It was a great first date, all the way up 'til Tyler and Rachel realized that something was following them through the park.
They'd gone to see Crash and Burn at The Trope –Tyler's roommate was in the band – then to dinner at an Irish pub near Barnstable Park.
After stuffing themselves with corned beef sandwiches, chips and Guinness, neither had been ready to end the night. As the October night was cool, but not cold, they decided to go for a walk through Barnstable.
The two had a lot in common – both were in their freshman year at Stanford, both loved music, and both were surfers. They laughed a lot, talked a lot, mutual sparks of attraction zinging back and forth between them – so yeah, great night, until Rachel looked over her shoulder at a sudden noise and saw something big duck behind a tree.
She stopped, jerking Tyler to a halt beside her. "What was that?"
Deep into a story about how he'd been given a "C" in Creative Writing because the professor didn't appreciate stories about transgender circus performers, Tyler looked back. "What?"
"I'm not sure." Her eyes strained into the darkness, saw nothing but shadows driven by the full moon. "I thought . . . Never mind. It was probably nothing."
Embarrassed, she took his arm again and they went on, hips bumping companionably. Tyler dove back into his story and in moments Rachel was laughing again, the incident forgotten.
Until a few minutes later when, during a short gap in their conversation, there was a sound from off the moonlit path. Something that sounded like a growl.
They looked at each other.
"Probably the wind," Tyler said. "Or a squirrel."
A slight frown marred Rachel's kewpie doll prettiness. "I'm pretty sure squirrels don't growl."
They walked on, conversation desultory now, both of them focused on the trees around and behind them.
A few paces on, another throaty growl whispered through the night.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the leaves rustling in the trees.
It wasn't a goddamned squirrel.
"Tyler . . ." Rachel's eyes were wide.
Looking into her frightened face, Tyler knew she was seconds away from running. Pushing down his own fear, he put a restraining arm around her waist and started her walking again.
"Stay with me. Don't run," he said. "Dogs will chase you if they know you're scared."
She nodded jerkily. "You think it's a dog?"
Hell, no. "I used to have a dog," Tyler said, smiling reassuringly down at her. "Got him when he was a puppy."
Another growl.
"Oh, really?" Her voice was a little high. "What was his name?"
"Max. He was a Great Dane mix, weighed about a hundred pounds. Total pussycat, though."
"That's nice. We never had d-dogs. My mom was allergic. We had cats."
"He died a couple years ago. I still miss him." Tyler lowered his voice. "We're okay. The street isn't too much farther."
Rachel managed a small smile. Her hand clutching his, they moved toward the faint light just beyond the trees ahead.
It happened fast.
Something howled behind them, a terrible, rasping cry that brought them both to a stunned, terrified halt.
At the same moment, a tall young man plunged out of the bushes ahead of them, a determined look on his face and a gun in his hand.
Tyler and Rachel stared at him, mouths agape. Moving quickly, he ran toward them and in seconds was shoving them up the path toward the street, now visible through the trees. "Run! Run!"
They ran.
Behind them they heard another howl and a shot, then another shot and a scream, edged with pain.
At the sound of the cry, Rachel started to turn back.
Tyler grabbed her. "No!"
"We have to help him!" she protested as he dragged her forward. "Ty!"
Tyler kept moving, kept her moving. "We have to get the hell out of here," he said grimly. "Then we'll call the cops."
Tears starting down her cheeks, Rachel gave in and ran on, praying that the cops would be in time to save their unknown rescuer.
((((((((((((((((((((
"Mr. Winchester?"
Sam roused and jerked upright in his seat. Blinking he looked toward the front of the classroom and met the irritated gaze of Mr. Mitchum.
"Am I boring you, Mr. Winchester?"
Since the truth wouldn't get him anything more than a ticked off teacher and a crappy grade, Sam shook his head, trying for alert sincerity. "Sorry."
The professor held his gaze for another stiff-lipped moment, then turned back to the white board.
Sighing, Sam kept his gaze focused on the front of the room, though he was too exhausted to understand, much less retain, any of the teacher's crushingly boring monologue. Instead, he focused on all the ways he'd managed to fuck up the night before.
One: He'd gone after what he'd suspected was a werewolf. By himself.
Two: He'd nearly gotten those two kids killed. If he was gonna be stupid enough to hunt a werewolf by himself in the first place, he should've found a way to get between the monster and its prey long before it got to the point of attacking.
Number Three: He'd missed his damned shot – just winged the damned thing - and then managed to let it get away, which meant it would probably be back out there tonight, the last night of the full moon - wolfing out and going after another human smorgasbord.
In addition, the two kids from last night had reported the attack to the police. He'd heard on the morning news that the city was placing a couple of mounted policemen in the park until the animal was caught. He'd have to step lightly to stay out of their way and at the same time make sure they didn't end up dog chow.
He yawned, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, the teacher's drone a faint buzzing in his ears.
He should have called someone. Not Dad, no. John had hung up on him the last two times he'd called. And Dean? Talking to Dean – that was just too damned painful.
But Bobby Singer or Caleb? Pastor Jim? Any of them would have come. At the very least, they'd have found someone who could come.
So, why hadn't he reached out for help before it was too late? Anyone he called now wouldn't get here in time to beat tonight's moon.
What was he trying to prove? That he was still a Winchester?
An eon or so later class ended and the students emptied out into the busy hallway.
Beyond exhausted, Sam decided to skip his last class and head back to the dorm to get some sleep. If he went out there like this tonight, that werewolf was going to have him for dinner, along with the two mounted cops and anyone else unlucky enough to be out there.
Man, would that piss his dad off or what! He snickered, tired enough to find that hysterically funny. The great John Winchester, all of his dire predictions come true - his failure of a younger son killed by a monster!
Then Sam thought of Dean and it wasn't quite so funny anymore.
It was time to get smart. If he couldn't find the monster tonight, he'd call Pastor Jim. Since tonight was the last full moon, Jim would have a few weeks to get someone on the job before the monster went hunting again.
Decision made and conscience clear, for the most part, he made his way through the crowd to the dorms, intent on food and sleep. On the steps of his dorm house, a blond tornado hit him and his arms were abruptly full of warm, snuggly girl.
"Sam!"
Sam Winchester smiled into Jessica Moore's blazingly blue eyes. "Hey, Moore."
"You look like crap, Winchester." She planted a fond kiss on his cheek.
"Thanks a lot. Hit a man when he's down."
"Are you? Down?" she asked, half-serious.
"Nah, I'm fine. Just didn't get any sleep last night."
"Midterms?"
Sam's cat-eyes crinkled in a smile. "Yeah, midterms."
"They're kicking my butt, too. Especially McAllen's. I swear, that man totally has it in for me - " She broke off as the door behind them opened and a trio of laughing young men pushed past them.
Rolling her eyes, Jess took Sam's arm and guided him to the side. "A couple of us are going out to CoHo's tonight," she said, beaming up at him. "Want to come?"
Sam shook his head. "I'd like to, but . . ."
She was disappointed, but smiled and poked him in the chest. "This is the third time this week you've blown me off, Winchester. Not trying to tell me something, are you?"
Seeing past her smile to the uncertainty, Sam dropped his bag to the ground and lifted her up in a huge hug, her long legs dangling just above the ground.
"Don't be a dork, Moore. You're still my girl."
Jess giggled as he rubbed his unshaven face against her cheek, then whispered into his ear, "Guess what?"
"What?"
"I did it!" she said triumphantly.
It took him a minute to get it, then he put her back onto her feet with a grin. "Seriously? You asked Mike out?"
"This Friday. We're going to the Dink."
"That's great, Jess," Sam said sincerely. "It's about damned time. You've been drooling over the guy all semester."
'I know." Jess glowed with happiness. "I finally decided it was better to ask and get turned down than not to ask at all."
"Oh, come on," Sam scoffed. "Like he'd be stupid enough to turn you down."
Jess blushed, then eyed him, hesitating. "Did you think about what I said? About Ben?"
Sam sighed. Yep, should've seen that coming. "Jess . . ."
"Come on, he is seriously hot!" She groaned with exasperation at his stubborn expression. "Sam, you haven't been on a date since you got here! You need to relax, live a little! Get laid!"
Sam had told her about Dean in a weak moment a few months before. Not the brother thing, just that he'd been through a bad breakup. He was regretting it now, as she had since then made it her mission in life to see that he got over "that son of a bitch", as she called Dean.
"Sam – " she said, exasperated.
He put a quieting finger over her lips. "No matchmaking, Jess."
"But just this once, can't you –"
He tried a stern glare which was ruined by an unexpected and jaw-cracking yawn.
Jess gave him a mock scowl. "All right, no matchmaking. For now. Go on, get some sleep and I'll talk to you later. If you change your mind about tonight, come on over to CoHo's. It's Thursday, so there'll probably be a band."
"If I can. See you later."
He watched her bounce happily away and then turned and trudged into his dorm, thoughts already on the coming night's hunt.
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
Two a.m.
So far, not a sign of the wolf.
Sam had quartered and searched the park twice. No sign of the beast. No sign of anyone except for the mounted policemen mentioned on that morning's news.
It was possible that the werewolf had moved on for this last night of the full moon. It would be a break in pattern, but this wolf was off pattern anyway. So far it hadn't even killed, hadn't done much beyond freak a few people out, which was confusing.
Did that mean the beast wasn't interested in killing – hard to imagine - or was it new to the hunt and slow to learn?
Whatever the story, he had to end it now, before its willpower eroded or its skills improved, because sooner or later it would kill. They always did.
It grew cold. Some time after three a.m., Sam heard a howl, not too far in the distance. It was full and haunting, a wild sound. Not a sound any domesticated dog was capable of making.
A shudder ran over him at the sound. Shoving down the sudden flutter of nerves, he re-checked his gun, then moved off the path and further into the trees, working his way toward where the howl had seemed to originate.
Soon, another howl. Definitely closer.
He slowed his pace as the light from the moon grew dim among the thickening trees. Eyes flicking side to side, a quick circle to check behind, his ears strained for any whisper of movement.
There was a furtive rustle in the bushes about twenty feet ahead. Sam stopped, eyes searching the shadows. A short growl raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
The bushes moved again and started to part. Sam took a breath and raised his gun. At this distance he'd only get one shot. There would be no second chance.
Any second now.
With a rush, something burst through the bushes behind him. Heart in his throat, Sam started to turn, knowing he was too late, he was dead, he'd fucked up, oh -
"Sammy, down!"
Familiar green eyes and a voice he'd been conditioned to obey for as long as he could remember had him dropping to his belly before the command had even died from the air. A loud report slammed his ears, followed by a scream of pain and the thud of a body dropping down beside him. Then a second shot and a low cry, followed by a gasping wheeze.
Silence.
Heart pounding, Sam turned over. The werewolf, now an elderly man clothed in nothing but his own blood, lay dead at his feet.
Dean stood over them both, staring down at Sam incredulously.
Speechless, Sam stared back, then automatically stuck a hand up.
Dean reached down and roughly pulled his brother to his feet.
"What the fuck, Sam? I mean, what the actual fuck!"
"Dean?" Emotions too numerous to quantify stormed through Sam. "What are you doing here?"
Green eyes blazing, Dean gave Sam an angry shove. "Is that all you've got to say, you little fucker? What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Temper flaring, Sam shoved him back. "I'm not a kid, Dean. I was doing fine," he bit out, "until you decided to jump out of the bushes at me –"
"You asshole!" Dean cut him off. "I just saved your ass!"
Sam sneered at him and the two faced off, glaring at each other.
"Damn it, Sam - !" Dean snapped his mouth shut. "We gotta clean this mess up before those mounties show up. We can talk later."
"And we will," he added, practically vibrating with repressed rage, "you can be damn sure of that!"
He thrust his gun back into his pocket, bent over the corpse and grabbed it under the arms. "Well, come on! We can't burn the bastard here!"
Mouth tight with resentment, Sam grabbed the corpse's legs and the two hunters bore away their bloody burden.
After disposing of the body, silence rode with them all the way back to Palo Alto.
Sam didn't even suggest going back to Stanford. The temper had drained out of him, pretty much, but the conversation ahead of him wasn't one he wanted to have his fellow students in on, even peripherally.
Dean must have felt the same, as without discussion he drove back to the motel that he'd checked into earlier that day, to a room so like the many shitholes they'd stayed in over the years, Sam's intervening years at Stanford might never have happened.
Tossing his coat onto the bed, Dean shot a last glare at Sam and then disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The force of it shook the walls and drew a pounding protest from the room next door.
Sam, even after two years absence, was well-used to his brother's histrionics. Rolling his eyes, he dropped onto the bed and listened as Dean banged around the tiny bathroom.
When the shower finally kicked on, Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to get his tired and extremely over-taxed brain to think.
Holy crap.
Of all the ways he'd imagined tonight might end, Dean crashing his hunt hadn't even made the freaking list. He hadn't seen his older brother in two years. Hell, hadn't even spoken to him since that fight they'd had six months ago. And now Dean was fucking here and all the bullshit Sam had told himself for the last two years about being over him was proving to be just that.
Bullshit.
Dean was here.
Why?
A dozen reasons for why Dean could be here flashed through him, each more ridiculous than the last. Sam thrust a nervous hand through his hair.
The reason he wanted Dean to be here wasn't possible, wasn't going to happen. Best to just leave that in the past where it belonged.
Had Dean been looking for the wolf and just happened to come across Sam in the park? Possible, but that would be a pretty damned big coincidence, and it didn't quite ring true.
So what, had Dean been following him? Had Dad sent him?
And where the hell was he?
Not with Dean, that's for sure. If John Winchester had been anywhere near this mess, you'd have been able to hear him scream from here to the Mexican border. Hell, further.
No, John was off somewhere on another hunt, leaving Dean on his own, and as much as that usually pissed Sam off, this time it suited him just fine.
Exhaustion dropping down on him, Sam stretched out on the bed with a yawn that had him aching for sleep. He'd had almost no rest this last week and the mattress, lumpy as it was, was calling his name.
But no, much as he needed it, sleep would have to wait. He wanted to talk with his brother. He wanted to hear what Dean had been up to the last couple of years. Wanted to tell him about Stanford, erect some kind of bridge over the chasm between them. He didn't want another two years to go by without seeing his brother.
Sam heard the shower turn off and he turned his eyes toward the bathroom door. A few minutes passed but Dean didn't come out.
Sam yawned again and closed his eyes against the glare of the overhead light.
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
The low-grade headache that had been following Dean around all day was slowly but surely working its way up to a major bitch fest.
Once out of the shower, he dug into his duffel and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. With a grimace, he knocked back four tablets, then washed the bitter taste down with a handful of water.
Typical fuckin' Sammy, he thought sourly. Come here to bury the hatchet and what do I get? A face full of thanks for nothing.
That werewolf had been all set to tear Sam's head off. But would his brother admit that? Hell, no! As usual, he was all 'I don't need any help. I can take care of myself.'
I don't need you, Dean.
He tried to ignore the annoying little voice of reason that stuck its oar in, yammering something about Sam maybe not being the real dumb ass here, and started to dress.
Damn it, he hadn't come here to fight. In fact, considering the real reason he'd come to Stanford, he'd have done pretty much anything to avoid starting a fight with his little brother.
But seeing Sam alone in the park tonight, nothing but a gun between him and that damned monster . . .
Dean's fists clenched. He drew in a deep breath, struggling to get the image of a bloody and very dead younger brother out of his head.
Yeah, a fight was probably – definitely - on the bill.
But when that was over, they could move on to other things. Dean had made mistakes in the last couple of years, he was ready to admit that, they both had, and it was time to make things right.
Ready for battle, literal or otherwise, Dean opened the door and stepped into the outer room, then stopped in surprise when he saw Sam sprawled out on the bed.
"Sammy?"
Sam didn't move. Face calm, head canted slightly to the side, breath moved slowly in and out as he slept.
Eyes fixed hungrily on Sam's face, Dean moved to stand over him.
Damn, he looked good. Tired, but good. He'd filled out, not so gangly as when he'd left for Stanford. Earlier, in the park, he'd towered over Dean and, from the look of him, he'd been working out as well.
And that damned shaggy hair! His mouth quirked in amusement. Unable to stop himself, Dean reached out. His hand hovered tentatively over Sam's head for a long moment, then retreated. He sat down beside his brother.
He'd almost lost Sam for good this time. That werewolf could have torn him to shreds and Dean would never have known.
He'd have gone on thinking that Sam was safe in his normal, stupid little world, and in reality his brother's remains would have been scattered on the wind, or buried in a stinking hole. Sam would've been gone, dead, and his last chance to make things right with him would've been gone as well.
Dean's eyes burned. Sinking down on the bed beside his brother, he grieved for all that had been lost between them, and the black hole his life had become.
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
When Sam woke, the only light in the room was that from the open bathroom.
Groggy and confused, he raised himself up on his elbows and saw Dean sitting next to him on the bed. They stared at each other for a long minute.
Finally broaching the silence, Dean said, "I don't get it. You left 'cause you didn't want to hunt anymore, but - here you are."
Sam flushed. "There was no one else around," he said defensively.
"You could've called Bobby or Jim. Or me."
Sam's eyes cut away.
Dean tried to ignore the hurt that small movement caused. "I thought you were safe in school and you're out there trying to get your head ripped off."
"I was fine until you snuck up behind me," Sam protested, stung.
Dean's temper flared. "It could have been the werewolf sneaking up behind you! That's why you don't hunt alone, damn it!"
"You're hunting alone," Sam pointed out.
Dean looked at him. The kid is so fucking stubborn. Just like Dad, just like Dad.
"Fine," he said suddenly.
"Fine?"
Dean's mouth quirked at the surprised look on Sam's face. "Yeah, fine. You're okay, so all's well that ends well and all that crap."
Sam stared at him in disbelief. "Who are you and what've you done with my brother?"
"I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time. Beating you up for being stupid is gonna have to wait."
Sam bristled and Dean raised his hands placatingly. "All right. All right. I'm done."
"What did you want to talk about?" Sam asked.
Dean hesitated. He'd been working up to this for a long time. Here it was, finally, right on top of him, and he wasn't sure he could even get it out.
Sam was very curious now. "Dean?"
"Sam, I'm not trying to pick a fight, but – I wanted to talk to you about why you left us."
Sam's eyes widened and Dean went on hurriedly. "I know you wanted to go to school and you never liked hunting, but – we were pretty tight and I thought - " he trailed off awkwardly.
Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked around the room as if looking for an answer. Then, "You're kidding, right?"
"Sam – "
"Tight? Tight?"
"Sam, if you don't –"
"Oh no, you asked. You asked." Sam was suddenly and completely furious. He gave Dean a grin that was anything but friendly. "You want to talk about why I left? You know damned well why I left, brother." His voice was heavy with insinuation.
Blood surged up into Dean's face and then drained away.
"Dad had nothing to do with why I left, Dean. Hunting had nothing to do with it. You're why I left!"
Sam ignored the stricken expression on his brother's face, years of anger and pain spewing out of him. "The summer Dad left us in Elko was the best time of my fucking life. You and me. You and me, Dean. Then Dad comes back and you – dump me. 'We can't, Sam,' 'It's wrong, Sam.'" The mimicry was accurate and vicious. Dean winced.
"You take away the one good thing in my life and I'm supposed to be okay with it? You start fucking every woman that comes within ten feet of you and I'm supposed to be okay with it?"
"You were a kid," Dean protested weakly.
Sam snorted. "I was sixteen, Dean. I hadn't been a kid in a long time, if I ever was. I knew what I wanted. You wanted it, too. You were just too chicken shit to –" Sam stopped, breathing hard. "Damn you, Dean. Why are you bringing this shit up?"
Dean stared down at the worn carpet. When at last he looked up, he said, "I saw you yesterday morning, with that girl."
Sam was bewildered. "What girl - Jess?"
"She's beautiful," Dean's mouth was dry. "Are you in love with her?"
"In love -" Sam's mouth was agape. "With Jess?"
"You looked - close. Do you love her?"
"Dean, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I know you're mad at me and I deserve it." Dean swallowed. "I let what Dad would think scare me into giving up the best thing I ever had. I hurt you and I'm sorry."
Sam's face was slack with disbelief.
Dean rushed on. If Sam told him to go fuck himself, at least he'd know. "Sam, would you – oh, fuck it, would you give me a second chance?"
Sam seemed to be incapable of speech. He stared open-mouthed at his brother, unable to compute what Dean was saying.
Pain sparked in Dean's eyes. "I'm too late," he said softly. "You do love her."
"Dean. . . what? "
Dean tried to ignore the knife in his gut. He blew out a shaky breath and gave a lopsided grin. "That's okay, Sammy." He looked around, saw his keys on the table and walked over to snag them. "I'll give you a ride back to your dorm." He started for the door, not looking to see if Sam were following.
Open-mouthed, Sam stared after his retreating brother. Then his eyes narrowed and he shut his mouth with a snap.
"You jerk!" He ate up the distance between them in a rush and pulled Dean back around. "Jeez, you dump something like that on me and expect me to just – gimme a minute to catch up!"
Dean tried to get his game face back on, tried not to look like his entire life was hanging in the balance. Tried not to hope. "Uh, how long do you think you'll need?"
Sam grabbed Dean by the shirtfront and laid a kiss on him that seemed to short circuit his brain, judging by the glazed expression in his eyes when Sam finally let him go.
"So . . . you don't love her," Dean said at last, his voice faint.
Sam grinned. "We're friends, that's all. She's hot for a guy on the track team."
"Oh." Dizzy with relief, Dean pulled Sam in for another kiss.
"Wait, shit, Dean, what about Dad?" gasped Sam.
"Screw Dad."
"Ew!" Sam snorted out a laugh. "Two words never to use in the same sentence."
Breathless, Dean pulled back, just a bit. "Sam, wait - what about school?"
Sam shook his head, smiling faintly. "School was always just a substitute for you." He traced a finger over Dean's face, skated over the familiar freckles, lingered on kiss-swollen lips. "I don't need it anymore."
"That's just what I wanted to hear." Dean kissed Sam, tasted him, a contentment he hadn't felt in years settling over him. "Sam."
"Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"It's Sammy."