Chapter One: A Home for the Inevitable
After a hunt in Nebraska, a multiple salt-and-burn haunting, his Dad received a call. By the look on John Winchester's face at the end of said call, Dean wondered if he was going to be sent on another hunt by himself while his Dad researched their number one enemy: Azazel. There was just something that went unnervingly cold in the man's eyes, staring out at the empty road as if it were the cause of all his problems that triggered that thought process in Dean.
So he was surprised when his father, after a few moments of silence, said, "We're heading to see an old friend in Jasper,"
"Where's that? And why the sudden detour?" Dean was itching to turn his music back on, but he wanted to know more about this 'friend' his Dad had never let him meet before.
"Indiana, and I don't really know yet either," John sighed, "But I doubt its anything good, considering she called us,"
"She?" Oo, now Dean was genuinely curious. Did 'saint' John have some previous conquest? It was almost too unrealistic to believe.
"Don't get all bent out of shape, well…" John slid his eyes playfully over to his son for a moment, "Any more than you already are,"
"Ha ha. Really. I'm all smiley on the inside."
"She's just a friend that I haven't talked to since near the time I first started hunting," John said, "Her name's Amelia, Amelia Hawk."
"Amelia, huh?"
"Yeah, most of the time we just called her Mel, though,"
"She around your age?" Dean wondered aloud.
"Don't you go tryn' to set me up, boy," John snapped laughingly, "She's already married. Has been for longer than you were alive,"
"Damn. You know I've been hoping to get you dating again, trying really hard and all," Dean looked crest fallen, and dodged the slap on the shoulder that his dad nearly landed.
"Turn the radio back on, cupid phony," John shook his head, setting his course to Jasper, Indiana and relaxing under the 'soothing' notes of Metallica, Enter Sandman.
XXXXXX
It was the dusk of the second day they set out, Thursday, when they reached 590 Forest Lane in Jasper. The one-story home was apart of a small tan painted neighborhood that barely took a second glance at their '67 Impala. Dean took two seconds to assess the house, picture-perfect in a back country sort of way, and said:
"A hunter lives here?"
"Guess so," John responded. "I think the property is in the family or something."
"Still kinda weird," Dean shrugged into his leather jacket, mindful of the chill of early winter evening.
John ignored the pang in his heart at that comment. Of course this was strange for Dean; John had never had any kind of home for him since he was just turning four. He really was going to some kind of special hell for taking away his son's life.
They walked up the cement pathway to the entryway, taking moment to find the ringing button. At the ring of the doorbell, a voice came over the intercom to their right.
"Yes, who is it?" a soft female voice said.
"Its John, you called two days ago?" John answered, hoping that they had the right address.
"John! I wasn't expecting you so soon. Glad that you could make it." The door clicked in front of them. "Come in, it's unlocked now,"
They walked in and down the hallway, the warm heat enveloping them and making Dean shiver in content. The house was probably as homey as he had ever seen, lots of hanging pictures from many generations, faded rugs on the dark wood floors, craved wood archways and open, welcoming spaces.
The living room was the first room on their left. A woman with black hair that went down to her mid back with light olive skin in a white night gown lay propped up on the loveseat, a green woven blanket covering her legs and stomach. She smiled brightly at them as they moved toward her, and she gestured for them to sit at the couch across from her.
"John, it's been so long," She announced, glancing over at Dean, "And who is this handsome man?"
"This is my son, Dean," John smiled proudly as Amelia admired his son.
"Oh, I remember you saying something about a four year old you had at Missouri's," Amelia nodded in recognition. "I'd have to say he's grown up to be better looking than you ever were,"
"I'm sure that he agrees with you there," John rolled his eyes as Dean puffed up his chest in mock macho pride.
"You lookin' for a good time, sugar?" Dean waggled his eyebrows in the spirit of playfulness.
"If only I could take you up on that offer," Amelia laughed at his antics, only half kidding. A sadness over took her features, and being people readers by nature, Dean and John immediately noticed.
"I'm sorry that I didn't call just for some good company," she began, "But you probably already guessed that…"
"What do you need?" John prompted.
XXXXX
Sam drove the Ford truck down one of the back roads to his house. He had not been gone longer than a day, leaving at three am to return in time to make dinner and fix up his mother's night medicine.
Now, to say that he was usually in a happy mood after a good hunt was pushing it, because more often than not it involved a few deaths and teary-eyed people left behind a little more than paranoid for finding out the 'truth' about the real world. But when a hunt went as bad as this one…
He figured that his bad luck was going to follow him home one day and find a way to hurt his mother more than she already was. He knew that it was a pessimistic attitude, but he had tripped at just the right moment to send himself sprawling backwards down the stairs and miss his shot completely. He spent the rest of the day searching for the fast little midget of a monster that liked to steal things from people…mainly their appendages. He was so tired that he had even forgotten the name of the tiny bastard that he had salted and burned almost two hundred and fifty miles ago.
He put the annoying animal out of his mind as he pulled up to his street. Sam was weary and welcomed the sight of his home.
He did a double take at the sight of a black Chevy in the driveway. He tucked a gun in the waist of his jeans and cursed the rain that had started not ten minutes ago. It was still pouring. He ignored the water clinging to his shirt and silently opened the door, hoping to catch whoever – or whatever – it was in the act and shoot the thing to high hell.
Upon entering, he found soft conversation and his mother's easy voice among the deeper tones involved. So, they had guests. Invited guests, he judged, looking at the untriggered alarm system on the wall. He untucked his shirt to hide the gun behind his back at his waist, and strolled in.
"Hello?" He questioned as he walked into the living room and saw all three persons there jump. He smiled slightly. "What's going on here?" He directed the question to his mother.
"Oh, hi Sam. You finished already? That was quick," Their almost identical hazel eyes locked as he tried to assess what was happening, then he turned his gaze to the other two in the room. The older of the two had darker hair, trimmed very short around his face and ears, with deep brown eyes and a grisly five o'clock shadow growing on his cheeks and chin. His skin was dark and he looked to be even older than his mother, with a piercing gaze to match. The other, probably not two years older than himself, was green eyed and had even shorter, almost military style cut dirty blond hair and handsome sharp features with a clean shaven face. His eyes were just as intense, staring at Sam as if he were a car and judging if he was worth the ride.
Sam smiled a little wider. They were hunters, he could tell. "Who are they?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. This is John and his son Dean Winchester." Amelia explained, "This is my son, Sam,"
"Nice to meet you," Sam inclined his head, and John nodded back.
"They were the ones I was telling you about," Amelia ventured further, and Sam's eyes cut back to her, his stare wariness personified.
"I thought that we were going to be waiting a little longer before we called," Sam said, not even attempting to keep his tone light. By the expression on his mother's face, he could tell that she had accomplished what she wanted.
"I didn't know that they would be here so quickly," she offered weakly, followed up by a cough that just didn't relent for a good minute or so. Sam was by her side instantly, his bad mood gone in the face of his concern.
"How long have you been up?" He asked softly.
"About four hours," She blinked slowly.
"I'll take you back to your room then, and bring your dinner later," Sam said, lifting her up in his arms like she was weightless. Amelia did look a little worse for wear, though, with frail limbs and a pale face. "I'll be back in a minute," Sam said as he passed John and Dean, who watched with curious eyes.
Sam walked down the hall and placed Amelia on her bed. It was an adjustable one set up in front of a TV and beside a few diagnostics machines that the nurses used when they came to check on her. Sam stared at those a moment before saying,
"Mom…the Winchesters?" his tone was carefully even.
"John was the only one who had a son about your age and said that he was willing," Amelia sighed, putting her bed in a sit-up position.
"You know that I can hunt just as easily on my own, I've practically been doing that for a year and a half." Sam breathed, and whispered, "What if they find out? They're kind of infamous for shooting first and asking questions later,"
"Don't tell them until you're ready then, but you will need to tell them. They are both knowledgeable and well-equipped hunters; I just want you to have somebody you can rely on that knows about your lifestyle." Amelia smiled softly.
"There's Ellen and Jo," Sam pointed out.
"I was going for someone more your age and male if I could help it," Amelia laughed slightly, "Jo can't hunt without her mother there, Ellen wouldn't allow it, and you need someone at your side for those more difficult hunts,"
Sam nodded depressively. He was trying not to think about the real reason that she had called the Winchesters there to the house in the first place, why she was intent on making these arrangements.
"They've already agreed, haven't they?" Sam sighed.
"They said that they would try it out for a few hunts. John wants someone to travel with Dean while he goes off on his own to do a few things that he won't talk about, so if you're 'good' enough, I think they want this to work out as much as I do," Amelia said.
"Alright," Sam closed his eyes and composed himself; he had guests to deal with, possibly new partners. Didn't want to give off the wrong impression. That would go against one of his mother's last wishes.
XXXXXXXXXX
He walked back into the living room with a new shirt and pants on, foregoing his wet ensemble. Dean was laid back on the couch, gazing every which way at nothing in particular. John had stood up and was skimming a book from their library, an old tome on the occult that focused on demons. Sam felt strange in their presence, trying to surmise if he would really follow them after…well, after he had to leave.
"You two want anything to drink?" he asked.
"Sure," Dean grinned roguishly, "if you have beer,"
Sam nodded and looked to John, who said he would have the same. After retrieving the cans from the fridge and tossing them to the two, he asked if they had eaten anything for dinner yet.
"We didn't get a chance to stop," John admitted.
"Would you like lasagna? I make too much for just two people anyway," he offered back.
"That sounds great," Dean enthused, mouth watering at the chance for home cooked food. Especially Sam home cooked.
Wrong thought to have in your head, jackass, He berated himself.
About an hour later, after Amelia went to bed, they all sat at the table and ate dinner. They were quiet for the most part, not really sure what to say to one another.
"Is Mel sick?" John asked bluntly, wondering why his old friend looked so weak.
Sam nodded, keeping his face blank, "Lung cancer,"
"Oh…can they do anything for it?" Dean asked helplessly. Doctors were supposed to be smart and cocky, able to pull amazing feats out of their asses by the way he remembered them acting on his short trips to the hospital.
Sam looked into Dean's green eyes, for the first time, and seemed to read him like the summary on the back of a novel. Dean almost wanted to ask what he saw there.
"The lungs are basically inoperable in any given case. We've tried chemo three times, but it didn't respond." Sam sounded like he was reading a textbook; he was so used to it. The disease was eating her alive, and he had come to terms that nothing could be done; there was nothing he could do about it.
John looked down the hall to Amelia's doorway, eyes sad and a longing to go and be with her. Then he seemed to realize something.
"Where is Josh?" he asked.
Sam's eyes cut over to John, his hand gripping the table as if he were going to rip a chunk off from it. He caught the startled expression on John's face quickly, and knew that he couldn't possibly have known about what had happened. His mother wasn't exactly open with the information with friends she had had for years, why would she have told John?
"Sorry," Sam shook his head. "He left sometime when I was two. I tried to contact him when this first started, but he didn't seem to care." Sam breathed deeply, covering his wounded emotions with ease once the initial shock had left him.
John's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darkened. "That son of a bitch," He couldn't imagine leaving someone like Amelia, especially with a son.
"Pretty much what I said, with a few other choice words," Sam shook his head, and began to clear the table. The empty plates were washed in silence, no one knowing really what to say or do.
"Are you staying here for the night?" Sam broke the ice.
"No, we booked a motel on the way in," Dean answered, smiling lightly.
"Are you coming back in the morning? I think I found a new hunt," Sam said. If they were going to do this together, they might as well get it started.
"Sure, how's ten sound?" Dean suggested.
"Dean…" His father ground out.
"What? You can't blame a guy for trying to sleep in." Dean huffed.
Sam laughed. "No, that's perfect. I have to take care of a few things anyway,"
Dean did a silent cheer in his head, dancing like a player after a football touchdown. One look from his father changed that. Hunt or not, John was not going to indulge the desire to get more than twelve hours of sleep at once.
Sam bid them goodnight and checked on his mother, who was sleeping peacefully on a light medication. He pulled off his shirt and crept into bed soon after.
XXXXXXXXX
He woke up at six am, just the same as every other morning. He went for his jog, coming back at around six forty-five and ate breakfast. A shower and some light reading later, and it was time to wake Amelia at eight o'clock.
Sam had the pills in small lid with a cup of water in his hand as he watched her drift from sleep. She smiled brightly as he said good morning, but frowned at the sight of the medicine.
"I'm not feeling like it today, Sam," Amelia said, pushing his hand away.
"Mom…" he said, worried.
"The medication makes me more weak and incoherent than usual, I'd rather deal with the pain than that," she sighed.
Sam looked down for a moment, weighing his next suggestion carefully.
"I've…been practicing," he said. "I could take the pain away for a while,"
Amelia studied his features; she knew how much he was offering of himself. It was a big step toward accepting himself, accepting his heritage, and she was not going to waste it. She nodded, and he took her hand.
A rush of relief filled her, and her chest felt lighter. It was like the pain meds, but the grogginess and nausea weren't there. Amelia could not believe how different everything seemed when pain did not underline every move she made, or every breath she took. She smiled brilliantly at Sam, her wonderful and over protective son.
"You are getting better," She complimented, cupping his cheek. "So…"
"So?" Sam repeated, questioning.
"What did you think of them?" Amelia went straight to the point.
"I'm not sure yet. There is a hunt near here, about ninety miles west; we're going after it together," Sam relented.
"Show them what a Hawk can do Sam," she smiled proudly, "You're a natural,"
Sam smiled back, "I'll do my best to impress,"
"Who? John or his son?" Amelia teased knowingly.
"Both," Sam laughed. So that was the other reason for choosing a guy around his age to hunt with…
XXXXXXXXXX
Dean and John arrived ten o'clock sharp, prepared and restocked on bullets and medical supplies.
A white van was already parked in the driveway when they pulled in and parked beside it. They saw two nurses inside at the end of the hallway, talking to Sam.
"She said that she didn't want anymore meds, and I'm going to back her decision. Don't try to sneak any into her food or IV; she'll be pissed once she finds out." He told the two hospice women, and they nodded. Sam's eyes found Dean at the door.
"You two ready?" He asked, picking up the bag at his feet.
"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked.
"Jamestown, just west of here. Tell you more on the way."
XXXXXXXXXX
To say that the job of a hunter was riddled with 'usual' occurrences would be ludicrous in itself, but even a horde of vampires was pushing it for a 'normal' day's work. They were exceedingly lucky that the town was at the ass end of any important civilization, otherwise the internet would have been buzzing with reports of 'vampires r among us' shit and cult followings of Anne Rice and Stephanie Meyer would have been invading Jamestown.
So, yeah, a quiet town in the middle of nowhere could be a good thing every once in a while, especially if they weren't secretly cannibals or demonically possessed.
Sam had followed the Impala on a motorcycle, tossing his bag in their trunk with consent. He had smirked at the raised eyebrow Dean offered him and said that there was 'nothing like the open air to clear your thoughts'.
Dean, riding shotgun with the window down, was inclined to agree with him.
The hunt went well with the three of them, to say the least. Both John and Dean had watched Sam like scientists, analyzing his moves and words and how he handled himself. Dean in particular was watching his body, but caught himself often and blamed the famous Winchester hormones to the almost magnetic force that pulled his eyes to Sam's eyes or ass…or chest when his shirt sometimes mysteriously disappeared.
Those assets were the last thing on Dean's mind, however, when they were facing the pack of bloodsuckers. Sam was an amazing fighter, focused and almost frigid in his blows and slices. He knew where to hit and could even anticipate half the time how his enemy was going to move. By the time the final headless corpse fell, Dean was sure that he was going to be hunting alongside Sam Hawk, for as long as he could keep him.
And by the way that Sam was smiling back at him; he hoped that the lanky brunette felt the same.
XXXXXXXXX
The second morning after the hunt, Dean and John headed back to the Hawk house to tell the two their decision, and basically leave Dean in their care until both he and Sam were ready to travel on their own and hunt.
They rang on the doorbell and were told to come in by a distracted sounding Sam on the other side. They found him pacing, agitated, in the living room and he motioned for them to wait while he finished his phone call.
"No, Ray, that's fine," He said tightly. "She didn't want to wait. You were there when she said this," Sam had his back turned to them, so they missed the expressions flashing over his face.
"Yes - I'm sure. The body is already its way to you. Just tell me when it's over and I'll come." Sam's shoulders began to shake slightly, as if he were suppressing a scream or sobs.
"No, there's no one I need to tell. There's no one left to call," He said, and hung up without so much as a farewell. Sam sunk down into the chair, breathing heavily and holding his head up with one hand and an elbow resting on his knee. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red, and hair askew – the very picture of distress and grief.
He cleared his throat when his gaze fell on them, and mumbled, "Sorry," before straightening himself.
There was a tense moment of silence, neither of the Winchesters willing to speak, and then Sam simply said, "She passed on,"
"Mel? Jesus," John looked beside himself, breathing deeply and biting his lips before leaving the room and going outside.
Dean had been around an emotionally compromised person before, facing the loss of friends, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, lovers... He had even had to deal with hunters who had lost those close to them...
But in the face of Sam Hawk's sorrow over losing an ill Amelia Hawk, he had no words or action that he could think to give that would be enough to convey how sorry he was to see such a fighter, such a man, in pain. It was like witnessing the decent of a wounded owl, a wise warrior falling past faith and hope and succumbing to its fate.
Dean may have seen the pain and resignation of death on a hundred others, possibly live to see a thousand more, but he would never feel such an impact from a stranger again, he somehow knew.
Even in the realization of that, he could not find the reason why his hand reached out and placed itself on Sam's shoulder. Dean was not an overwhelmingly comforting guy, relationship-driven intentions or otherwise. Just take one look at his parent, and you'll know the reason for that little deficiency.
But here he was, softly gripping Sam shoulder, moving himself to sit beside the tall brunette.
The action caused Sam to lift his head slightly and turn his clear hazel eyes toward Dean. The stare wasn't blank, or overly intense with grief; instead the irises held a question that Dean would never be able to articulate, but could somehow understand and answer.
The two shared what could be called the smallest smile in the world; the only indication of the secret that they found connected them in that moment, and forever more.
And Sam's heart felt lighter, somehow more attuned to his mother's spirit than before. He could sense that she had passed painlessly, and was at peace. The weight of her impending death and ever-present suffering was gone, and Dean was there, his unwitting guide to the unsure future.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
So…what? Good start? Lame start? Like it or not?
TELL ME! Hope you guys like my first attempt at a Supernatural FanFic. I'm making another Sam/Dean one, so tell me if you want to see it too.
Criticize all you want, it gives me better ideas.