i hope y'all enjoy this. it is based on a prompt and will be 3 parts long
2007
"So you're saying your goats are dead? Sucked dry?" Dean asks casually, and Sam hates that he can see the little grin blossoming on his brother's face.
Not this shit again.
"Uh yeah. I mean look at 'em."
Sam and Dean both turn at the farmer's instruction, and if it hadn't been chilling before, Sam certainly feels the hair on his arms rise when he sees the scene before him. Dozens of goats lay around a blood-soaked field, torn fur and skin and meat strewed all over the place. The corpses are gruesome.
"Right. Don't worry, we'll find whatever's killing your goats."
"Chavo, los cabrones ya están muertos." The farmer looks at Dean blankly and spreads an arm out towards his massacred herd.
Dean goes a little funny in the face but Sam can still see that crooked smile, plain as day. Sam grabs him by the arm and starts pulling him towards the Impala.
"We'll get back to you as soon as we find anything," Sam reassures with a fake smile but the farmer pipes up, stopping both him and Dean cold in their tracks.
"You kids ever hear of chupacabras?" The man asks, planting both hands on his hips like a bothered housewife. A little bit of wind runs through the grass at all of their feet, and Sam can feel clouds rolling in. The chills he was feeling earlier make him shiver. A sensation like spiders racing up his arms.
"Never have, sir."
—
"What's got you so worked up this time?" Dean asks with obvious disdain, folding himself into the Impala like he's done for over two decades.
"Dean, it's a chupacabra." Sam stares out the window with concentration he doesn't need. Maybe if he looks hard enough he'll forget all the memories flashing through his head.
"Well, we've killed one before," Dean says it quieter this time. With less enthusiasm. Maybe he's remembering too.
"Hm. And that was such a great hunt wasn't it? We saved so many lives, huh?"
That shuts Dean up. Sam knows he's being a piece of shit. He knows he's being an asshole.
He knows the Summer of 2000 gives him every right.
—
Remembering to forget.
It's an oxymoron, Sam thinks. It's an oxymoron and it's funny how often Sam has to put it into play. How often he should put it into play. Funny thing is, he forgets.
There's a picture in Dad's journal. It's of two little kids with dark eyes and dark hair. Sam tears it up in the middle of the night when Dean's asleep, stepping outside of the motel room to light the remaining pieces on fire.
It's arson, that's what he would say before.
It's closure, that's what he says now.
—
Dean points to a spot on a map, a road Sam can only picture as dark and twisted, thick pines shrouding each side of the stretch.
Sam can only assume that's where the chupacabra is. He can only he hope because they can't afford to be wrong again. Not when so many people have paid the price of their mistakes. He catches his reflection in the motel window. It's worn and wrong and full of hate.
"This is our best bet. Should be where the victims are."
"Right."
"Tomorrow night we go kill the son of a bitch."
"Mhm."
Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Sam shakes his head slowly, staring at his hands like they're the only thing he's got. He touches his shoulder where thin lines wind their way down like a river. It's not fair.
It should have been him.
2000
Dark hair covers her face and when she looks up and tucks it behind her ear, he sees equally dark eyes.
They're hollow and full of too much, enthralled in something only she can see.
If Sam were to look in a mirror, he's afraid he'd see the exact same thing.
He watches for a second as she swings her legs back and forth, letting heavy boots hit the washing machine with a clang. He turns back to his own machine and continues peeling off layer after layer. All his clothes have been marinated with blood, thick and coagulated. Some of its dried enough that the fabric on his jacket is rocky and almost impossible to take off, but with enough struggle, he wiggles out of it.
"I don't get it. You steal right? Just take something, we're wasting time." She jumps off the washing machine and lands on both of her feet, crossing her arms and facing him as if she wants a challenge.
"Not safe." He mumbles and licks dry lips, grimacing in disgust when he tastes blood.
"You're bleeding again Sam."
"Yeah?"
"Uh yes? Come on, this is dumb." She says, foot tapping impatiently on the ground. She's ballsy, but he can tell she's afraid of getting too close to him.
This isn't a first.
"Look, my house isn't too far away." She gesticulates towards the Impala that's parked outside the Laundromat, hand waving around wildly.
He can see the car sitting in the lot, splatters of blood on the windshield and the windows.
"Sam."
He's midway through taking off his flannel.
"Sam."
Her umber eyes meet his hazel ones. Left-over adrenaline courses through his jumped up veins.
"On second thought, we both need a freakin' shower."
This time, he's willing to listen. Dirt and blood and grime crust every inch of him, probably her too, not that he's bothered to look. He abandons his jacket and his t-shirt inside the washing machine because his flannel is what looks least bloody. There was no one in the laundromat when they came in, and there's no one in there when they leave.
They pile into the Impala and Sam can just see the door of the washing machine swinging back and forth.
2007
"I wanted to see the pyramids."
"We did see the pyramids."
"I didn't want to see innocent people die."
Dean shifts in Sam's peripheral vision, "You should have known it was gonna be a hunt. I mean come on, what were you thinking?" Dean turns the wheel sharply, pulling them into the state's national park. "Dad never once in our lives took us on vacation."
Sam barely waits for Dean to park before stumbling out of the car. He practically throws himself out, ignoring his brother's startled voice. He just needs air. Air, and something to do. He pops the trunk open and begins rifling for weapons.
"I'm sorry it turned out the way it did, I really am. But come on," Dean sighs with something akin to impatience and joins Sam at the back of the car. "What happened happened, and you can't go back in time and fix any of it."
Dean fishes out a slightly bent shotgun and picks out a wooden box from under the weapons cache. It's covered in cheap felt cloth, and when he slides it off, Sam catches a glance at the deep, scratchy carvings on the box. He almost laughs at how vividly he remembers being 17 and panicky, one hand gripping the knife so tight his knuckles went translucent. Dean quirks one eyebrow up at him and Sam lets out a shaky breath of air.
He leans back and stares up at the sky. It's bright enough for sunglasses and there's a complete absence of clouds. Like a perfectionist covered a whole wall in periwinkle blue and didn't even ask the owner of the room if they wanted it like that. Sam doesn't own the world, and he doesn't want to, but he'd appreciate it if God stopped making everything so plainly beautiful.
"Those are the shittiest runes I've ever seen," Sam says it so Dean will laugh and stop looking at him like he's a cause for concern. If anything's concerning, it's the chupacabra that took a liking to people instead of goats. Dean does laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You carved these, kid."
Yeah, Sam thinks. I did, and mistakes were made.
"They're not that bad." Dean continues, handing the shotgun over to Sam and propping the box on the dark metal of the Impala. "Hey, people used to think Picasso sucked, and look where his art is." He flips open the box and throws a hand up to cover his face. The sun bounces off the bullets and right into Dean's eyes.
Sam squints through the glare and looks at the thick silver shells. They look kind of like a western antique. They look exactly like they did years ago, luminescent and more than capable of killing the things that go bump in the night. John had said they were the most well-crafted, most gorgeous bullets he'd ever seen. John Winchester only said shit like that when someone ganked a monster so brutally, its guts were on the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting. Sam had agreed with the whole stunning bullets thing, but he's learned a thing or two since then.
The human eye is recurrently attracted to disappointment when it's disguised as something beautiful.
They trek through the state park for hours and find nothing. No trail, no missing people, no sign that a chupacabra was ever there in the first place. It's the absence of signs that's equally comforting and discomforting.
"Ok, ok this is good." Sam thumbs impatiently through their dad's journal, his leg bouncing up and down underneath the table. Dean sits across from him, slowly stirring a cup of coffee for the sake of avoiding research. Sam wants to roll his eyes but he knows he's been a piss-ant to him this whole hunt, and he's agitated as hell, desperate to find this thing.
"Explain to me again how exactly this is good for us? I know it's in that dumb state park, but wh-"
"Look," Sam slides the journal over to Dean and scoots his chair next to him, almost toppling over when the legs catch on the carpet.
"Calm down Sam, Jesus-"
"No! Look," He points an accusative finger at a page of the open journal. "This is what happened in Mexico. Your chupacabra barley left a trail, right? Well, ours-" Sam catches himself before he can say our chupacabra because, no, there's no ours anymore. He loses himself in his head for a minute, words that he should have said and actions that he should have taken piling up in the front seat of his mind. Suddenly, there's a hand waving in front of his face and Sam's snapped back to reality, the expression on Dean's face confusing him.
"Hey, what the hell? You keep zoning out," Dean accuses him, closing the journal in front of them with a loud slam. "Ever since we found this hunt you've been actin' weird, and I know what happened in Mexico really messed you up, but-" Dean takes a pause, gauging Sam's reaction.
"You gotta level with me here, man. We can't go into a hunt with you distracted like this."
Sam should see where Dean's coming from because he's making a valid point he really is, but-
Instead, all he sees is the blinding hot rage from his youth and torn up bodies. All he sees is two little kids who've been clawed to the bone and drenched in blood. All he sees is an empty Impala and no clues. All he sees is how much he didn't do.
"Distracted? Distracted? At least I'm thinking about the fucking hunt." Sam spits, standing up so fast he knocks the chair over onto the floor. Dean goes from concern to surprise to anger in two seconds flat, fists thrumming at his sides. He stays sitting, and goes absolutely still, completely taken aback.
All because he's a Winchester.
The ones brought up on resentment and violence and too little love.
And because they're Winchesters, neither of them are going to back down.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Dean's voice is low and quiet.
"I said, You don't care." Sam doesn't even get the full sentence out before Dean tackles him to the ground, throwing him so hard that his face scrapes against the carpet and his side collides with the table on their way down. He tastes blood on his tongue and rage behind his eyes so he does the only thing he knows how to do.
He fights back, tooth and nail.
A punch to the jaw.
A kick to the stomach.
An elbow to the neck.
It's crude and bloody, but Sam and Dean fight like they're each other's monsters. Sam used to pretend Dean was John whenever they sparred. Now he only sees his older brother.
—
It ends when Sam's neck hits the corner of a bed and he can't see for a few seconds. He just kicks Dean hard enough in the gut that he'll back away, then stays on the ground, crouched and covered.
Dean doesn't say anything, just gets up and backs off. He knows exactly what Sam's jumped up on now.
"What you wanted didn't fucking matter, Sam! We're hunters! We where raised hunters, you have to understand that-" Dean's voice switches from angry to desperate, a low pitch whine weaving through the broken air. He wants so bad for Sam to get this.
"We're expendable. You think Dad saw us as anything other than, than soldiers?" Dean's voice is quiet now, nothing compared to their fevered yelling. He's rubbing his jaw slowly, with all the care and calm in the world. Or maybe he's just scared of what Sam will say.
No, no, no, no, no, is all Sam can think but a voice in the back of his mind says, you already knew all of this.
Dean pads silently to the fridge and pulls out some ice, leaning on the door when he shuts it closed.
"If you think Dad gave a crap about those twins, you're wrong." Dean stares at the floor and Sam can only stay on the ground, crouched like he's about to attack something.
"Hell, he probably thought it was best that they died. I mean you killed the monster. Nothing else mattered to him."
Sam doesn't want to hear another fucking word about their dad. He knows it, he lived it, and hearing Dean confirm things he knew all along makes him feel something he can't entirely place. It's not anger and it's not surprise and it's not sadness. He gets up and grabs Dad's journal from the ground next to him, ignoring the sting of his scraped skin.
The door slams behind him, on whatever words Dean was going to say next.
2000
"Me levante hoy en la mañana y mira-" The guy waves his pitchfork in the general direction of the bloody goat trail. There isn't much left, just a few chunks of fur and muscle lying in congealed blood.
John nods, probably thinking of all the possibilities.
There's not many.
"That's what it is, isn't it? A chupacabra?" Sam looks up from the dead goats, right at the same time as John sends him a calculated look of approval. Sam thinks about the school soccer team he joined in Michigan. All the parents would slap their sons on the back after a game, all wide smiles and undeserving approval. John was two states over killing wendigos.
He flicks his eyes to Dean who's mouthing "Smartass" at him and raising his eyebrows. Sam almost says something back.
"What Sam said sounds about right. Course we'll have to look into some more of the shit that's happening around here, but chupacabra shouldn't be far off." John nods and shakes hands with the farmer who's leaning on his pitchfork as if getting all his goats eaten isn't an issue.
Sam makes a weird face and shoves a pamphlet in his hand into his pocket. He doubts the guy understood a word they were saying. Even the word chupacabra must have sounded dumb. Right before they all pile into the Impala though, John, Dean and him, the farmer covers the few short strides to the car.
"You Americans?"
Dean and Sam exchange a look and nod, not missing the way John's grip on the wheel tightens a fraction of an inch.
"Yeah," John replies curtly.
"Casan chupacabras mucho- You go on hunt for chupacabras?"
"Hunt for other things. We can handle this though."
"Careful. You end up dead."
Sam squirms a little.
"I'm good. Those kids back there?" John points to Sam and Dean, thumb sticking out at them like an accusation. "They're good. We'll be fine."
Sam really wants to laugh at that one because John Winchester throwing out an unintentional compliment? This one's new.
"Nothing we haven't done before," Dean adds.
The farmer shakes his head in annoyance and Sam recognizes it as easily as he would where it plastered on his own face. The other man doesn't utter another word, just waves his pitchfork like an admission.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
2007
Typical.
Is exactly what Sam would call it.
Their fight ends up being nothing but fists and words that at this point, bounce off like bullets. Sam can feel warm blood trickling down his chin and down the nape of his neck where the corner of the table caught him. His cheek burns and he's sure it'll be scabbed and disgusting tomorrow.
His legs carry him further and further away from the hotel and he runs like his life depends on it. And maybe it has, he's just never been smart enough to tell.
House roll out in front of him and he barely even notices. It's dead silent, the air stagnant like the impending wrath of their missing chupacabra. Sam forgets John's journal is in his hand and when he sees it, he stops running, sliding to a halt in the middle of a suburban street. The homes on either side of him look empty, deserted and cold.
They're in the middle of the desert and he's never felt closer to home.
Dean's words echo through his head and as much as he tries to forget them, every time he looks down at the journal, they burn through him again, ugly and unforgiving.
What you wanted didn't fucking matter, Sam!
He sees a bicycle lying dormant at the end of a driveway, dead grass surrounding it like an unholy halo. Sam turns back to look at the main road, then down at his feet while he listens for the familiar rumble of the Impala.
He doesn't hear anything.
Heartbeats that feel like they're in his esophagus are his sole motivator now. Sam tucks the journal into the waistband of his jeans and ignores the drums in his head. They pound out an unsteady beat of stupid, stupid, stupid. As he snatches the bike off the ground and takes a running start, he wonders if his life even begins to be worth the twins'. Dean is going to kill him if the chupacabra doesn't first.
He stands up on the pedals and takes in the largest breath possible.
After all, if you want to kill Sam Winchester, there's a line.
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