself where he's huge and old when right now he barely reaches Dean's shoulders). So a lot of Sam's time is spent alone, wandering down dusty hallways and poking around in old, shut-off rooms filled with weird old stuff that Dean has forbidden him from touching. Every now and then, Castiel pops up out of nowhere (maybe literally – Sam hasn't worked out yet whether the angel can teleport or if he's just impossibly light on his feet) and sends Sam back to the library under the pretence of needing help with research, or to the kitchen, claiming that they should eat, even though Sam has<\/i> figured out that the angel doesn't need food to sustain him. Sam doesn't argue when this happens, just folds away his mental map and waits patiently to continue his search for a back door to the bunker once the angel has become distracted by whatever distracts angels.

Sam is still in bed, drifting hazily somewhere between sleeping and waking, when Dean knocks – with the same knock he always used on motel doors to announce his presence – on his bedroom door, early in the morning some three months after Sam woke up without the last two decades of his life. That's another weird thing – having his own room. There's no living in each other's shadows in this bunker. Sam doesn't tell Dean that it's almost impossible to fall asleep without the sound of his breathing acting as a lullaby. He doesn't need to give his brother any more reasons to look at him like he's a toddler in need of coddling.

“What izzit?” Sam calls sleepily.

The door opens and Dean pokes his head in. “Are you awake?”

“No, I'm sleep-talking.” Sam sits up, shrugging off the heavy blankets. He rubs his eyes and shoves his hair out of his face, then scowls when he realises that Dean is looking at him with that stupid 'aww, my baby brother is adorable' face, again. “What is it? Have you found something?”

It's mean and it makes Sam feel a little guilty but it does wipe that dumb look off of Dean's face, replacing it with the pinched expression that always forms when he's reminded of the other Sam and his lack of progress in getting that Sam back. It kind of hurts, actually, knowing that Dean would prefer to have the other, older version of him. It's not Dean's fault, and Sam can't exactly blame him for feeling that way, but there are only so many times you can catch your brother staring at you like you're a problem that needs fixing before you start to take it personally.

“No, not yet,” Dean sighs. He steps into the room and Sam sees that he's fully dressed, despite the early hour, with a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. “Look, I have to head out for a couple of days. There's a Shapeshifter a few towns over, at least I think there is, so-”

“Can I come?” Sam throws off the blankets, scrambling out of bed. “Please? I'll stay in the motel room. I could do research, or clean weapons, or...”

Dean is shaking his head, holding up a hand to halt Sam's plea. Sam stops, halfway to the set of drawers full of thrift store clothes that Dean picked up after Sam nearly fell down some stairs, tripping on his rolled up trouser leg. “It's not a good idea,” Dean says. “I've told you, you have no idea how many monsters are out there that would love to get their hands on a thirteen year old Sam Winchester.”

Sam rolls his eyes. When did Dean get so dramatic? “Dad let me hunt with him,” he points out defiantly.

“Yeah, well, Dad wasn't always right,” Dean says, and it's such an un-Dean-like thing to say that Sam is momentarily stunned silent, unable to think of a retort. Dean takes the opportunity to duck back out the door, all too eager to escape.

“I'll bring back ice cream.” Dean's voice retreats down the hallway. “See ya, Sammy!”

“It's Sam!” Sam yells after him, resisting the urge to stamp a petulant foot. It's not fair<\/i>. He's not a baby<\/i>. He's more capable of taking care of himself than any thirteen year old he's ever met and yet Dean insists on treating him like an infant.

Sam thuds back down onto his bed, gripping the mattress edge in both hands. Resentment rolls over him. Old-Dean sucks, the Men of Letters' bunker sucks, and being thirteen sucks<\/i>. Everything sucks.

XXX<\/div>
Sam is curled in an armchair, flipping idly through a giant book he has to balance awkwardly on his lap, written in a language he doesn't understand but full of intricate full-page illustrations of all kinds of strange creatures, when Castiel materializes at his side.

“Sam?”

Sam jumps, almost dropping the book. He grabs it before it slides to the floor and looks up from a drawing of a beautiful woman with a fish tail and long spindly fingers, resembling seaweed, stretching up to wrap around a disembodied foot.

“I am sorry,” the angel apologizes, in his usual strange, stiff manner. “It was not my intention to scare you.”

“You didn't scare me,” Sam lies, willing his heart rate to slow down. He has a feeling that Castiel can hear it pounding.

If he can, Castiel is too polite to let on. “Dean says I must go to the store while he is gone,” he tells Sam. “Is there anything in particular that you would like?”

Sam shrugs, looking back to his book. He's still far too angry at Dean to think about groceries. “I don't care,” he says, turning a page. A vicious-looking dog-like monster stands on hind legs and shows off a set of jagged teeth.

“Dean says that children like sugary cereals,” Castiel suggests.

“I'm not a child!” Sam snaps. Castiel just stares at him.

“I will buy what Dean usually buys,” he says, an uncomfortable moment later.

“Whatever,” Sam mutters, glaring determinedly at his book. Castiel is almost out of the room before Sam gives in and blurts out, “Can I come with you? Please?”

Even a trip to the grocery store with a socially awkward angel would be better than the bunker.

Castiel pauses, looking back at Sam with an expression that might be sympathetic. “Dean says that you must stay here.”

XXX<\/div>
Dean says this. Dean says that. Sam is so over everything that Dean says. He waits until he hears the door shut behind Castiel before he closes his book, hurriedly replacing it on it's shelf, and sets off down the hallway. He doesn't bother going after Castiel – he's tried the front door before after being left alone for small snatches of time and nothing he does makes it budge. Instead, he follows a twisting path of corridors, ducking under cobwebs and pushing through a door that's been made to look like a wall until finally he recognises a room that Castiel had shepherded him out of last week.

It's an unobtrusive room, full of old furniture draped in sheets, standing eerily in the shadows like silent dusty ghosts. Sam tries the lights but nothing happens so he ventures in half-blind. He walks carefully with his arms stretched out in front of him, each step taking him further from the dim triangle of light spilling in from the hallway.

He isn't really sure what he's looking for. Just anything that might seem odd or out of place. He tugs the dust-covers off of a couple of heavy wooden desks, opening and closing each drawer in turn, pushes a few of the lighter items around to check beneath them in case they're hiding some sort of trap door, and ends up digging a splinter the size of a small pencil out of his palm when a rickety old chair literally falls apart in his hands.

Sam tosses the shard of wood aside and sticks his hand in his mouth, sucking at the blood blooming from the wound. The air is thick with dust motes. Sam waves his free hand in front of his face and the dust swirls.

A fit of sneezes hits him, so sudden and explosive that he stumbles. Sam flings out his hand to brace himself against the wall, only for the stone to glow red beneath his bleeding palm, and then he's staggering sideways. The wall shifts, each stone folding backwards to reveal the entrance to a narrow passageway, illuminated by the same eerie red glow. An emergency exit?

Sam only hesitates so a moment. So what if Dean gets mad? He's not even here. If Dean wants to yell at him he'll just have to turn the Impala around and come back to the bunker.

With one last glance over his shoulder, checking for any angelic apparitions, Sam steps into the tunnel.

XXX<\/div>
Sam has almost decided to turn back, half-convinced that the tunnel is some sort of trick that will go on forever, by the time he rounds yet another corner and sees a haze of sunlight up ahead. He picks up speed, covering the remaining distance at a near-run, and moments later he slips through a gap between two boulders, shoves his way through a thick tangle of overgrown bushes, and finds himself surrounded by a crush of huge, towering trees.

Freckles of sunlight are scattered across the forest floor. The leaves are whispering above his head, shimmering in the breeze that curls down around the tree-trunks to run gentle fingers through Sam's hair. He closes his eyes and breathes in the warm earthy scent of outside.

This is more like it. Sam can count the times he's been allowed out of the bunker since re-turning thirteen on a single hand, and tense, late-night visits to drive-thrus while Dean sits hyper-vigilant and paranoid in the drivers seat, insisting that Sam stay tucked into the shadows, least he be spotted by Something Bad, just don't cut it. He needs fresh air in his lungs and sun on his skin. He needs open space to stretch himself out in.

With a reckless whoop, Sam sets off at a run. A startle of birds take flight, bursting out of the tree-tops, and Sam pretends he's one of them – wild and free to fly anywhere he wants, gliding and swooping and spreading out across the bright endless sky. The uneven ground is treacherous – an unexpected dip could twist or break an ankle – but Sam ignores the risk, leaping over rocks and shrubs, swinging from low-hanging branches, pushing himself to go faster, faster, faster.

There had been times in the last few months, spent locked inside the windowless bunker of a long-dead secret club, that Sam had felt as though the world could have ended behind his back and Dean and Castiel had decided not to tell him. Like maybe there was nothing left outside except for darkness and McDonald's drive-thrus. But it's here; sunshine and shades of green and birds and bugs and brightness. It's all still here.

Sam runs until he's hot and sweaty and breathing hard, giddy with endorphins and adrenaline, until his calves and thigh muscles burn and his lungs ache and a stitch starts to form in his side, then he finds a small clearing and collapses to the ground in an exhilarated heap. He rolls onto his back and watches clouds slip past the wobbly octagon of bright blue sky peaking through the tree-tops while he catches his breath.

He wonders how far he is from the lake he heard Dean mention once, or the town where Castiel is buying groceries. He wants to explore. He wants to just keep going, to keep existing out here in the world. The thought of returning to a grey concrete cage is so abhorrent that it makes Sam's throat tighten and he has to close his eyes and focus on his breathing for several minutes just to calm himself down.

Finally, Sam decides that he can't put it off any longer. He needs to start heading back. He isn't sure how much time has passed since he found the tunnel but Castiel will probably be returning from the store soon and, when he does, Sam should probably be inside the bunker, unless he wants to find out what happens when you piss off an angel. Or, maybe even more worrying, what happens when you piss off a grown up Dean.

Sighing, Sam drags himself to his feet. He brushes off the leaves and twigs that cling to his clothing and turns towards the bunker.

He almost walks right into Dean.

“Holy-!” Sam stumbles on a rock as he startles back a step. “Don't sneak up on me like that!” he demands as he rights himself, momentarily forgetting that he's in no position to make demands. He's reminded as soon as he catches sight of the look on his brother's face.

“Is that what you're planning on saying if some monster creeps up behind you?” Dean asks, his voice dangerously quiet. His arms are folded across his chest, his shoulders drawn back to reveal his full intimidating height. He sounds, and looks, like Dad, moments before the yelling starts.

“I was just-” Sam begins but Dean cuts him off, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“Just daydreaming and turning yourself into a perfect target for all the shapeshifters and Wendigos and demons out here?”

“That's not-”

“I told you to stay inside!” Now Dean is shouting, moving forward to crowd Sam's personal space, a tower of righteous rage. “No, I ordered<\/i> you-”

Frustration bubbles up in Sam's chest. “I'm sick of your orders!” he yells, holding his ground, refusing to step back. Dean doesn't scare him, even old and giant and angry like this. Sam is used to going up against John Winchester, something that even seasoned hunters hesitated to do. He's not about to let Dean bully him into apologizing for going on a run in the forest, not when Dean should be apologizing for keeping Sam shut up inside and leaving him alone all the damn time. “I'm sick of the bunker and I'm sick of you!”

Sam intends to spin on his heel and storm off into the trees but there's a blur of movement, a flash of pain, and the ground rushes up at him. His ears are ringing. He tastes blood and when he touches his fingers to his lip they come away red. Sam stares at his hand, trying to make sense of it.

When he looks up, Dean is massaging his fist.

“You hit me,” Sam realises. He's so shocked that he forgets about being angry. Dean has never hit him before. Ever. Aside from a few wayward elbows and mistimed jabs while sparring, Dean has never laid so much as a finger on him. Sam can't believe it.

Sam doesn't believe it.

“You aren't Dean,” he states bluntly, like the fact he knows it to be. Numb panic crawls up his spine as a malevolent grin spreads across the Shapeshifter's face.

“Should've listened to your brother, Sammy.”

Chapter Two<\/b><\/a><\/div>
<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43471.html?view=comments#comments","category":["family","drama","bigbrotherdean","de-agedsam","protectivedean","supernatural fanfiction","hurt\/comfort","hurtsam"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43035.html","pubDate":"Wed, 24 Nov 2021 23:27:50 GMT","title":"The Hours Between Us 2\/2","author":"mentholpixie","link":"https:\/\/mentholpixie.livejournal.com\/43035.html","description":"
The Hours Between Us<\/b><\/u>

Summary: Dean returns to an empty motel room. (Sequel to Better Off Forgotten)<\/div>

Chapter Two<\/u><\/div>
Dean doesn't mean to fall asleep. He's not sure when it happens, just that suddenly he's awake, spread out fully-clothed on top of Sam's bed, and listening to the muttering of Dad's truck pulling up outside. He jerks upright, a galloping surge of hope shattering the confusing fuzz of sleep. He's on his feet and out the door before his father even turns off the engine.

“Where is he?” Dean demands. The sun is high in the sky again and he has to squint against the bright daylight that bounces off the truck's windscreen. “Did you find him? What happened?”

Dad's shoulders are heavy with exhaustion as he drags himself from behind the driver's seat but he hitches a thumb over his shoulder towards the back seat. “I got him.”

Dean throws open the back door. Something tight and suffocating inside his chest releases and he has to brace himself against relief so strong it almost buckles his knees.

Sam is curled up beneath a thick pile of blankets, asleep, or maybe unconscious. He hasn't stirred at all but he's alive, the mound of blankets rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. Dean leans into the truck, trying to see more than polyester and messy brown hair.

“Sam?” he asks, getting an eyelid flicker in response. He looks back at his father. “Is he okay?”

Dad is scrubbing a weary hand down his face, staggering a little as he moves. “He'll be fine. Can you get him inside? I need to sleep.”

Dean wants to argue that he needs answers. He hasn't forgiven his father for taking off the way he did. He's not sure he ever will, although Sam's return has earned a certain amount of leniency. Dad has<\/i> been awake for more than 48 hours now and he is <\/i>looking kind of grey.

“Yes, sir.” Except... “Who took him?” And most importantly, “Will they be back?”

Dad shakes his head. “We're safe here.”

“And who-”

“Witches.” Dad's tone has sharpened into a warning. “I need rest, Dean. We can talk about it later.”

Something in the way Dad won't meet his eye makes Dean suspect that they won't be talking about it later but whatever happened, he believes his father when he says that they're safe now. Sam is here and he's alive and that's what matters. Maybe anything else can wait.

“Keep him hydrated.” Dad changes the subject, softening as he glances past Dean at the bundle of Sam in the back seat. Briefly, he rests a hand on Dean's shoulder, a tacit acknowledgement of the shared terror of the last two days. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something else, but then he closes it and turns away.

XXX<\/div>
Sam won't wake up enough to walk into the motel room by himself so Dean resorts to scooping him up, blankets and all, and carrying him from back seat to bed, just like he would do when Sam was a toddler.

Sam blinks slowly as Dean rearranges the blankets around him. His pupils are blown, his gaze untethered. Definitely bewitched. There's a fine layer of dust covering his face, smudged beneath his eyes, like – Dean's chest tightens – at some point, tears had washed away some of the grime.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Dean asks. “Sammy, are you with me?”

It takes a moment but Sam's attention drifts towards him, dark eyes finally focusing on Dean's face.

“Hi,” Sam says, which seems so inadequate after everything that Dean can't help but puff out a laugh.

“Hi, kiddo.” He feels giddy. “Damn, it's good to see you.”

Slowly, Sam's eyebrows knit together in confusion. “My hands hurt,” he says.

“Yeah? Let me see?” Dean helps his befuddled brother untangle his arms from the blankets, hissing when he sees the cause of Sam's pain. “What happened?”

Sam holds his hands up in front of his face, frowning at his torn fingertips like they're a surprise. “I dunno.”

Dean gently tugs one of Sam's hands closer, inspecting the broken nails and ripped skin. Sam's fingers are stained a rusty brown with old blood.

“You don't know?” It looks like – shit – like Sam tried to scratch his way out of somewhere. “Tearing up your hands like this seems like something you'd remember.”

Groggily, Sam shakes his head. “I dunno,” he repeats.

“Anything else hurt?”

“Nuh-uh.” Sam shakes his head again but Dean's not sure he can trust his brother's self-assessment skills right now.

“Give me a minute, okay?” Dean releases Sam's hand to collect some supplies; a bowl of warm water and a wash-cloth from the bathroom, a chair from the kitchenette so he doesn't have to perch awkwardly on the edge of Sam's bed, and a glass of cold water when Sam pipes up that he's thirsty.

“Careful,” he says, helping Sam to wrap his swollen fingers around the glass. Sam drinks half of it before his strength gives out and he sags back against the pillows, shaky hand pushing the glass back at Dean to deal with.

Dean sets it aside. “I need to check you over.” He doesn't wait for Sam's permission and deftly dodges Sam's clumsy attempts at fending off his manhandling, ignoring the vague mumbles of protest.

Thankfully, it seems like Sam's hands are the worst of his injuries, though his feet are torn up, too, and he's covered in... are they burns? Dean frowns at the shiny red marks. Could they be caused by magic?

Sam's energy ebbs quickly and he abandons his resistance, begrudgingly allowing Dean to inspect one of the wounds on the side of his neck.

“Aren't you going out?” he asks.

“Going out?” Deciding that the burns are minor, whatever made them, Dean turns his attention back to Sam's fingers. He'll need to clean up the blood so he can see how deep the scratches go. He hopes they won't need any stitches.

Sam watches Dean's movements with hazy fascination. “With that cheerleader,” he clarifies.

Dean pauses, a new sliver of worry raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Sam doesn't remember him leaving? He leans forwards a little, searching Sam's entranced eyes. “Do you know what day it is?”

Sam thinks for a moment. “Thursday?” he, very obviously, guesses.

Dean sits back, perturbed, and shakes his head. “Sam, do you remember anything from the last two days?”

“Two days?” Sam echoes, apparently bewildered. He raises his hands in front of his face, seeming surprised, again, by the state of his fingers. “My hands hurt,” he says, as if this thought is new.

There aren't going to be any clear answers out of Sam right now, that much is becoming increasingly obvious. “Okay. All right, don't worry. I'm gonna take care of that.” Dean refocuses on what's important, nabbing the bowl of water from the night-stand and balancing it on the bed.

“Gimme your hand,” he prompts, taking Sam's right hand and placing it in the bowl to soak. Maybe the kid will be able to tell Dean more once he's had some proper rest. Maybe whatever spell Sam's under just needs some time to wear off. Maybe Dad will be able to fill in some of the blanks when he wakes up.

Gingerly, Dean uses the wash-cloth to wipe away the crusted blood, working in silence for a while as he tries hard to be gentle. Sleepily, Sam watches the water in the bowl turning pink as each torn fingertip is carefully cleaned, obediently giving Dean his left hand when Dean motions for it.

“Are you trying to make me pee myself?” Sam asks eventually, sounding suspicious but too spaced-out to be properly annoyed, which honestly, is kind of adorable.

“Because of the hand in warm water?” Dean deduces, amused. “I think that only works in the movies, Sam.”

“Oh.”

“We could test it out, if you want,” Dean offers graciously, but Sam is already distracted by his freshly washed hand, holding it up to examine the jagged lacerations criss-crossing his fingerprints.

“Were we on a hunt?” he asks.

Sam's right hand is worse than his left but without the blood neither of them are quite as gruesome as Dean had first feared. He sets the bowl of blood-tinged water back on the night-stand and digs through the first aid kit until he finds Steri-Strips and a roll of gauze. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Sam wants to know, watching as Dean tapes and wraps the fingertips with the deepest wounds.

“It means that the hunt kind of found you,” Dean explains. “I guess some witches thought you were cute or something.”

“Some... what?” Sam wiggles his mummified fingers experimentally, looking completely baffled.

“Witches,” Dean confirms. “They probably wanted a virgin to sacrifice.”

The quip falls a little flat. It's not as funny when there's a good chance it might be true but it's worth it when Sam figures out that he's being teased and rolls his eyes, conveying a level of exasperation that he saves purely for Dean.

“Whatever,” he mutters. Then he lurches upright and throws up the half-glass of water, all over Dean's shirt.

“Typical,” Dean sighs, rubbing Sam's back sympathetically. He can't quite suppress the grin that twitches at the corners of his mouth though.

Damn, he had missed this stoned, puking kid. It's good to have him back.