What's the most important Winchester rule, Sammy?
Always watch the darkness.
Why?
Because it's always watching you.
Exactly.
--
Sam studied the ceiling in the small motel room as the words ran around and around in his head. Glancing over at the calendar next to his bed, he rechecked the date for about the thousandth time as if he could somehow magically make it go backwards.
Fat chance.
He sighed and refocused on the ceiling again. Dimly he could hear the sounds of his father in the bathroom and he knew that his brother would be returning with breakfast shortly.
Of course that was assuming there were no cute waitresses anywhere around in which case the 20-year-old might not be back for a while.
The door to the bathroom opened and his father walked out. As he did, Sam got up and began to walk in past him. John grabbed his arm as he passed and said, "Sam, are you all right?"
Flashing a grin at him, Sam responded, "Of course Dad. I'm fine."
Gently pulling out of the older man's grip he walked into the bathroom and pretended not to see the concerned way his father watched him go.
He knew he had them both worrying. It was sad really, they were both worried about him because, for the past month, Sam had been NICE.
Not a single fight with either his father or brother, complete and total obedience to everything that was asked of him, no complaints about being forced out of school to go on hunts, no comments about being uprooted and moved, no requests to be involved in any kind of school activities. If Sam was asked to go run an errand he dropped whatever he was doing and did it; if Dean wanted to spar or wanted Sam to take over weapons cleaning that night, Sam did it; if John wanted extra training, Sam did it.
Both men were fairly well convinced that Sam was possessed by something and he'd already overheard both of them on the phone with other hunters trying to find out what it could be that would cause a normally obnoxious adolescent to suddenly become the perfect son.
They'd also both started twitching awake at night when he so much as sneezed as if expecting Sam to go homicidal at any moment.
Really, it would have been funny if it weren't for the cause behind it.
--
The overall day went better than he'd expected.
They were between hunts for the moment, a rarity, and John had decided they all deserved a break.
A miracle.
They went out and spent the day sightseeing, actually sightseeing. Okay, so most of it involved local gun shops, cemeteries and reportedly haunted houses but, still, for them it was the closest thing to an actual vacation they'd ever had. And they did it together which, for Sam, was all that really mattered.
Not that his father and brother knew it. They were still worried of course, both men stayed close to him and Sam didn't miss the concerned glances Dean cast at him from time to time. Sam remembered when he had thought Dean was annoying, always hanging over him in an overprotective, smothering kind of way. Always following after Dad like a puppy on a leash, being tossed a bone every so often and behaving as if the world had been handed to him on a plate.
He remembered when he had been angry at his father, so incredibly angry that the older man was never there, that he put so much on Dean, that Sam could never seem to be good enough for him, that his father couldn't understand why Sam wasn't thrilled at the prospect of taking up the lifestyle his father had chosen for him instead of a life he'd choose himself.
Sam didn't see either of them that way anymore.
Dean loved him, he was his protector and probably more of a father than John Winchester had ever been. Dean had been his first word, the one he ran to when he fell or skinned a knee, the one to take him to and from school, the one who covered his back on hunts and who never abandoned him no matter how pissy Sam might act.
And his father loved him as well. Sure he might not be perfect, heck Sam KNEW he wasn't, but he was sure better than most. He'd protected them, KEPT them when it would have been so much easier to have dumped them off somewhere. He'd taken the time to train them and teach them, trusted them enough to bring them along on hunts, made sure they had food and clothing.
Why had it taken him so long to see that?
An arm fell across his shoulder and he flinched, so deep in reflection he'd nearly forgotten where he was and who he was with.
"You okay Sammy?" Dean's eyes and voice were full of concern, ahead of them by a few steps John also had stopped to look at them. Sam smiled for both of them, an expression that stopped well short of his eyes, and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, just spaced out for a second there."
Neither one believed him but there was little they could do about it.
So they went on and Sam wished he could have back the time he'd lost.
--
The day ended far too quickly.
Before he knew it, they were back at their small, dingy motel room in one of the worst sections of town. As the day had progressed, Sam had begun to feel the fear creeping into his body. It had started at the base of his spine, a cold sensation that had coiled there and bided its time. He knew it well enough by now for it had reared its ugly head multiple times over the last month. Each time it would eventually force its way to the forefront of his mind, remind him what was waiting for him. The event would usually leave him gasping on the floor of some bathroom somewhere, trying desperately to get the tears and the shaking under control before his Dad or brother found him there.
It was a slower burn on that particular day. Maybe, over the course of the last month he'd learned to accept it, learned to deal with it.
Or maybe it was just so terrible that his mind was shutting down, unable to physically cope with the reality.
So the fear coiled and eventually, as the light slowly started to fade, it started to move. Lifting up and wrapping around his spine, easing its way through muscles and sinews and spreading a sense of coldness through his body.
He took the first shower hoping it would take away the cold, knowing it wouldn't.
Taking the first shower was unusual, or at least it had been for the past month, but neither Dean nor his father said anything. Once in, he cranked the water on as hard as it would go and huddled against the shower wall, his face in the corner as the water cascaded over his head and back.
His body started shaking and he clenched his fists in front of him and tried to control his breathing, tried not to break down sobbing right there.
He was such a freaking coward.
The shower was over far too quickly, everything was over far too quickly, and Sam stepped out. He got dressed in a loose pair of black sweats, socks, and a gray t-shirt. Looking in the mirror he could see he'd lost weight, causing the clothing to hang on him just a bit. At 16, Sam was in that stage of life where his height had shot out of control so fast that his body had yet to catch up to it. It pissed Dean off to no end that he and Sam were already the same height with Sam showing no signs of stopping and he made it a personal mission to call Sam as many different forms of "beanpole" or "stickman" as he could think of. John just laughed and cautioned Dean that when Sam's bulk finally caught up he'd probably be physically stronger than Dean and quite capable of kicking Dean's butt.
Personally, though he'd never admit it out loud, Sam doubted that could ever happen but he supposed they would never know now would they?
Looking in the mirror, Sam studied his reflection and steeled himself. If only he could make his hands stop shaking.
After a moment, he reached over and opened the door. Walking out he saw his Dad sitting against the headboard of one of the beds writing in his journal while Dean cleaned one of his guns at the table. Considering the fact that he'd been cleaning his weapons nearly every day for over a week now, since they'd really started getting worried about him in fact, Sam knew the action was a sign of the stress Dean was feeling. Stress Sam had put on him because Dean knew something was wrong and Sam wouldn't tell him what it was.
In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, it didn't take long for Sam to convince Dean to go play pool at the local bar AND he even managed to do it so that Dean thought it was his own idea.
Sam was a good manipulator, especially when it came to Dean and he had long ago learned that he could get Dean to do just about anything if he really put his mind to it, oftentimes without Dean even realizing what was going on.
As soon as Dean had walked out the door, Sam leaned against it from the other side.
"So, are you going to tell me what that was about?"
Leaning his head against the closed door and not turning around, Sam answered, "What what was about?"
"The blatant manipulation of your brother? Why don't you want him around?"
Staying where he was, Sam said, "How long do you think he'll be gone?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued with "Probably hours, more if he finds a girl he likes."
Pushing off the door he walked over to the table and idly picked up the gun Dean had been cleaning. Being the efficient control freak he was, Dean hadn't left before ensuring the gun was completely cleaned and properly reassembled.
Sam took a deep breath and walked over to where his father sat on the bed. He held the gun out and, after a moment, the man took it with a confused look and sat it down on the bedside table.
"Sammy?"
The next move was a total shock for it wasn't something John had had from his son in probably close to ten years and it CERTIANLY wasn't something he'd have ever expected from a 16-year-old. Pushing aside his dad's journal, Sam climbed into the man's lap, wrapped one arm around his waist, fisted the other in his shirt and then laid his head against his father's shoulder. John hesitated, startled, but then carefully wrapped both arms around his son's waist.
"What's wrong kid?"
"I didn't watch," Sam responded quietly.
"What?"
"I screwed up," Sam said and now he started to cry and blast it all but he hadn't wanted to cry. He hadn't wanted his father to see him so weak.
Turning his head, he buried it in his father's neck and said, "I screwed up and I'm a coward and I didn't want to do it myself and I didn't want to hurt anyone and I didn't want other hunters doing it either."
Around his waist the arms tightened and in one part of Sam's mind it felt like the iron bars of a cage.
"What are you talking about Sam?"
His father's voice had grown quiet but he still held him and, somehow, that made it all right.
What wasn't all right was the sound of his brother's key in the doorway.
Trust Dean to forget his wallet on the one night his brother needed him to go away and stay away, at least for a while.
"Sammy?"
Keeping his face in his father's neck, refusing to look, Sam said, "Go away Dean. Just leave."
He was openly sobbing now, his words garbled, and of course there was no way in hell Dean was leaving him like that. He came over and sat down on the bed next to their father and behind Sam's back and started rubbing his brother's back in familiar motions, similar to when Sam had been a child and had woken up from a nightmare.
Except this was no dream and Sam wouldn't be waking up from it anytime soon. He wouldn't be waking up from anything soon.
"Sam what is it? Talk to me."
That was his father's voice and Sam shut his eyes. He'd gotten rid of Dean because he knew Dean wouldn't be able to do it and, what's more, it wasn't his place to. Dean was his older brother, not his father no matter how much he might take care of him and when it came down to the ugliness and harshness of life Sam had wanted to spare him this burden at least. His Dad would understand, Sam knew he would, that it was his responsibility as his father and as a hunter.
It was probably the only thing that had made it bearable the past month, knowing his father would be there to do it for him, knowing he could trust him to not let Sam down.
He really hadn't wanted Dean here.
It was getting dark; he needed to tell them now before it was too late.
He managed to stop crying, or at least reduced it to sniffles and ragged breathing, lifted his head and rested it back on his father's chest, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the door.
If he ran he'd never make it to the parking lot and that thought actually relaxed him somewhat. They would take care of him; he could let it all go, finally. The fear and worry and panic of the last month, it was all about to be officially out of his hands, he could simply let it go.
"I didn't watch."
"What?"
Still staring straight ahead, Sam said, "A month ago on that werewolf hunt in that National Park, it turned out to be the park ranger of all things. Dean and I split up and Dean tripped and fell over that slope and got knocked out."
Neither his father nor his brother said anything and Sam continued, "When Dean woke up I said I had fallen as well trying to get to him because I was all scratched up and it was true, sort of, I did fall down the slope. I fell down the slope because the werewolf attacked me and knocked me down."
His father stopped breathing, Dean's hand stopped moving.
Sam didn't stop talking.
"I wasn't watching because I was worried about Dean so I didn't see it until it was too late. I managed to get it off but not before we both fell down the slope and it clawed me up pretty good." He had spoken the entire thing in a flat monotone and now, his voice dropping to an absolute whisper, Sam said, "I think it bit me."
There was no movement, no sound in the apartment for such a long time that there may as well have been three dead bodies in the room.
When his father finally did speak, his voice was thick and Sam couldn't bring himself to look at him for fear he would lose it once more himself.
"Are you sure?"
"No," Sam whispered, "But it was all over me, I can't imagine it didn't. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I'm sorry I wasn't watching."
His father said nothing and Sam knew he was thinking back to the hunt, trying to remember all the cuts, and injuries sustained by his youngest son. Dean had actually been hurt worse and had wound up in the hospital for a while with a nasty concussion. It had been John who had eventually killed the werewolf and then gotten both his sons out of the small gorge they'd fallen into. With all the cuts, bruises and scrapes that Sam had had it would be next to impossible to tell what had come from the werewolf and what had come from rocks and branches on his way down.
It would be impossible.
--
"Sam."
It was Dean's voice and, as he spoke, he reached over and grabbed Sam's arm.
"Come on," he said shakily, a strange panic in his movements and voice, "You know you didn't get bit. Let's go grab a drink somewhere and catch a movie or something."
Dean wanted him away from their Dad. Pulling out of his grasp, Sam clung tighter to his father and said, "No Dean."
"Sam."
"NO," Sam repeated and they both knew he was right. What was Dean going to do, build him a dog cage and carry it around in the back of the Impala? Get him a leash for his time of the month when he went homicidal and tried to kill everyone in sight?
Everyone including them?
Sam didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all them.
"You should probably tie me up."
John ignored him. Instead he shifted his position on the bed, moving one leg up so it and his knee supported Sam's back while his son's legs were still across his other leg on the bed. He adjusted his grip around Sam's waist and then simply leaned back against the headboard and pillows. Sam went with him obediently and relaxed against him. He could change at any moment and endanger both his brother and father and yet he couldn't seem to bring himself to move. On the one hand he didn't want to hurt them or anyone else, ever, and on the other he didn't want to leave them or have them leave him.
Ever.
Maybe he just believed in the ability of his family to be able to stop him without being hurt themselves.
Maybe he was just being selfish.
Dean's hand was still on his back, moving once more lightly and Sam tried to ignore what sounded very much like Dean crying.
Dean never cried.
Glancing up at his father finally, Sam said, "Dad?"
"What is it Son?"
"Do you think," Sam hesitated for a moment and then forged ahead, "Do you think if something happens, if it's possible, could you wait for tomorrow? I want to be able to say good-bye and I kind of waited last minute for this so…"
His father shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard for a moment.
"We'll wait Sam," he whispered, I promise.
"Okay," Sam replied, "Thanks."
He put his head back down on his dad's shoulder and closed his eyes, a strange feeling of peace stealing over him. The fear and worry and stress of the past month seemed to leave and a haze settled over him. Dimly he heard the sound of his dad talking to Dean but he shut it out, not wanting to hear what they had to say to one another. He did hear Dean on the phone at one point, vaguely recognized he was talking to Pastor Jim, and wondered what the conversation was about but he didn't say anything.
There wasn't any more to say.
At least not yet.
--
When Sam opened his eyes the next morning he was surprised. He hadn't thought he would be able to sleep through his last night on Earth nor had he really expected to ever be opening his eyes again.
Of course it didn't mean anything, his father had promised and the fact that Sam had opened his eyes could mean anything.
He was still in the same position he'd been in the night before, his father's arms still around him. Glancing down he could see Dean stretched across the foot of the bed, his head pillowed on their Dad's foot.
That had to be uncomfortable.
He looked up and saw that John was watching him, a tired look on his face.
"You never turned Sam."
"What?"
The arms around him tightened and his father smiled, actually smiled at him.
"You never turned."
The weight had been with him so long and had been so heavy that Sam had grown used to carrying it around. So used to it, in fact, that when it lifted from his shoulders he actually couldn't process it for a second, couldn't understand what his father had said.
It felt as though he'd been strapped down in the electric chair, the warden's hand on the switch, only to suddenly hear the ringing of a telephone.
A moment later he broke down.
Burying his fact against his father's neck, and grabbing hold of his shirt, Sam Winchester sobbed as he had never done at any other time in his life.
At the foot of the bed Dean woke up, his mind trained to the cry of his brother even in sleep, and he immediately crawled up and wrapped both arms around him. The combined weight of both his sons about crushed John but he didn't say anything nor did he comment on the fact that it wasn't just one of his son's crying.
They weren't the only ones crying after all.
--
They stayed the entire length of the full moon cycle, right until the very end, just in case. Each night John and Dean would take turns watching over Sam as they had done the first night and each night Sam would fall asleep with the security of his father and brother on either side of him.
Nothing ever happened; Sam had dodged a bullet in a very real and literal sense. He hadn't watched, the darkness had come and, somehow, had missed him. His father and brother never said a word about it, never commented on his screw up in allowing the werewolf to get a jump on him or the fact that he failed to mention it for a month.
The gun his brother had been cleaning that first night vanished, never to be seen again, and they never went on another werewolf hunt. When word came through of one John would simply pass it along to another hunter and they would leave it behind. Sam knew that it was because of him but he couldn't bring himself to ever say anything about it.
He never wanted to be so scared again in his life.
It would be years later that he would find his father and brother had called every hunter they could think of that night in an effort to try and save him, just in case it turned out he had been bitten. They called Jim as well and simply asked the man to pray, not something the Winchesters ever did and a testament to the fear they'd felt at what could happen to Sam.
The next time they'd seen Jim the man had commented on the fact that if every person were allotted a certain amount of miracles in their lives then Sam had definitely used all of his in that one incident and shouldn't expect anymore.
Those words would come back to him years later when he watched his best friend burn to death on a ceiling, when he stood over the body of his father and screamed for help he already knew would be too late, when he pointed a gun at the head of a woman he'd loved and pulled the trigger.
Sam had used up all his miracles and wouldn't be getting anymore.
And as he watched the countdown on his brother's life begin and as failure after failure began to mount up and point increasingly toward a hopeless future Sam could only wonder why fate had seen fit to save him and condemn so many others.
And wondered if perhaps this, after all, was his punishment for not watching.