warning: language is inevitable in the not even trying to avoid it sense.
A/N: this should be relatively short, no more than three to four chapters and I have but one left and it is already in the final stages. translation being that this will not be withheld for a month, but completed in perhaps the course of several weeks. enjoy and please, my god, review to keep me going!!!
need to know: this is to buy your time until chapter ten of Gone, which should be up while you await chapter two of this brandspankingnew humdinger of a fic(okay, thats stretching it a bit, but I happen to enjoy tinkering away inside my boys' heads and completely and totally go there in this one), is finally released. I cannot begin to tell you all how truly sorry I am for taking so goshdarn hacking long to even go near the thing. excuses are like noses though, everybody's got one, and that includes me. short version: I was busy with summery plans of craziness that involved little of the interior of my home or computer access, a bit of recent stress due to the school year sneaking up on me as of late, and the fact that I totally crashed, burned, and had a meltdown of a writersblock that caused me to hate and fear the stupid story and totally stole my motivation. two words being it sucked. hard.
thanks for helping me find my muse by the way. you guys know who you are. glompsyouall
also: when I see that someone added a story of mine to their alert but didn't voice an opinion, I'm a little bit saddened. please let me know how you feel about what I write if you take the time to read it. cool? cool.
Chapter One:
"It's not fair."
Dean, one arm hung in the sleeve of his jacket, turned to face his lanky little brother Sam. He raised an eyebrow before shrugging the worn coat over both shoulders and abandoned his search for car keys to saunter toward the sullen teen. "What's not fair?"
Sam shuffled his feet, a tinge of red coating his cheeks. Dean wasn't supposed to hear that.
"Nothing."
Dean hummed as if in deep thought, obviously not in the mood to discuss Sam's personal vendetta against what was and wasn't fair.
Sam continued to stare at the floor, hands wrung behind his back. A mop of lengthy brown hair hid his downcast hazel green eyes. He was tall for his age, maybe an inch, two at the most, shorter than his older sibling who sported equally green eyes and short, dark hair.
Dean was back to hunting keys, full attention lost. "If it's about the gig –"
Sam groaned, interrupting Dean's droning voice. He plopped into a creaky stool and rested his head against the cool countertop separating the minuscule kitchen area from the living space that consisted of two queens and an adjacent bathroom. It was nice compared to most rat holes they stayed in, but it wasn't anywhere close to a home either. Just another motel on the road to wherever the hell it was they were going.
"I'll take that as a yes," Dean mumbled, retiring from his search of the mattress to grope behind the television.
Sam grunted in response, already tiring of his brother's inability to have a genuine conversation. And yet he couldn't fight the way his lips turned up at the ends or find the right reasons to open his mouth.
"Look," Dean pursued the conversation with bleak interest. He went to his knees to look beneath the crack between the television stand and the floor. "I get where you're coming from, I do, but –"
"But," Sam muttered loud enough for Dean to make out before turning away from him to stare down the counter. There was always a 'but,' wasn't there?
"But," Dean continued, a hint of irritation and something else in his voice; sympathy maybe. "I still think Dad knows what he's talking about."
"Right," Sam breathed, too weighed down by the swarming emotions to put much thought into what he was saying. Because Dean always thought for himself, made up his own mind, and took Sam's side, right? Sam's mouth twitched eagerly to form a scowl. He couldn't think of anything further from the truth.
"Come on, Sam." And now Dean was standing, gawking around the room as if the nightstand had something better to say. The nightstand however, didn't voice a word of it and Sam and Dean were alone in the confined space of a motel room awaiting the return of their father. He raked a stool away from the counter and took a hesitant seat next to Sam.
Sam shot him a look but didn't respond. He didn't really have to.
Dean rested his head in his hand, elbow against the table. "It's not like he doesn't think you can do it, he just doesn't think this is the right time to start."
Sam glowered, turning his head to plant a hard glare before once again focusing his rage on the countertop. "You were younger than me your first hunt," he shot back. It wasn't that Sam really wanted to begin a life of hazardous, completely unrewarding labor against all things supernatural so much as he was tired of being utterly useless. Lately he was tired of everything; tired of researching only to be told he couldn't lend a hand; tired of grating his teeth without knowing what was happening to Dad, to his brother; most of all he was sick to his stomach of watching them come back covered in bruises, never knowing if next time they wouldn't be able to come back at all. But for all Dean knew, he wanted a piece of the action and not much more.
"Yeah, and that was a model success, wasn't it?" Dean grinned, a look of mild amusement spreading across his features as he thought back almost six years to a time when he was twelve and Sam was as obnoxious as eight year olds came.
Sam opened his mouth, felt his throat tighten, and closed it again. Dean's first hunt had been the furthest thing from a success than he thought physically possible. He didn't understand how Dean could find a shred of humor in the memory of spraining a wrist, nearly puncturing a lung, and breaking three bones in the course of a single night. He shuddered, remembering the way Dean had failed to contain the pain. He could still hear Dean screaming when he thought about it.
"Point taken," Sam agreed. "But I'm almost fourteen and it's gotta happen sooner or later." He stole a quick glance to Dean. That might have been a little unnecessary to point out but hopefully it was affective enough.
"Not with a shapeshifter it won't." Dean shot down that sliver of hope before Sam could take another breath. "Not your first anyway," Dean grinned, hoping to alleviate some of Sam's anger.
"What difference does it make?" Sam hissed, dropping his head to his folded arms in resignation and distaste. Everything was dangerous and nothing was less of a threat. He didn't have to say it for Dean to know it was there.
Dean's smile faltered a little. He turned his head, hiding his face from Sam. "Good question." His voice was smaller than usual, almost defeated.
Sam should have recognized the declining barriers surrounding his brother, should have jumped at the chance. He would regret dismissing it; because that's exactly what he did. "Yeah, it was." He waved his hand in an obvious sort of way. "So why can't this be the first? Better now than later when I'm less prepared."
Dean swiveled to face Sam, his own expression unreadable as ever. He narrowed his eyes as if sizing up what Sam was really capable of. He squirmed. "No." Dean was out of the chair and investigating the second mattress in a single stride. It was as if the conversation had simply never occurred.
Sam opened his mouth, ready protest being completely ignored, when the familiar sound of a motel keycard being inserted reached his ears. He slumped in his stool. His only chance of convincing Dad was convincing Dean. He remained hunched at the counter, pondering ways he could prove himself for the next hunt to keep his mind off the impending possibilities of this one.
One argument, a found set of keys, and half an hour later and they were gone.
Sam sighed in the way only stubborn thirteen year olds bent on conquering every form of rebellion they could possibly manage could and let his head connect with the counter.
"It's not fair."
---
Dean shrugged the heavy duffel off his shoulder and into the open trunk, unfazed by the amount of weaponry crammed into the small space, and closed it with a resounding thud. He turned to rest against the cool metal of the Impala and took to examining the peeling red paint of the ground floor door that led to their motel room. He released a breath, content to watch it billow in the chilled February air.
"What difference does it make?"
Dean stared openly at the door, trying to distract himself with the way the number had swayed to an odd angle against the contrasting wood. That wasn't a fix likely to be on the top of anyone's to-do list. And people wondered why cheap motels get so cheap in the first place. It's only a matter of time.
"It's gotta happen sooner or later."
Damn, Sammy was persistent. He licked his lips to ease the dry bite of wind.
Screw it. Dean stood, unable to keep his mind from the unavoidable and made his way to the driver side. Dad had actually loosened his ass long enough to give him the thing and had insisted on taking separate vehicles since. He clicked his tongue, impatient, anxious, a twinge of adrenaline already upon him. A final click and a grunt informed him that John had finished reloading his own gun; silver bullets were apparently the trick. Shapeshifters. The world really was fucked. He slid into the seat, starting the engine with a steady hand and soaring spirits. God, he loved this car.
"It's an antique," Sam barely lifted his head from the passenger window, a lazy grin across his face.
"It's style, Sammy," Dean shot back, a look of disgust marring his features.
"No, it's junk," Sam corrected calmly, resting his head back against the window, "recyclable metal waste and nothing – ow!"
Dean smirked. His car, a waste? Sam was a waste. The smile faded as he pictured Sam sitting next to him, about to face a shapeshifter or some other form of evil that could inflict bodily harm. What difference did it really make, anyway? Who's to say a shapeshifter is anymore more dangerous than your average casper cranked up from friendly to malevolent? Dean grimaced, angry at himself for being so distracted. Dad was already clearing the parking lot and he was sitting in a cranked car visiting memory lane and taking a trip to the future. He wondered vaguely why Sam had a habit of claming up just when Dean needed to hear his voice and never shutting up, even inside his head, the very moment he needed to get away. He eased away from the motel, mind set on relaxing in preparation for what was coming.
He took a left, tailing the black GMC to the tiny town's personal monster. He needed to focus, that's what he needed to do. Being distracted by stupid things like nerves is what gets you killed. He screwed his face in contempt. Were nerves for what would undoubtedly happen really that stupid? He knew Sam would have to come along one day, knew he couldn't keep him away from hunting forever, but somehow didn't expect it to come so soon. Dean wasn't even sure that Sam really wanted to, just knew he should, that one day he would. Then again maybe it was the way he always looked up, a touch of fear in his sleep deprived eyes as he tried to steal a once over for injuries when he thought neither Dean nor Dad were looking every time they returned from a hunt. Maybe it wasn't something Sam was looking forward to, but something he needed. Dean had been there, had stood in those too-tight sneakers past midnight, waiting out Dad and praying he'd beat the call from the hospital. At least on the hunt you knew what was happening, maybe even had a chance to stop it. He felt a pang of guilt when that information didn't change his mind. All he could think about was how badly things could go wrong and how easy it was to fuck up and have someone get hurt. Or die. He blinked once, twice, and shook his head. He needed to focus.
But he couldn't get the image of Sam with his own broken bones riding shotgun, just waiting to make it back to the next motel to get stitched up and pass out.
He bit back the fear that came along with that image. He needed to focus. He had to focus.
---
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