Summary: Peripeteia - n. A sudden change of events. Two shot.
A/N: This story is dedicated to the ever-awesome eightiswild, also known as zookitty. She inspired me to get writing on some of my old ideas and she's been an awesome beta for me on lots of stuff. Thanks, eight! And mega-thanks to Jenn for pulling out the beta to make this surprise story decent.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Spoilers up to 1.15 "The Benders." Check my profile for another disclaimer. (Announcing it now would be telling, wouldn't it? ;)
"Matter will be damaged in direct proportion to its value."
- Murphy's Fourth Law
Hillside, Wisconsin
Shiloh stifled a yawn as she walked towards the convenience store on the corner. The early-morning sun was just cresting over the rooftops of the small town, casting long shadows into the street. Shiloh waved at Patrick as the boy pedaled down the sidewalk, occasionally reaching into the basket on the front of his bike to grab a newspaper.
"Mornin', Shiloh!" Patrick called with a grin as he casually tossed a paper at a house. It landed directly on the front step.
Shiloh chuckled as the blond boy's grin turned into a satisfied smirk. "You're getting good at that, kiddo."
"Haven't hit a shrub in two weeks!" Patrick replied, bringing his bike to a stop next to her.
"I bet Mrs. Hansen is thrilled," Shiloh laughed, grabbing her paper out of the basket as Patrick grinned. She waved the periodical at his head. "Now don't forget – I'm not going to work in the morning, so I expect to get my paper on my front step, just like everyone else."
Patrick snapped a salute. "Yes ma'am!" he declared.
Shiloh swatted his head lightly with the newspaper. "Get back to work, smart aleck," she said with a smile, tucking the paper into her bag.
Patrick nodded. "Have a good day, Shi!" he called over his shoulder as he pedaled away.
"Thank you! You, too!" Shiloh replied, setting off for the store again.
Twenty minutes later, the petite redhead was pulling up the large window shades, a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner in her hand. She flipped the cardstock sign to "open" and strode back to the small counter. With a smile, she tied the strings of her burgundy apron as the door opened at six a.m. exactly, just as it had every day for the last ten years.
"Morning, Shiloh!" Ted greeted. "Just gettin' the usual."
"I know, Ted," Shiloh replied, already punching in the code for a large coffee and two donuts. "How's it going?"
"Jus' fine. Hopin' to finish that big project today," Ted boomed back as he grabbed a large Styrofoam cup from the dispenser.
Shiloh grinned. "You mean Maggie's windows?"
"Hey, that woman is very picky," Ted shot back sternly, waving a glazed donut at her. "And she nags a lot, too."
"Well, she obviously can't be too picky if she married you," Shiloh teased as the man strode up to the counter.
Ted tipped his head back as he laughed. "She must've had a moment of weakness," he replied, setting his coffee on the counter to pull out his worn leather wallet.
Shiloh smiled as she traded his five for change. "That's what we thought. Good luck with your project."
"Thanks!" Ted called back as he strode out the door, the small bell over the frame tinkling softly with his exit.
Shiloh shook her head as she took a swig of her coffee before turning. She knew it would be at least an hour before another customer walked in, giving her plenty of time to finish stocking shelves.
"Alrighty, let's do this," she huffed as she pushed the door to the stockroom open. With a grunt, she grabbed a box of soup cans off the shelf, back lurching forward as she struggled to support the weight. Shuffling her feet, she slowly moved towards the door, longing for the wheeled cart that was just on the other side but wouldn't fit through the old, narrow doorway.
"I really – need to widen – that thing," she groaned.
Suddenly the toe of her sneaker bumped into a jut in the concrete floor, and with a cry Shiloh staggered forward. The cardboard box flew forward and smacked into the wall by the door with a deep thud before crashing down to the floor. The bottom edge caught on the pipes that were attached snugly to the wall, tipping the box forward as it landed. Cans spilled out onto the floor with a clatter as the top gave way to the weight.
"Damn it," Shiloh growled, kicking at the box with a foot as she stared at the mess in front of her and the gouge in the drywall. "That's just great."
With a sigh, she knelt down and began putting cans back in the box, muttering under her breath. Her hand closed around a knob, and she stared at it for a moment before it clicked. "Perfect," she hissed, tossing the metal handle in the direction of the pipes as she resumed picking up the cans. She looked up as the bell tinkled, and with one last sigh she shot up and out of the door, leaving the mess behind.
-SPN-SPN-SPN-
"So how sure are you about this?" Dean asked, glancing over at Sam, who was poring over a small collection of Xeroxed news articles.
"Pretty damn," Sam replied, flipping a page and jotting a note down in pen.
"Seriously, though – a werewolf hit man? That's pretty far out, even for us," Dean said dubiously as he rolled his shoulders. He winced as the left one twinged painfully.
"I never said 'hit man,'" Sam shot back, glancing up with a raised eyebrow.
Dean immediately suppressed any sign of discomfort as he felt Sam's eyes probe him. "You implied it."
"I merely said the attacks weren't completely random. The victims were connected," Sam said, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned his brother.
"You mean other than the fact they were all ripped to shreds?"
Sam rolled his eyes and focused back on the articles in his lap. Dean had to work to hide a triumphant smirk. "Yeah, other than that," Sam replied sardonically. "They were all involved with a land dispute between John and Andy O'Brien."
"How?" Dean asked.
"Uh… Amy Timmer was Andy's attorney, Tyler Long was one of John's ranch hands, Paul Morris was the guy who allegedly put John's fence three hundred yards into one of Andy's fields, and Landon Perry was the son of the land surveyor," Sam recited as he flipped through the pages.
"And you think this werewolf is somehow consciously aware of who it's attacking?"
Sam shrugged. "It's gotta be more than a coincidence, Dean," he said quietly, eyes flicking back up to his brother. "And it's gotta be a werewolf – all the signs are there."
Dean glanced over at his brother again for a moment. "Well, I suppose it's better than freakin' Minnesota hillbillies," he drawled finally.
Sam chuckled dryly. "Yeah, I suppose."
Dean eased off the gas slightly as they passed the town limit sign for Hillside. "Let's grab some grub," he declared, eyeing a few diners on the street ahead.
Sam glanced at his watch. "If we grab some stuff from a mini-mart, we could make it to Amshire by dark." At Dean's look, he added, "The full moon starts tomorrow night. That'll give us almost a full day to try and figure out who might be the next victim."
"Or who our wolf is," Dean acquiesced. He readjusted his gaze to look for a convenience store.
"There's one," Sam pointed as Dean stopped at a stop sign.
Dean glanced out the passenger-side window and frowned at the dingy gas station Sam was looking at. "If I want to catch an STD, I'll do it in a more enjoyable way, thanks." Not mention he didn't really trust the looks of the motorcycle gang lingering in the lot – they all seemed to be staring straight at Sam.
Sam shot him a look. "We've stopped at worse places, man."
"And your point is?" Dean asked innocently as he eased forward again.
Sam's eyes narrowed. "You could quit being so paranoid – it's getting old. Believe it or not, I can take care of myself, Dean."
Dean didn't flinch. Barely. "Yeah, I noticed," he said flatly.
Sam chuffed through his nose and looked back out the window. "There," he snapped finally, nodding his head forward. "Does that look safe enough for you?"
Dean silently pulled into the back corner space in the parking lot of a small grocery store. Throwing the Impala into park, he twisted slightly to look at Sam. "What the hell's your problem?"
"My problem?" Sam exclaimed incredulously, a strangled chuckle escaping his throat. "My problem? Dude, seriously. You hardly let me out of your sight, you barely let me go to the bathroom by myself-"
"Well forgive me for giving a damn," Dean growled sharply. "It's not like you weren't in a frickin' cage being held by the Manson family a little over a week ago or anything."
Sam's eyes darkened as his chin tipped down slightly. "Okay, first off, the Manson family wasn't cannibalistic-"
"Really not helping your argument, Sam."
"-And I can take care of myself. Yeah, I screwed up, okay? I know that," Sam snapped. "And I get that it freaked you out – I do. But this is getting to be a little beyond excessive, Dean."
Dean's jaw clenched as he stared out the windshield at the storefront. He watched an older man guide his walker through the door as a woman held the door for him. The late afternoon sun glinted off the windows, making it impossible to see into the store. He felt a little pull at the pit of his stomach, but couldn't really figure out just what seemed wrong. "Fine. Go get the grub."
The tension flowed from Sam's shoulders as he tilted his head slightly. "That's it?"
"What, you need me to spell it out for you? Or do you really just want me to hold your hand?" Dean shot back tersely. "'Cuz you can't seem to make up your mind lately, and I'm fed up with it. Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving."
Dean regretted the barb as soon as he said it. Sam's shoulders stiffened again, and he silently pushed the door open. Dean blinked as the door slammed shut, and he watched as Sam weaved through the few other cars in the lot. The younger Winchester paused at the door of the store, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the Impala. Dean swallowed at the wounded look in Sam's eyes before Sam disappeared inside the store.
With a sigh, Dean slumped back against the seat, raising a hand to rub his face. "Well that went well," he muttered, letting his arm drop so he could stare at the ceiling. Smart move, Winchester.
-SPN-SPN-SPN-
Sam sighed as he snatched up a small basket resting near the door. He skirted past a young couple and headed over toward the small refrigerator with the deli sandwiches, his conversation with Dean replaying through his head.
Smart move, Winchester, he chided himself, shoulders slumping forward as he pulled the magnetic door open with a jerk. Convince Dean you can take care of yourself by acting like a five-year-old.
He tossed a couple turkey sandwiches in the basket. The door shut with a solid thump as he headed for the chip aisle, his forehead creased in thought.
Every time Sam thought he had Dean figured out, his older brother would go and do something unexpected. The case with Cassie a couple weeks ago was a perfect example – Sam had often hoped Dean would find someone he would like to settle down with, but he never actually thought it would happen. Finding out about Cassie had been like a sucker punch to the gut in more ways than one. It had reaffirmed the notion that Dean also longed for some semblance of a normal life, just as Sam did.
It had also proven to Sam just how far apart their relationship had drifted since Stanford. Before he had left for college, Sam would've known within a few days just how serious Dean's relationship had been with Cassie, even if Dean didn't tell him directly – they had been that close. Instead, he'd been blindsided with the information and it was more than a little disconcerting.
But, Sam acknowledged as he grabbed a couple bags of Doritos and another bag of plain potato chips, things hadn't completely changed between them. Dean still was still with him, after all, even after Sam had revealed his secret. Sam had been dreading the possibility that Dean would leave him – or even worse, hunt him down like some supernatural beast. Instead, Dean had done exactly as Sam should have expected – he'd reassured Sam and stood by him.
Of course, then Sam had to go and screw up and get Dean royally pissed at him for something he never should have reacted to in the first place – wanting to protect him. Sam had often longed for that reassurance when he was at Stanford. He'd wanted someone to watch his back, wanted Dean to be there just like he'd always been ever since Sam could remember.
He'd forgotten how smothering that protection could become, though.
Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving.
Sam ducked his head as he passed a young mother and her two boys, swallowing the lump Dean's last barb brought to his throat. Sam had thought – hoped, really, that they were past his near-trek to California.
Obviously not. Yet another curveball from his older brother.
Sam snagged a large bag of peanut M&Ms as he passed the candy aisle, casting a quick glance out one of the large windows. He winced as sunlight slashed across his eyes painfully, forcing him to turn away.
Picking up his pace slightly, he grabbed a few bottles of soda out of the cooler by the register before setting his basket on the counter, glancing around for a cashier.
A short redhead appeared a moment later, looking flustered as she approached the till. "Sorry, sorry," she panted, tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear as she began punching numbers into the old register.
"That's alright," Sam reassured, watching her fingers fly over the keypad. His eyes caught sight of the nametag pinned to her apron. "Busy day, Shiloh?"
"Extremely. And Emily called in sick, and Ernie's on vacation, so it's just me today," Shiloh replied, flashing Sam a brief smile as she started bagging his purchases.
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be. Unless your name happens to be Murphy, I don't blame you in the slightest."
Sam chuckled. "That bad, huh?"
Shiloh paused, resting her weight against the counter as she put a hand on her hip. "Anything that can go wrong pretty much has. I've still got a mess of cans to clean up that I spilled at six fifteen."
"This morning?" Sam asked incredulously. At her nod, he glanced towards the windows before shifting his gaze firmly back to her, eyeing her torn apron, the bandaged hand, and the haggard look in her eyes. "Anything I can do to help?"
"I can't do that," Shiloh protested, resuming her motions as she stuffed his chips into a bag. "I don't even know your name. And besides, it looks like you're buying food for a couple of people."
"It's Sam," he answered. "And my brother can wait. Are you sure? I haven't done my good deed for the day," he finished with a small grin.
Shiloh chewed her bottom lip for a moment as she sized him up. Finally she pointed over towards the produce area and said, "There's a box of rotten bananas under that tarp you could take out back for me. I'll let you have these for free," she added, holding up the bag of M&Ms.
Sam nodded. "I can do that," he replied.
-SPN-SPN-SPN-
Dean sighed again, the leather bench seat squeaking slightly as he shifted his body, propping his left knee against the steering wheel. He tipped his head up as he rubbed the worn steering wheel. "Why us, huh?" he muttered to the car, curling his fingers around the wheel. "What did we do to deserve such screwed up lives?" The leather squeaked beneath him again as he twisted his torso so he could drum his left hand on the dashboard, his right hand still loosely gripping the wheel as he watched cars glide down the street.
When Dean was younger, he had never really been bothered by the way they had lived – it was the way things were. As long as Sam was safe and their dad was still around, that was all he needed. Sam had done enough agonizing over their childhood for the both of them, anyway.
But when Sam had first walked out that door, the world shifted. Suddenly one of the only things that really mattered to Dean was gone with only a "You're always gonna be my big brother" to try and keep him sane.
Dean had done everything he could to keep things the way they were. He hunted non-stop, chased practically every skirt in sight, tried just about every alcoholic beverage on the West Coast – anything to deny that once again someone in his family had vanished right under his nose.
True, Sam's vanishing was much different than Mom's. It was even mildly expected – but that didn't make it hurt any less. For the first few years, Dean had attempted to keep some type of connection with Sam. And while he had noticed the quiet despair in his brother's voice whenever they had talked on the phone, Dean could always hear another voice in the background – someone would be there to pull Sam out of his funk when he hung up.
Dean had no one.
After awhile, he'd stopped calling, stopped driving by Stanford every other month, until the only times he saw his brother before Jess' death were his birthday and Sam's birthday, each time from a great distance. He'd thought that as time went on, things would right themselves, the world would fall back on its axis, and he'd stop walking around feeling like there was a gigantic piece of himself missing. After all, normal families did this all the time – sending their kids, their siblings off to God-knew-where so they could start life on their own.
But as Sam had constantly pointed out, their situation was far from normal. Normal families didn't have to put salt around all the windows and doors. Normal families didn't have an arsenal under a secret panel in the trunk of their car. Normal families didn't have monsters that stole mothers away from them. Normal dads didn't disappear without a trace.
Normal little brothers didn't have psychic abilities.
Ever since he'd snatched Sam up from the smoldering remnants of his "normal" life, Dean had been alternating between anxiety and respite. Sam being back meant Dean didn't have to watch his own back, didn't have to constantly worry about what his younger brother up to, if he was happy, if he was safe. But Sam coming back had also brought a whole new set of problems, as if life hadn't thrown enough at them.
So yes, Dean did feel some justification at his recent surge of paranoia. Sam's secret visions coming to light combined with his disappearance from a Minnesota parking lot, not to mention his near-decision to travel to California (which, granted, wasn't entirely his fault – Dean knew he had some responsibility for that, too) and their father's disappearance had proved to be almost more than Dean's already-frazzled nerves could handle.
Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving.
Dean grimaced, his left hand clenching into a fist on top of the dashboard. All his work to convince Sam he wasn't mad about Indiana anymore had flown straight out the window with that little comment. He hadn't even meant it – not really. Dealing with Sam at the moment was just so frustrating…
But, he amended as he looked to the storefront, Sam did have a valid point. Time and time again he'd proved that he could handle himself on a hunt, even when he was young. He'd survived just fine on his own for almost four years – he was a Winchester, after all. And the incident with the Benders was a fluke – near disaster, yes, but still a fluke. Both of them had acknowledged that.
That didn't make it any easier for Dean at the moment, though. He continued to eye the storefront, his grip on the wheel tightening reflexively when a large Dodge pickup blocked his view of one of the windows.
The pit in his stomach was growing by the moment, and he couldn't figure out why.
Dean's eyes darted around, scanning the people loitering around the small store. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary – just a small-town grocery store with siding that could use a thick coat of paint. A young mother with her two sons emerged from the doors, settling the youngest in a stroller while the other son chatted happily, making faces at the young toddler. Dean smiled faintly as he watched the two boys interact with each other and their mother, a faint ache in his chest as he watched the woman's blond hair flutter in the wind.
The small family was driven from his mind as the shiver ran up his spine, and he started scanning the store front again. The glare from the sun was still full-force on the windows, and there was definitely no Sam in sight. Dean chewed his lip for a moment, wondering just what was setting off his inner alarms. "Whatever," he finally muttered, easing the Impala's door open and sliding out. He strode across the parking lot towards the store, working out an excuse in his mind for why he was coming in when he knew it would just piss Sam off even more.
His stride slowed slightly, his head tilting in confusion when he saw the glare on the windows give way to a bright flash of orange light. In surreal slow motion, the glass of the windows blew outwards followed closely by a wall of fire. A split-second later, the concussion of the shockwave slammed into Dean as the sound of the explosion nearly deafened him. The hunter flew backwards, colliding with the hood of the Impala and tumbling to the ground in a shocked daze as glass rained down around him, the harsh sound of flickering flames growing louder and louder as time sped up again.
An instant later, Dean was on his feet, one hand clutching at his chest as he struggled to get his lungs to take in air. His green eyes widened in horror at the fierce flames leaping out of the shattered storefront windows and up towards the sky, a dark, billowing plume of smoke rising high over the building as the entire thing was engulfed. The truck that had pulled in front of the store had been shoved backwards several yards into a small Toyota, the deep red paint on the hood already peeling from the intense heat of the flames.
"S-Sam," he gasped as the invisible hold on his ribs finally released, allowing him to breathe again. He took a few steps forward, his eyes frantically looking for any sign of movement within the flames. The heat was intense, driving him back towards the Impala. His heart thudded painfully as terrified screams filled the air.
"Oh my God!"
"Someone call 911!"
"My wife is in there!"
A frantic man ran forward, his dark eyes wild with fear as he tried to get close to the flaming building. "Sara! SARA! Oh, God, Sara!"
Dean stared as the man was held back by a few other bystanders. "Sir, you can't, it's too late – there's no way anyone could have survived that," another man shouted over the terrified husband's screams.
No one could have survived.
"Sammy," Dean breathed, his feet stumbling forward a step. People were rapidly closing in around him as a crowd gathered, and in the distance sirens screamed.
Dean saw and heard none of it. His eyes were still glued to the flames, willing some kind of shadow, any kind of movement…
Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!
"Sam!" Glass crunched beneath his boots as Dean surged forward. He side-stepped around a woman who was trying to stand in his way. "SAM!"
Strong hands gripped his right bicep, jerking him to a halt. "You can't go in there, man!" a voice shouted in his ear, trying to be heard over the flames and the screams.
"My brother's in there!" Dean snarled, wrenching his arm free. "SAMMY!"
"It's too late, man! Don't be stupid!" the voice replied, latching an arm firmly around Dean's chest.
Dean brought his arms up and yanked the arm away. "I've gotta save him! Sam!"
"I really hate to do this, man."
Fingers suddenly crept up Dean's neck and before he could move, they squeezed. Blackness flooded his mind, driving out the one lone thought that occupied it.
Sam.
TBC...