Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever on Supernatural of ANY of its wonderful characters.
Prologue: The Winchester House
Tyler moved quickly up the sidewalk. The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the sky with a mixture of both warm and cool colors, such as red and violet, which reminded him strangely of a painting he had seen once in an art museum. The beauty of the setting sun, however, was not enough to mask the ominous feeling that hung in the air of the neighborhood that night. At around a hundred feet from Sam Winchester's place, Tyler saw Sam standing on his front porch, unlocking the front door. Tyler almost called out to his friend, but before he was able to, Sam opened the door and a large, hairy arm pulled him inside and the front door slammed shut. Well, he doesn't seem too happy, Tyler thought, grimacing, before prowling, silently, over to the yellowing lawn of the current Winchester household.
After about fifteen minutes of trying to hear what was going on by putting an ear to the front door, Tyler was surprised when he heard a loud bang come from inside. The boy's heart skipped a beat and dread filled his chest. Out of pure luck, he sprinted off the porch to hide in the bushes at the same time a tall man, about 6'1, with combed, short black hair, John Winchester, opened the front door stealthily to check and see if the coast was clear. He looked around the front lawn carefully, but found no one. Satisfied he was alone, John's eyes flashed to a jet black color (which surprised the hell out of Tyler) and back to their signature brown color, and he smirked deviously, before hurriedly walking off the porch and over to the garage door. Tyler watched in amazement as John ripped the metal garage door off its track, and threw it aside as easily as he would a baseball bat. The door landed in a heap, 20 yards away, in a nearby field with an earsplitting CRUNCH. Tyler's ears rang painfully, but he ignored the pain and continued watching John in petrified amazement. John, apparently unaffected by the racket, moved swiftly into the garage. Tyler heard an engine start and moments later, John's car, a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala backed, slowly, out of the driveway, and onto the dirt road. The boy watched silently from his crouched position, as the Impala sped down the dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. When the dust cleared, the Impala had driven far enough down the road to where it was almost out of sight. After watching the Impala drive off, making for sure that John wasn't going to turn around, Tyler immerged from his hiding spot and hurried over to the front door and knocked on the door as hard as he could.
'Sam!" the boy called, frantically. "Dude, are you there? C'mon answer the door! It's me, Tyler! I swear, if you don't let me in there in about two seconds, I'm gonna kick your ass!"
There was no answer. He sighed softly, and slowly turned the doorknob. Trying not to think of what could be waiting for him on the other side, Tyler pushed the door open and gasped.
Broken china littered the floor and making it appear as if a tornado had torn through the house. To his left, in the dining room, what remained of the Winchesters' expensive china cabinet had been strewn in all directions. "What the…" Tyler muttered, bewildered.
"Saaam!" he called worriedly. There was no answer. "God, you better not be dead," he muttered. "Well, one way to find out…"
Tyler heard music placing somewhere off in the distance…as he neared the stairs, he recognized the song as Carry On Wayward Son, which was a favorite song of Sam's older brother, Dean. He followed the ringing noise up the stairs. It was getting steadily louder as he moved closer to Sam's dad's room. He opened the door slowly and followed the sound of the popular Kansas song deep further into the room, until he found its source; a Cassette-tape player. He moved over to it and unplugged the cord. Though, a few moments later, he almost wished he hadn't turned the music off, because without it, there was an eerie silence that brought an awful foreboding feeling to the house.
"Sam!" Tyler called out again. "Sam! It's okay, he's gone, come on out!" He was startled when a soft rustling sound could be heard, coming from the closet across from John's bed.
"Dean…" a voice called weakly. "Dean, help. Please…"
"Sam?" Tyler questioned. "Sammy, is that you? Sammy?" When no response came, Tyler frantically rushed over to the closet, pulled the door wide open, and turned on the light switch.
"Oh, god, Sam…" he gasped. Sam was lying on the floor of the closed under a large pile of clothes and hangers. His face, the only part of him visible, was so pale, his skin looked to be transparent. His hazel eyes were half closed and dazed, and his every short and ragged breath he took, sounded painful and forced. Blood leaked from a large gash on the left side of his head, ran down his chin and dripped off his face onto a grey USMC t-shirt.
Tyler's shock at Sam's injuries didn't last long. "Sam! C'mon, man talk to me, tell me what happened." He crouched down next to the injured boy and grabbed one of the t-shirts from the pile, ripped it, and wrapped it around Sam's wound. "Talk to me, Sammy. Keep those eyes open, you hear me…" Tyler was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. "Shit!" he cursed.
"SAMMY!" a concerned voice yelled.
"Tyler," Sam moaned painfully. "Get Dean…please…"
Dean got out of his friend's 1995 Honda Civic. "Thanks for the ride, Josh," he said, smiling. "See you tomorrow."
Josh waved at him from the driver's seat and drove off down the dirt road. Dean smiled and walked up to the front door of the fairly large house his dad had rented for this school year. Truthfully, it'd been a pretty boring couple of months. John, his father, hadn't been around much, for one, and two, he hadn't been allowed to go on more than one or two hunts in that entire amount of time. Dean would be lying if he said that he hadn't enjoyed being able to live like a normal teenager, but sometimes, he missed hunting with his dad. Sighing at his thoughts, he pushed open the front door and walked into the entryway. What he saw upon entering brought a small gasp from his lips.
The entire downstairs had been torn apart. The china cabinet in the dining room was splintered and scattered around the downstairs. There were a few gunshots in the walls, but to Dean's relief, a surprising lack of blood. Knifes, machetes, throwing axes, and a multitude of ammunition had been thrown about and scattered as widely as the splintered china cabinet had been.
Dean's first thought, Sam, where was Sam? "SAMMY!"
He heard a voice come from upstairs. "Dean!" it called. "Dean, Sam's hurt!"
At this, Dean felt a cold fear envelope his chest. He instinctively ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time as he tried to locate where it had come from. When he got onto the landing, Dean looked for the source, but found nothing.
"Where the hell, where are you guys?" Dean asked loudly.
"Your dad's bedroom," a voice called back.
Dean rushed through the door. "Where is he?" he demanded, when he saw the family friend, Tyler Jefferson, sitting in front of the closet. Tyler pointed a finger down where Sam was laying. Dean turned his head and his gaze shifted around the closet until it rested on Sam. "Sammy! Oh, god, Sammy!" Dean cried. He knelt down in front of the injured boy. "Sammy, c'mon, stay with me, okay?"
Sam smiled at him in response, ignoring the pain. " Dean…it's Sam…not Sammy." Dean couldn't help but laugh. Leave it to Sammy to complain about the dreaded nickname at a time like this. "You know, gut shots…?
"Yeah, what about 'em?" Dean asked worriedly, not really understanding what his brother was getting at.
"Bobby…Bobby wasn't kid…kidding about how…" Sam grunted in pain. "How much they hurt."
Dean's smile disappeared from his face. "Gut shot? What are you-? Oh, Jesus, Sam! How long? I'll kill him." Dean demanded in a whisper. "Sam, this is important, tell me how long ago you got shot."
"Ten…ten minutes," Sam replied
"Shit!" Dean ran a hand through his hair, tears stinging the corner of his eyes. "That's…" Dean knew that was a lot of time to have an untreated gut shot, which from what his dad told him, normally kill the victim within the hour.
Tyler watched in silence as the two siblings talked, feeling like he'd intruded on something private. He wanted to say something to them, perhaps excuse himself to go to the other room, but the words wouldn't come; he could only watch as the brothers talked quietly.
After a minute or two, Dean looked up at me with tears in his green eyes. "Tyler, go get the handheld phone on my dad's bedside table and bring it over here, please."
The other boy nodded and walked over to the nightstand, grabbed the phone, and tossed it to Dean, who caught it and dialed 9-1-1. He put it to his ear, and spoke.
"My brother, he's hurt, bad…yes, I do, um, a gunshot wound to the abdomen area, and he hit his head…no, I'm not sure where the bullet hit exactly…yes, yes, he's conscious…6573 Westwood drive …thank you, and please, hurry…" Dean hung up the phone and threw it on the bed, next to me. "Don't worry, Sammy, help's coming," he said, hoping it would get to the house before Sam died of his wounds. No, he couldn't afford to think that way…
"Dean…" Sam spoke very softly, so much so, that I had to strain to hear him. "…I'm sorry, Dean."
Sorry, Tyler wondered, Sorry for what? "Why are you sorry, Sam?" he asked Sam "You have nothing to be sorry about."
"It hurts, Dean. It hurts so bad," Sam said, tears brimming in the corners of his eyes. Sam grabbed the corner of his brother's jacket, and continued. "It's Dad…he…he was possessed. I tried to do the exorcism…I tried, but he…he shot me, Dean, then he took the car. I couldn't… I failed…and now, Dad's gone…I'm sorry…I'm sorry, I failed." Demons? Sam was talking about demons? Well, Tyler thought, it explains John's super human abilities.
"Shh. It's okay, Sammy. It's okay, buddy…I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." Dean soothed, throwing his arms around his brother, pulling the smaller boy out of the clothes pile, and into his comforting arms. The younger boy was shaking with silent sobs, tears mixed with scarlet blood streaming down his bruised cheeks.
"Listen, Sammy, this was not your fault. Not at all…if you want to blame someone, blame that demon son-of-a-bitch who killed mom, or the one possessing dad, hell blame me, but do not blame yourself, you hear me?"
"But, Dad…he'll hate me…"Sam sobbed.
Dean shook his head. "Dad won't hate you, I promise he won't. Dad could never hate you. The man loves you to pieces…I know you can't always tell, with as hard as he is on you, but I promise, Sammy, he loves you, and nothing can change that." Sam did not respond, and the sobs had stopped coming from the boy, who had become very quiet. "Sam?"
"Dean!" Tyler exclaimed, not able to move.
"What?" Dean glared. No one interrupted him when he was talking to his brother, no one.
"Sam!" the boy exclaimed, pointing to the injured boy in the older teen's arms.
"What're you…no! Sam!" Dean exclaimed as his brother head slumped backward, his eyes closed, not breathing.. "No, Sam! Don't you do this to me!"
"Dean…what…what do I do?" Tyler asked helplessly.
The older Winchester did not respond, but instead laid Sam down on the carpet, and felt the younger boy's neck for a pulse. "No! Goddamn it, no!" he cried, tears flowing down his face. He did not give up, though. Face hardening, the teen pumped his hands, hard, against his younger brother's chest. "One, two, three…" He then put an ear to Sam's mouth. "Come on, breathe, goddamn it." Tyler watched, helplessly, as Dean continued with CPR for a few minutes, until paramedics rushed in with a stretcher and their medical equipment.
"Move aside, boys!" a rather tall man with brown hair, carrying a defibrillator ordered.
"I'm not getting a pulse, Adam."
"Okay, clear!" the man charged the defibrillator and pressed it to Sam's chest. The teen's back arched from the shock, before falling limp again.
"Still no pulse." ….
A/N. Please review, I'm still pretty new to Fanfiction, so I'd really like to hear what you guys think about the story...Thanks for taking the time to read it.