Five Times the Winchesters Were Werewolves
by Katikat
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the CW and Eric Kripke. No money is being made here.
Notes: Can you tell that I love werewolves?
John Winchester had never longed for a pack. He had never wanted to run with the others, to howl to the moon. For John, the lycanthropy was a curse. After the wolf-like creature had mauled him back there, in Viet Nam, he almost swallowed his gun.
But he learned how to live with it, giving in to his nature only when the moon was full and shone brightly in the dark sky. When there was no other choice.
Sam was a lot like him, detesting the unnatural state of their being.
But Dean's heart and soul belonged to the wolf.
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John had hoped that his children wouldn't inherit the curse and for five years nothing strange had happened, the boys remaining human children at all times, no paws nor tails surprising their unknowing mother.
But then the demon came and killed his Mary and suddenly, John had his arms full of a crying infant and a squirming, howling, inconsolable puppy.
For a whole month he begged and pleaded and cajoled before the puppy turned back into his Dean again, but since then, his eldest had never been the same, never forgetting the warmth and freedom of running on four legs.
---
Sam never understood Dean. He never understood what was so alluring about looking like, and behaving like, an animal, sprouting paws and teeth and fur and a tail once month, let alone undergoing such a change under his own volition almost every night, sleeping curled up on the bedcovers, nose tucked under a bushy tail.
Honestly confused, he asked his older brother one night before shutting off the light. Dean raised his great silvery head, his sad eyes trying to express what Sam would never understand.
Being a werewolf meant having a pack, a family and never being alone.
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The dry grass rustled and swished softly under the great paws of the silvery white wolf as he padded up the cliff. The night was clear and so bright.
Dean threw his head back and howled, the sound so heart-breaking that every living creature stilled.
They had left him. His little Sam… his Dad… He had lost his small pack, the pack that nobody cared for but he. And the emptiness his reluctant pack mates left behind was tearing his soul apart.
And so he sang all his sorrow to the moon. To the only friend who was willing to listen.
---
Sam never liked shifting. He never shifted voluntarily, never enjoyed the feeling, the freedom.
But when Dean curled up on the bed covers in the cheap motel room, his failing heart forcing the change upon him, Sam didn't hesitate.
Shedding his clothes, Sam surrendered to his wild side, shifting. He hopped on the bed and pressed himself against his shivering brother who watched him with hooded, pain-filled eyes. Sam felt Dean's heart flutter weakly and he nuzzled his brother, whining softly and cooing soothingly, hating his own helplessness and this sickness, the enemy that his sharp teeth couldn't tear apart.
The End