Author Note: Prompt for this story came waaaaay back in September of 2015. CornishGirl had requested a fic based on the story Dean tells Gordon in "Bloodlust," the hunt when he was sixteen years old. I've been working on this on and off since - mostly off, obviously - but finally sat my butt down last week and made myself finish it.
One story told in three parts, from three perspectives. First part will be Sam, then Dean, then John.
Perspective
Part I: Sam
The way Sam sees it, if he's old enough to be left in the car when a hunt's "too dangerous," then he's definitely old enough to stay behind in their craphole, roach-infested apartment for a few hours when it's not. He doesn't really see the difference, except he'd be unquestionably safer in the apartment, even miles removed from the overbearing and overly protective shadow cast by his father. As usual, any argument he dares make is a moot point, a cause lost before he even opens his mouth to plead his case.
Two hours, tops, Dad says as he's unloading gear at the trunk. One, Dean amends, cocky and abrasive and getting taller by the day, it seems.
His father and brother have been working this case pretty steadily for a couple of weeks, and it's occupied most of their time the last two days. And if Dad is so confident that he can bag this thing tonight in only a couple of hours, then Sam doesn't really need to BE HERE. But Dad is all about the training wheels these days, so he's got them both hiking through the woods by the virtue of the moon overhead, hauling heavy duffels crammed with weapons that Sam's embarrassed to be proficient in using.
On a school night.
Sam doesn't even know what this thing they're hunting is called, and he doesn't care. There's a piece of bark or leaf caught under Sam's cap, poking him in the scalp and ratcheting up his irritation. He huffs as he adjusts the strap of his designated load, the wide strip of canvas digging an uncomfortable crevice in the soft spot between his neck and shoulder. "What's in here, Dad? Rocks?"
He's shushed in stereo, and Dean delivers a swift, light kick to the back of his knee for good measure.
Sam stumbles and whirls, glaring up at his brother. "Jerk."
Dean's lip twitches, eyes bright and excited as he waggles his brows. "Bitch."
"Boys," Dad warns, speaking up for the first time since they crossed the tree line. He's about five paces ahead of them, and Sam is sandwiched in the middle like a limp stack of deli meat.
That's how it feels, anyway. That's how it always feels. If he has to be boxed in and protected at all times, he doesn't know why he's expected to be here at all.
"Dad, it's late," he says, unable to keep the high pitch of complaint from his voice. There's been no sign of this thing. No sign of anything, actually. Just a frustratingly long stretch of cold, empty forest trail. "We've already been out here for over an hour."
"You got somewhere else to be?" Dad asks, sounding almost amused.
He stops walking and flicks a look back at Dean, who rolls his eyes and is all too eager to pay back the show of favoritism. Like he's giving up the rat, he offers, "He brought homework." He says it like it's a filthy word, which is sort of funny, considering how many filthy words Dean actually says these days.
Dad cocks his head, drops his eyes. "This is important. Lives are at stake, Samuel."
Sam's meant to stand down now, but his father's words don't carry quite as much weight as they used to. Lives are always at stake, and Sam feels like his own is on permanent hold, right as he's beginning to toy with the idea of having one. He doesn't even point out that he left the backpack in the car so he could carry the duffel, just drops the bag to the ground with a sigh and a muted clank of metal on metal. "Lives of dogs, Dad." This monster hasn't even killed a person yet, as far as they know. "And unless you want me to tell Ms. Graham that I didn't finish my assignments because of the flying monster that's terrorizing the city, I need to get it done."
Dad tips his temple, a silent concession. But of course, he wouldn't be caught dead telling Sam out loud that he's right. He bends to retrieve the dropped duffel and slings it over his own shoulder, then gestures vaguely back the way they've trekked. "Dean, walk your brother back to the car."
"Wh – Dad," Dean protests, seemingly offended by just the idea, and Sam smirks a little at the whine in his brother's voice. "You need back up."
Dad raises his eyebrows, shift the weight of the crossbow in his arms. "Then I suggest you stop talking and start walking."
"Yes, sir," Dean grumbles. He rolls his eyes one more time, just to make sure Sam knows exactly how inconvenienced he is. "Let's go." As per usual, he takes his frustration out on his little brother, grabbing Sam roughly by the sleeve of his jacket and shoving him down the path.
The walk back is silent and solemn on Dean's part, as he shoots down each and every one of Sam's attempts at conversation until he finally gives up altogether. It's eerily quiet along the path after that, and by the time they reach the car, Dean is jittery with palpable tension and worry, his fingers tightening in Sam's sleeve as he very nearly throws his brother the last remaining bit.
"Homework," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief, or disapproval. Could honestly go either way. He turns to Sam, bouncing on the balls of his feet, antsy and fidgeting. Wanting to get back to Dad. "You good here?"
Sam nods, makes a show of opening the car door and plopping dramatically into the backseat.
Dean opens the door to the front seat and leans in to pop the glove box, checking for the spare gun, a 9mm Glock that Sam can clean and load and aim and shoot. His brother nods tightly, satisfied and annoyed both, as he withdraws the weapon and leaves it on the seat for the same reason it's in the glovebox to begin with. Just in case.
There's a chill in the air but it doesn't seem to bother Dean, who's dressed for action. No bulky added weight of a jacket, just one of the Metallica t-shirts Sam's doomed to inherit. He rests a hand on the roof of the car, fingertips tapping. "Don't forget to – "
"Lock the doors," Sam finishes. "I know, Dean. I'm not an idiot."
Dean nods again. "Don't go anywhere, and don't come crying back to us if you get scared of the dark. This thing'll probably eat you." It's an empty threat, no heat at all in his words. "We won't be long."
Sam shoos him away, deciding, for the sake of self-preservation, not to point out that's what Dad said over an hour earlier. Or that Dean had been even more wrong in thinking they'd have this night wrapped up with a bow on top by now. He watches the dark blob of his brother cross the lot, waits until he disappears within the dense tree line before wrestling free his American History textbook and a compact flashlight, digs into the bottom of the bag for a pencil and flips to the page bookmarked with a folded worksheet.
Sam gives it his best shot, but ends up reading the same page a half-dozen times. He can't concentrate, can't focus on the words on the page. He'd made a big stink about having homework, but can't possibly be expected to study when all his attention is being spent straining to hear any hint that his family is in danger. An unearthly screech, maybe, or the crack of gunshots.
He checks the time on his watch, but it's only been twenty minutes since Dean left. Dad's good, but it's probably too early to be expecting them back. He chews his lip, glances up and squints into the dark beyond the windshield. He lifts the flashlight but it does no good, beam rebounding off the glass and back into his eyes. He sets the textbook aside and shoves open the wide car door, the creak sounding long and loud against the backdrop of a painfully silent night, and leans on the top of the window, keeping one leg inside the car like an anchor, listening.
A breeze audibly rustles the leaves of the trees along the edge of the woods, but there isn't a single animal sound to be heard, the area's wildlife scattered in fear or gobbled up by the monster before it decided to move on to farm animals and pets, thereby finally alerting his father to its presence.
Thunder cracks overhead without the warning of a lightning bolt, and the first fat raindrops smack the bill of Sam's cap. His tense fingers leave a cloud on the window's cool glass, and he swallows nervously.
The prolonged silence leaves Sam with a prickling sort of fear, as he waits for the cacophony of sounds that he knows accompany action and danger. He's scared for Dean, and for Dad, even though Sam knows now that his father's done this sort of thing loads of times. For years before he knew about what was really going on.
Something big swishes by over his head, and Sam panics, draws himself back into the car without closing the door. He shuts off the flashlight and holds his breath, hands shaking and heart thumping wildly. He counts to ten, then takes a breath. Counts to one hundred, then slowly straightens, peers over the bench seat.
There's nothing to see, just a damp stretch of empty parking lot. Sam opens his mouth but stays silent, doesn't dare call out for Dad or Dean. Doesn't want to give them away, or worse, draw the nasty beast straight toward him.
Another crack rips through the air. Not thunder this time.
A gun, he notes, heart pounding, head buzzing. Dean had the gun, not Dad. His brother's name is caught in his suddenly bone-dry mouth, and he swallows, feeling sick.
He scoops up the Glock from the front seat and rushes out of the car, takes a few steps toward the woods. He stands, cold and alone and feeling horribly exposed as the rain picks up into a sudden, fast downpour, and thinks he hears sounds in the distance. Another whump of massive wings, a frantic shout, a cry of pain, but he knows Dad and Dean are too deep in the woods, and it's just his imagination.
Sam stands in the rain until it peters out completely, pistol held loosely at his side, and debates how long he should wait before going back into the woods after them. There's movement at the tree line before he decides, a dark lumbering blob and glint of moonlight off the barrel of the shotgun, the bright beam of a flashlight. The light alone is evidence that the danger has passed, the monster dispatched, and he sags against the car and releases a grateful breath.
The flashlight beam bobs erratically, and when they get close enough to the car, it's obvious that Dad is limping and Dean is bloody. Too bloody for school in the morning, and Sam doesn't know why that's the thought that strikes his frazzled mind in the moment. Closer still, and Sam can tell they're both soaked to the bone, and smell like a campfire.
It occurs to him why, and he wrinkles his nose. He's happy they're both more or less okay; ecstatic, actually. But still. Gross.
Neither comments on the fact Sam is soaking wet and standing in the middle of the parking lot instead of being safely locked inside the car like he was supposed to be, or the gun in his hand. Dad just gives him a tired smile as he hauls the bags to the trunk with a stiff, uneven gait, and Dean jerks a bloody thumb over his shoulder. "Backseat, little brother."
His smoke-smelling clothes are covered with blood, a stark handprint on the chest of his shredded t-shirt, smears and tracks down the thighs of his soggy, muddy jeans. Sam wordlessly hands the Glock over Dean. His brother checks the safety – still on, stupid – and tucks it back into the glove box. As Sam yanks open the back door, he watches his brother scoop away another palmful of blood from the side of his head and transfer it to his shirt easily and carelessly, like it's sweat.
He frowns, feeling a curious, not entirely unfamiliar mix of worry and annoyance wash over him. "What's wrong with you?"
Dean just grins and shakes his head, sends a spray of rain and watery blood from his hair. "Nothin', Sammy. I'm awesome."
He's not awesome. He looks like he was just spit from a spin cycle full of knives. Beneath the blood his face is stark-white in the moonlight, but the smile seems genuine enough.
"Okay," Sam relents uneasily, flopping against the seatback. The danger has passed, and once again he's just the tagalong in the backseat.
Dad groans as he settles himself behind the wheel.
"You good to drive?"
He might look like crap, but there's a new sort of confidence in his brother's voice, and Sam's not the only one who angles an odd look at Dean.
Dad twists the keys in the ignition, shifts the car into reverse. "I'll manage." He frowns at Dean, lifts off the seat and produces a bandana from his back pocket. "Here. Try not to bleed on the upholstery."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Nice, Dad." But he's not an idiot, knows the nonchalant attitude toward their injuries is for his benefit, and Dean's. There'll be stitches when they get home, ice packs and the good painkillers Dad keeps in his room, and no school in the morning for Dean. For whatever reason, that thought lingers in his mind the entire drive back to the apartment.
At a stoplight, Dad jerks his chin toward the wound on Dean's shoulder, the obvious source of all that blood on his shirt. "Put some pressure on that. We'll be home soon."
Dean hisses as he complies, and Sam figures something to have come from this night – aside from the monster being dead – is that he'll never be forced to wear that horrendous shirt.
Continued in Part II: Dean