Damage Inc.
Chapter One
Disclaimer; I own nothing except Weston Smith.
The head lights of passing trucks penetrated through the cheap material the pastel pink curtains were made out of in the dive "Jack's Motel", playing shadows across the wall opposite the two twin beds in the room that was occupied only by one. Sam Winchester, the man who had paid for the room for a couple of nights while he checked out some strange accidents in town, lay in the bed closest to the door. On the bed next to his was his whole arsenal, spread out for cleaning, along with a pile of dirty clothes that he needed to find a Laundromat to clean at. After a long night of research and cleaning, Sam was tangled in his bed sheet, sleep clouded by strange dreams.
"Dean?"
Sam couldn't take his eyes off of the brother he thought had died three years ago, but was somehow sitting next to him in the driver's seat of the Impala. Dean was rubbing his hands down the steering wheel adoringly, body looking intact and just as it had before the hell hounds got to him, but he didn't show any sings of having heard his little brother. Sam couldn't get any more words to come out of his mouth, but he needed to get Dean's attention, voice be damned.
He was still struggling to form words when Dean snapped to attention, turning his emerald gaze on Sam.
"Sammy … "Dean swallowed, eyes misting over as he started to reach out, but stopped himself half way and brought his hand to rest against his thigh again. "Sammy," He repeated his little brother's name, but this time with more finality. "We need to talk."
"Sure, sure Dean, but how are you – "
"There's no time for that," Dean interrupted; face set seriously," We've got business to take care of."
Sam nodded, still searching his brother for some kind of explanation, but knowing the tone Dean was using left no room for argument. "Yeah, okay, what kind of business?"
His older brother hesitated, thinking his words out carefully. "I made a …. A bad decision, and I'm gonna need you to fix it for me. Can you do that for me, Sammy?"
"What kind of bad decision?" Sam asked, eye brows furrowed in confusion. His brother wasn't making any sense, at least, not to Sam.
"A bad one." Dean broke eye contact, diverting his gaze out the window, where all Sam could see was darkness, but Dean could somehow see more. "Look, it was a mistake. She was good for only one thing, and -" He paused again, gathering up his thoughts, before turning back to Sam. "You have to help him; it's my fault – My fault he's here, so you've got to give him a chance, for me?"
Sam found himself nodding, even though he had no idea what Dean was talking about, but the pained expression on his face was enough to make him agree. "Yeah, Dean, alright, but you're not making any sense here, bro. Who are you talking about?"
"You'll know. Just … Take care of him, okay? Take some time off from the job; settle down for a little bit as the Scotts or something until he's ready."
"Time off from the job?" The thought was incredible, something that didn't seem possible for a Winchester. "Dean, you know I can't do that, innocent lives are at stake – "
"Sam, just for a couple of years, please," Dean was practically begging," You can have that normal life you always wanted, for a little while at least, and you can train him, get him prepared."
Sam's head was aching trying to understand the conversation, but he found himself having to make a quick decision as his brother started fading in and out. "Okay Dean, I'll do it." He didn't know if he could really keep that promise, but right now that didn't matter, all that mattered was reassuring his brother before he left.
"Good, I know you'll be great at it," Dean said, while giving Sam one of his rare, non-cocky, warm smiles. "And make sure to check under the beds before you leave, alright?"
Tears were welling up in his eyes as he watched his brother's form flicker strongly before he faded away, leaving Sam alone in the Impala. He looked around frantically, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dean, but found the car empty and the space outside the car still black and full of nothing-ness.
"Dean?!"
Sam shot up in bed, heart still racing as a lone tear trickled down his cheek. He hurried to brush it away before turning on the bedside lamp, disappointed when he looked to the bed beside him and found only weapons. The dream had been so vivid – he swore he could even smell Dean, the odd mixture of leather, oil, and cologne that followed him every where. Could it have just been his mind playing tricks on him? Sam turned the light back off and settled into bed again, trying to forget about the dream and get back to sleep, but feeling a weird sensation in the pit of his stomach. Something was going to happen and his brother knew it, but what?
With a sigh of frustration, he reached over and turned the light back on. Dean said to check under the beds, so maybe there was some kind of answer down there. Sam got down on all fours, feeling like an idiot, but needing to solve this before he could get any shut eye. His eyes scanned underneath the bed, but he found nothing. He switched to the other bed, lifting the bed skirt with a grimace at the floor that must not have been vacuumed in decades, and found a lone piece of paper. Pulling it out and into the light, Sam discovered it was a gas receipt, from a station in Casper, Wyoming. Was that what Dean wanted him to do, go to Casper? Or did he want him to buy gas?
He placed the receipt on the nightstand, leaving it to study in the morning. Right now his brain needed rest, and rest it was going to get. The dream was probably nothing anyways. Or so he hoped …
SN
Since the age of five, whenever Weston Smith thought of his father a hero came to mind. Someone who saved peoples lives daily whether he was on the job or not. His dad was a firefighter by day, super hero by night, or something similar, always jobs that helped other people and animals. It was left entirely to his imagination, since his mother wouldn't, or couldn't, offer up any information on the mysterious two week boyfriend she'd had that was his father. When Weston wasn't with any of his friends, which was most of the time, he'd play pretend in his room or the park across the street. If it was a sunny day, he would fight crime by his dad's side, running in and out of the tubes on the jungle gym, but if it was raining outside, his bedroom became a jungle they were searching for some rare specie of animal that needed saving from poachers.
His mother didn't care, it kept him out of her hair on hot Texas days when all she wanted was to sit inside and have a cold can of beer. Grandma sometimes complained he wasn't socializing enough and claimed something needed to be done, but then she'd retreat back to her big house in the city and forget all about him. He was glad, though, he didn't want to be forced to play with the other kids when he could be with his dad.
So when his third grade teacher asked him to write a short essay on his hero, Weston didn't give a seconds thought on who he'd write it about, there was only one person. Mrs. Gable didn't ask any questions when he turned in his paper, at least not out right. She did give him a note to take home for his mom, but he didn't think anything of it.
His mother had just gotten off work and had sat down on her lumpy couch in exhaustion. Her son came home from school and handed her the note, something that surprised her, since her son was usually quiet and well behaved. Her brow knitted in confusion as she read it.
"Weston, you been lying to your teacher?" Mom's Southern drawl hung in the air, Weston looking back at her with just as much confusion as she felt. "Weston?"
"N-no, ma'am, not that I know of … "His eyes flicked back in forth as he racked his brain for any moment his teacher would have felt he was lying to her.
She fixed her son with a strict gaze as she spoke," Says here you made up stuff in a paper of yours."
Weston's look of innocence that he'd taken faltered and he reached for his backpack to pull out its contents. He fished around for a little bit before finding the paper he wanted, and then handed it to his mother. She read over the two paragraphs Weston had written earlier that day and let out a sigh.
"What is this Weston?"
"The essay Mrs. Gable had us write today about our hero, I thought that might be what she wrote the note about," He said, freckled cheeks turning red at the thought that maybe his mom didn't like his writing.
Mom shook her head. "She wanted you to write about a real person, boy, that's why she says you're lying to her."
"But –"
"This counts as make believe, 'cause you don't know if your daddy actually does these things," His mom said, exasperated with Weston's obliviousness.
He slowly nodded his head in understanding, suddenly feeling ashamed of himself. "Sorry …"
She sighed." Just go grab me a glass of milk, will ya'?"
Weston did as he was told. He regretted ever writing the paper, after the incident his mother wouldn't tell him anything else about his father. Even when he begged, she wouldn't give, saying she 'didn't want him filling his head with silly thoughts.'
He got used to the idea of not having a dad by the time he was in the fifth grade, even when all the other boys talked about the trips they went on with their dads and all the cool stuff they were teaching them. It wasn't until his mom packed herself and Weston up, after a man broke into their house with a gun and nearly shot both of them, and moved to Casper, Wyoming, his interest was renewed. During their unpacking he stumbled upon a picture of his dad and mom, the back written on in his mother's poor hand writing, Me and Dean 1997. By then, his mom had started using drugs as a lifestyle and he was looking for the fastest way out of the small apartment he had to share with her and her various boyfriends.
It was 2011 now, a year after their move, and Weston sat on his bed staring at the picture of the man who could be his one way ticket out of his crappy life in Casper. But that would never happen, because as much as he hated her, he couldn't abandon his mom. Someone had to make sure the bills were paid on time, someone had to keep the fridge stocked with food other than beer, and that someone definitely wasn't Mom.
Weston let out a weary sigh; he just needed something in his stomach to help get him out of this funk. After refolding the picture and putting it in his back pocket, he went over to his dresser to grab out some money for McDonalds, along with a roll of gauze and some tape. He needed to cover up the still bleeding cut on his arm before he left, the beer bottle the guy in the living room with his mom had thrown at him having got him pretty deep. Bastard. He finished taping the gauze down, then, avoiding going through the front door and drawing attention to him; Weston went out his window, which had become more of a front door to him anyway. He sauntered away from the apartment building, fist shoved into his too long pant's pockets.
It wasn't a far walk to McDonalds, and Weston's old converse sneakers knew the way by heart, so that gave his mind time to wander. The first thing his mind thought of was Dean Winchester. Damn, if he could ever get away from the fantasy of his of finding his dad, Weston's life wouldn't be so miserable. But maybe he thinks of me, too. That wasn't likely though, hadn't Mom said his dad had left before she could tell him she was pregnant? He doesn't even know I exist.
Entering the McDonalds, Weston felt relief wash over him as the smell of deep fried food hit his nose. Everything was going to be okay. He walked up to the counter and ordered his norm, a burger with extra pickles and onions, a small fry, and a small coke. He didn't have enough money to spare for anything bigger. The employee, who looked slightly stoned, couldn't get his food fast enough, and Weston found himself shifting from foot to foot while he waited. Finally the guy got it together, Weston paid, and he hurried to sit at the bar not to far off.
The moment he sat down, he had his burger in his mouth. He devoured it in less than a minute and had to hurry to take a drink of his coke to wash it down. The fries he took longer to eat, enjoying each bite now that his mysterious anxiety he got when food was first placed in front of him was gone, taken away by the burger. While munching on the greasy potatoes, if they were even made out of real potatoes, he looked around at the other occupants of the restaurant. There was a tall, kind of scary looking dude sitting two seats away from him, a couple in the booth next to the bar, and a family in the back. Weston watched the family with longing, as they all laughed and talked over their meal as if they were at home and not in some grimy fast food joint.
Maybe their home was with each other?
His attention was only drawn away from his oddly deep thought as he sucked at his drink and only air came through his straw.
"Damn," he muttered, glaring at the two fries he had left. Those were probably going to be the saltiest little suckers in the world, now that he was out of his drink.
"Need me to buy you another one?"
Weston looked up as Scary Dude spoke to him, using a surprisingly kind sounding voice. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, no one ever offered to buy some kid they didn't know a drink without some hidden meaning. But, a free coke would be nice …
He shrugged. "It's your money."
Scary Dude stood up and walked over to the cash register and ordered a large coke. Weston's eye brows rose well into his hair line. He didn't truly believe it was for him, though, until it was placed on the counter top in front of him.
"Thanks," Weston said, eating his last two fries before taking a long gulp of the soft drink. I don't think either of those had a bit of salt on them! So he'd been concerned over nothing, but hey, a coke was a coke.
"You're welcome," Scary Dude said, taking his seat again. "Hey, can you answer something for me?"
Weston shrugged, again, in response.
"Why aren't you with your family?"
His family?
Those words made something snap inside of Weston, and before he could stop himself, the water works began. The only person I can consider real family doesn't even know I'm alive, and probably doesn't care! Tears and snot mixed together as they ran down his face, and he felt like such a girl for it, but he couldn't stop himself if the world depended on it. He tried to hide his face from the man next to him, but he could still feel his eyes staring at him, and Weston considered standing up and running out of the place. The only thing that stopped him was the comforting hand Scary Dude put on his shoulder, and he couldn't help but lean into the touch. No one had ever cared, and even if he didn't know this guy and even if he could be some total creep, Weston was going to take advantage of his compassion for the time being.
SN
Sobs racked the kid's shoulders. Sam wondered what he had said wrong, but for now, he just kept his hand on the boy in reassurance. He did cast a nervous glance around the store to check if anyone was watching, but finding no one was, relaxed. It was a few minutes before the kid was calmed down again, and Sam offered a napkin to wipe his face off with.
"You okay?"
The kid gave a small nod, taking the napkin from Sam with a look of gratitude. With his hands and the napkin positioned like he was about to blow his nose, Sam barely caught the words he said under his breath.
"I didn't want to be a stupid Winchester anyways."
Sam's eyes widened. "What did you say?"
He looked up with confusion. "What?"
"What did you just say?" Sam asked again, this time louder.
"I … I didn't wanna be a Winchester. Why does it matter?" He spoke, his accented voice now nasally and jumbled sounding.
"Why would you say that?" Sam's brow was furrowed in concentration, half because he was trying to understand the kid and half because he felt a light bulb go on in his brain, like this was it, this was what Dean had been talking about. This couldn't be a coincidence, Sam had a feeling in his gut it wasn't.
"Why do you care?"
Sam tried not to sound demanding as he spoke again," Please, just tell me why you said that?"
"My dad, Dean Winchester, left me with my mom, who really sucks, and I wanted to find him, but now I don't want to because he probably doesn't care 'bout me anyways," he explained, and Sam's jaw nearly dropped to the floor.
"Oh my god, you're him," Sam said to himself in awe. This was who Dean was talking about, his son! This kid was a Winchester, and he was in trouble so that meant as the last remaining Winchester, Sam had to help him - Wait, Dean had a son, which meant Dean was a Dad. Did that mean Sam was an uncle? Sam's mind was spinning, but he had to pull himself together, because the kid (Dean's kid!) was giving him a strange look. "What's your name?"
"Weston Smith," he answered slowly. "Why are you asking me all of these questions?"
"I'm Sam Winchester, Dean was my brother."
"Can I see some ID?" Weston didn't trust him, and it was evident in the red rimmed look he gave him.
Sam dug around in his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a driver's license from his Stanford days, one he kept hidden, but always close. It had his real name on it, a rare occurrence, and now he was especially glad he'd kept it. He held it out for Weston to inspect, who took it and looked it over scrupulously.
Now that Sam looked closer, he found Weston had similar features that Dean had his early teenaged years; the fading splatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a sleek, but naturally sturdy body build, and sparkling emerald eyes. His hair was different, a deep brown that was almost black, and his face had a softer shape to it, but the rest of the kid screamed Dean.
"Well?" Sam asked expectantly.
Weston handed the license back. "I think I believe you."
"You think?"
He chewed nervously at his bottom lip, but gave a firm nod in reply to Sam's question. Sam was glad they'd taken care of that, but what now? He couldn't just ask Weston what was wrong in his life that would make Dean visit Sam from the land of the dead, could he? They sat in silence, staring awkwardly at each other.
"So … Wanna go to my house?" Weston asked, breaking eye contact with Sam to look out the window of the restaurant. "You can meet my mom, I guess."
"Sure," Sam said, getting up from his chair and heading for the door, Weston following a few steps behind. "Mind going in my car?"
Weston stopped in front of Sam's beast of a car, eyes darting from it to him. Finally, he shrugged and walked to the passenger side, getting in once Sam unlocked the doors. Sam put the key in the ignition, jumping to turn the volume of the music down once the Impala had started and Motorhead started blaring through the speakers.
"Sorry," He said as he backed out of the McDonalds's parking spot.
"No problem."
The two were silent for a moment, until Weston cleared his throat nervously. "You won't … Y'know, tell anyone about – "
Sam shook his head. "Consider it forgotten," he said, and then partly to change the subject, and partly because he needed to know, asked," Where am I going, exactly?"
"Oh yeah. Go down this road for three traffic lights, than turn on Clement Street," Weston directed, sounding relieved, but still slightly distrustful.
Sam couldn't blame the kid, he barely believed himself. God, an uncle … He guessed this was bound to happen, with all of Dean's messing around, but now? And on top of that, he had to go meet Weston's mom, who Dean had told him plain and clear was a no good tramp. Wish you were here Dean, would make this a lot easier.
"So, how old are you, Weston?"
"Thirteen."
"You look older then that," Sam said absently, turning on to Clement Street at the same time an old Cadillac came speeding down the road, peeling out in front of an on coming car before disappearing down another street. The windows were tinted, so Sam couldn't get a good look inside, but judging by the area, this was probably a normal happening. Still, something about the car unsettled him.
"Everyone says that," Weston said before pointing to a shabby apartment complex on the left side of the road," That's it."
"Which one?" Sam asked as he pulled into the driveway that led to the parking spots in the back of the building.
"Four," Weston said, waiting until Sam had parked and then exiting the car.
Sam hurried to catch up with his nephew, who was already at the front of the building with his key withdrawn. He reached Weston just as he stopped in front of the door with the large number four on it. Sam was confused as to what was stopping Weston from entering, until he realized the door was ajar and a familiar odor was coming out of it. It was the odor of blood, lots of it.
"Wait here," Sam said, pushing passed Weston and into the apartment.
a/n: Well, there's the first chapter. The second one should be up next Thrusday.
Thanks for reading!