House Rules
By: Opiate of the Anonymous
Disclaimer: The concepts and characters of Supernatural belong to the CW and are being borrowed without permission or intent to return. But no profit = no theft.
Hey everyone. So begins my first attempt at a supernatural fanfic. Well actually my first attempt at fan fiction since, well i don't know... middle school? I hope it's alright, but feel free to smack me upside the head if something doesn't feel right to you
CHAPTER ONE
Sam had a love-hate relationship with diner food, one cultivated by years without a kitchen, let alone home cooking. The thing about diners -Sam had learned rather quickly- was that there was no standard measure of quality. Some places could serve a chicken fried steak that would leave his mouth watering just from the memory, while others had let Sam hunched over the nearest toilet bowl. It was impossible to know what the food was going to be like until appeared, a constant war between heaven and food poisoning.
There were a few warning signs, but not nearly enough. The appearance of a restaurant didn't mean much. Some of the food Sam had eaten were from roadside shacks that would have given health inspectors nightmares. However, there was one method that seemed to have some level of consistency when it came to predicting food quality. If by six in the evening the diner -no matter how clean it seemed- was dead, then chances were they should try to find another place to eat.
That's why when Dean opened the door to Andy's Diner, just outside of San Diego California, Sam felt his stomach lurch from more than just the stifling smell of grease that wafted through the door Weary eyes darted from one end of the narrow establishment to the other, taking in cheap 70s decor and cracking laminate floors. The walls were painted a light blue and the booths and tables were covered in aged white vinyl. There was an elderly couple eating in the back corner and what looked like a family of tourists by the door. No one looked particularly enthused about the food in front of them.
The doors to the kitchen opened with the squeak of rusted hinges. "Welcome to Andy's Diner" the waitress said as she stepped towards them, pulling ruby red hair up into haphazard bun on the top of her head. "What can I do you for?" Her smile was warm, a flash of white between matte peach lips. But the words were too mechanical for sincerity.
"Table for two, sweetheart" Dean said "By a window if you got it."
Haggard looking hazel eyes warmed and crinkled in mirth. "I'll see what I can do." She said "But don't get your hopes up, we're pretty busy tonight." Dean chuckled as the waitress grabbed two ratty looking menu's off the hostess stand.
"She's friendly" Dean said, watching as the waitress scuttled back into the kitchen after seating them.
Sam snorted. "Probably just gunning for a tip. Doubt a place like this pays well."
"Dude, your jealous. She was totally into me." Dean said with a shake of his head, taking a long swig from the water their waitress had dropped of. Sam eyed the glass suspiciously, eyeing the cloudy residue on what should have been the clear plastic. The cynical part of his mind wondered about the last time it had been cleaned. "What's your issue about this place. Doesn't seem that bad to me."
"Not that bad? Dean you could hear a pin drop in here. That's not exactly a good sign."
"So?" Dean said. "What's your point?"
Taking a deep, hypothetically calming breath, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Isn't there anywhere else we could eat? There has to be something, anything."
Dean shrugged. The cheap vinyl of the booth seat creaked as he leaned back, throwing an arm over the back. "I haven't seen anything for miles, Sam. And I kinda doubt we'll see anything else until 'Diego. I'm starving, and they have all-you-can-eat wings."
"On a Saturday night Dean." Sam countered. "I wouldn't touch the chicken if I were you."
"Whatever. If your so worried about your delicate stomach will pick you up some Tums before we stop for the night, Samantha."
Because Tums would provide so much protection against Salmonella. "Shut up" Sam said, but he knew there wasn't much point in arguing. When Dean was hungry, he would let nothing come between him and the nearest food source. So, when their waitress returned with pen and paper in hand to take their order, Sam accepted his fate and ordered a salad. He would get Dean to stop at a corner store for something more edible later. Dean teased him mercilessly about the chick food, but didn't order the wings.
Little mercies.
They didn't talk much over supper and from the slightly disgruntled look on Dean's face as he chewed through his burger, Sam had a feeling it was because Dean didn't want to leave an opening for an I told you so. Sam was okay with that however, glad to be free from his older brother's taunting as he worked his way through his own slightly slimy salad. But Sam could tell that Dean was becoming increasingly bored however, and his brother's focus gradually shifted to include the rest of the restaurant.
There wasn't much to watch in the dead restaurant. The two waitstaff chatted merrily in the corner as far from the patrons as possible, only looking up at the occasional crash or swear that echoed from the kitchen. A cracked jute box by the kitchen door seemed to be more for decoration than anything else, providing no background noise to fill the space. So when the cracked bell above the door chimed tunelessly, Dean nearly fell of the side of his seat trying to see around Sam for a view. Sam watched, bemused as Dean's eyebrow rose and let loose a low, barely audible whistle."Dude, take a look."
Sam continued to pick at his bowl of wilted greens, not interested in whatever bombshell had caught Dean's eye this time. Dean scowled and the steel toe of his boot made sharp contact with Sam's shin. 'What the hell was that for!" Sam hissed as he yanked his soon to be bruised leg out of reach. Dean smirked, and jerked his head towards the door with no lack of subtly.
Sam frowned, still nursing his leg as he twisted around in his seat. It took him a few seconds to catch what had caught Dean's attention. In his search for a blonde D cup he almost missed the three huge guys attempting to cram their way into one of Andy's white booths. The tables barely had enough room to fit two taller than average guys. Dean's knee's knocked against Sam's even when he wasn't trying to maim and they were fighting for elbow space with each bite. However, as Sam watched the men he realized they had all the space in the world.
The tallest of the group -a bald man with a spiralling tribal tattoo that creeped across his shoulders, up his neck and across his scalp- was at least a couple of inches shorter than Dean. But all three were built like oxen, with broad shoulders, thick necks and legs so muscled they resembled tree trunks.
Dean sorted. "And people say I'm over compensating"
Sam rolled his eyes, but continued to watch the three guys. He had seen bigger. Brute strength could be a useful trait in a world that involved grappling with everything that went bump in the night. Many hunters spent more time with weights than they did sleeping. But these guys looked straight from a fight: fat lips, split knuckles and black eyes all around. The wound's looked fresh; enough time for blood to gather under the skin but not enough to bring down the swelling.
But they did not seem concerned about it. Instead they where chatting merrily, laughing in loud boisterous voices that seemed without a care. "Pretty beat up for a bunch of average Joes don't you think?" Sam asked under his breath.
Dean looked up from his burger ""We're in a rough part of town. Could be just about anyone." He said around a mouthful of beef and grease coated cheese and shrugged his shoulders, interest in the topic waning.
"I guess" Sam said
"So, are you going to tell me why we had to drive all the way to South Cali?" Dean asked as he drowned his french fries in a liberal coating of ketchup. "Don't get me wrong, I love sun, sand and bikinis as much as the next guy, but it's a bit of a drive from New Jersey don't you think?"
Sam poked at the remains of his salad, sorting through the remaining lettuce, on careful look out for any shade of green that didn't belong. "It sounds like there's been imp sightings throughout the city. Theft of non valuables, broken windows, malfunctioning equipment... that kind of thing."
"An Imp?"
"You know, lessor demon, really short, kinda ugly. Imp."
"I know what an imp is." Dean snapped, and glowered at his brother. "I also know they're not even worth the buckshot it takes to kill. Imps aren't evil Sam. A pain in the ass maybe, but they don't kill people, and they sure as hell aren't worth a 2000 mile road trip."
"I don't care about the imp." Sam said. "It's the Witch who controls it we're interested in. If we catch the imp we can bully it into telling us where she lives"
"What's this we crap?"
Sam paused, biting the inside of his lip as he thought over his words. "There are records of her dating back until the 1430s. I'm not sure how she's managed to live so long, but there are rumours that she's somehow figured out how to raise and control the demons she was serving."
Dean's green eyes narrowed as he followed Sam's train of thought and his expression shifted from disinterest into something far darker. His nostrils flared as he ranked a hand through short blond hair. "Sam." he growled, the warning echoing deep in his chest.
Sam ignored him however, and his next words came out in a tangled rush of syllables as his excitement grew. "I borrowed some books from Bobbie. From what I've read, I think she can summon the demon who holds your contract, or at least figure out who holds your soul. We just need the right leverage."
"And then what? Kill the son of a bitch and ride off into the sunset?"
The sarcasm in Dean's voice hung in the air like lead chains but Sam couldn't help the smile that was spreading over his face. "Why not?" he said, trying and failing to keep the raw excitement out of his voice. It had been weeks since Sam had found any kind of lead that could prevent Dean from going to hell. More than that however, this was the first plan since shooting the crossroads demon that promised even the faintest glimmer of results.
The table jumped as Dean's knee crashed violently into the bottom. Sam scrambled to rescue his half full, still steaming mug of coffee before they split all over the table and his lap. He glared in Dean's general location ready to snap at his brother. But by the time he looked up, the only proof that Dean had ever been there at all was the frantic clanking of the bell. The diner shook with the force Dean slammed the door with, leaving Sam alone, gaping like an idiot.
Sam could feel eyes on the back of his neck, a slow building heat that only grew as the already limited background noise silenced. Even the cook -a fat middle aged balding man, was curled around the kitchen door, staring unashamedly at the source of the commotion. The burning feeling spread to the very tips of Sam's ears. "Sorry" he mumbled to open air and slammed a pile of bills onto the counter, before he scrambled out the door after his brother.
The bright California sun burned as Sam ran into daylight. He ignored the stead throb of pain however, as he sought out his brother or the familiar shape of the car. But as brilliant flares of lurid red, and stabbing blue that distorted his vision faded away, Sam realized with heart stopping clarity there was no familiarity within eyeshot of the barren stretch of road. The Impala wasn't where Dean had parked her. Sam felt his heart race, eyes darting from one end of the parking lot to the other, trying to comprehend what was going on. Dean wouldn't...
Dean couldn't
He wouldn't just leave Sam here, ditch him like some forgotten piece of luggage. Sam didn't think his brother could even contemplate leaving Sam in the middle of nowhere. But...
"There's no way out. If you try to find a way, god help me...I will stop you
There was nothing Dean wouldn't do for his brother. And if he thought it would save Sam's life, Dean wouldn't even look back.
There was cash in Sam's pocket. Remnants of a poker tournament from a forgotten bar in Nevada. It would be enough to get him to San Diego, maybe. But there wasn't a point. Sam doubted that there was nothing his witch could do to help with Dean actually being present. But Dean couldn't have gotten to far, the Impala could only go so fast. If Sam got to the city, he could work on tracking his brother down.
But that was time they couldn't afford to lose, not when every minute counted.
Mind made up, Sam turned on his heel to turn back towards the Diner. From there he could plan out his next course of action. Hopefully there would be a bus he could catch to the city, if not he could just hitch a ride with the next car that drove by. After that he would find his brother, and beat the utter stupidity out of him.
The ear shattering blast of the Impala's horn was enough to break Sam out of his heading towards fratricidal thoughts. He whirled around, watching with a stunned expression as the Impala pulled up to the front door of the restaurant. Sam didn't know where it had come from, or if it had never left in the first place. But the sight of the sleek black car had Sam scrambling for the door handle. Dean said nothing as Sam slid less than gracefully into the Impala's passenger seat and Sam didn't question where he had been. Instead Dean peeled out onto the highway even before Sam had clicked in his seat belt.
The radio blared as Sam stared blankly out of the window, unwilling to meet Dean's eye in dread of the impending conversation. Part of him wanted to talk about Dean's deal, and why his big brother didn't seem to care that he was going to hell. He wanted to talk about the witch, about the hours of pain staking research that all pointed towards a fail-proof plan. But he couldn't force the words out.
The classic rock station they had been listening to before they pulled into the dinner fizzled away into nothing halfway through Motor Head's Ace of Spades. Something that normally would have had Dean jumping for the radio to try and find a repeater. But Dean didn't make a move to change the station and Sam was afraid to say or do anything that could piss his brother off any further. So the crackle of snow remained, eventually shifting to country as they drove closer to the city.
Why they were still head towards San Diego was beyond Sam. He had thought that Dean would have wanted to leave California like a bat out of hell. Away from Sam's potential solution. Away from salvation.
"There's no way out."
Sam's head crashed into the window with a soft thunk. He dug the heel of his palm against the side of his head to try and block out what was becoming the constant echo of Dean's voice.
More than likely Dean was just driving to the nearest motel so he could show Sam what he really felt about Sam's plan with some semblance of privacy. Sam had no doubt that Dean would keep true to his threat if he thought it could save Sam. Sam would be lying if he said that he wasn't scared out of his mind just thinking about how far Dean would go to save his life.
The Sleep-n-Stay motel was a scant block outside of the scummiest part of town, and was one of the few places within their pay range that didn't charge by the hour. With the FBI still hunting down the infamous Winchester Brother's, chain motels where still out of the question, as were the more well to do mom and pop places. It left them with only a few options, each one more undesirable than the last.
The walls of the room they were to sleep in was a pale grey, brown colour that could have possible been white at some point in its lifetime. The room itself wasn't in much better condition. Two tiny double beds which where covered in mustard yellow sheets that made Sam's skin itch just looking at them, stood barley a foot apart, despite being pressed up against opposite walls. There was a Tv on the opposite side of the room, one that had probably been out of date when the Impala was brand-new on the lot.
Home sweet home.
Dean did not pause to glance around the room, instead stomped into the bathroom without even a word to Sam. Sam flinched as the door slammed shut, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. He sank boneless onto his musty smelling bed, scrubbing a sweaty hand across his forehead and through his thick hair.
The TV was just as old as Sam had predicted. There was a remote leashed to the fake pine, bedside table that had been crammed in the minuscule space between the beds. But Sam noticed quickly that there where more buttons on the face of the TV than on the thick hunk of plastic. The few channels that came through were grainy and at times inaudible. But Sam was grateful for the distraction it provided, if only for a few minutes.
They needed to talk about this. Sam knew that. He had never been found of the Winchester family motto: we do what we do and we shut up about it.But he had no idea what to say that could prevent this entire situation from streaking out of bad territory and crashing head long into worse.
Dean came out of the bathroom in a billowing cloud of steam almost half way through the second Cheer's rerun. Under normal circumstances that long of a shower was open season for rounds of endless teasing, and bemoaning about the loss of hot water. But Sam couldn't even find the words for the familiar teasing. Everything Sam tried to say lodged in his throat like a brick as Dean brushed past without even acknowledging his existence wearing only the ragged jeans from earlier and a thread bare, damp towel draped over his shoulders. Dean sat down on the end of his bed, and the springs protested loudly as he pulled his duffle onto his lap, sorting through the contents.
"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. But he knew that Dean could hear them above the awkward silence that hung between them like a dead weight. "We need to talk."
After a few more minuets of searching, Dean pulled out the handle of his favourite Bowie out of the bag, and stripped it of its heavy leather sheath with an absent flick of his wrist. The long blade soon found it's unsafe home underneath Dean's pillow. Dean was back on his feet a moment later, salt canister clenched tightly in his fist as he stalked to the door way.
"Dean?"
Sam's question was more insistent this time. He watched as the fist around the salt canister tightened, denting the cardboard. The salt line underneath the door was far from straight.
"We'll stay here tonight, so get some sleep." Dean said gruffly as he moved onto the window sill, his back angled carefully to sam. "We're shipping out tomorrow at first light. Dean's voice was flat and controlled, like a Drill Sergeant giving orders.
"What?" Sam asked incredulously. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised. He had been waiting for Dean to drive them out of California, he had been expecting it for hours. But the words caught on the frustration that had been building since day one of his self-appointed mission to save Dean. The emotion grew like a festered splinter.
"There's a hunt in Arizona. Poltergeist haunting a local high school. 2 dead, 3 injured. We're going to check it out." Dean didn't even turn around, and his voice never lost the disinterested quality that didn't belong in a conversation about preventing an eternity of torment and damnation. The frustration grew into anger and Sam jumped to his feet as his heart thundered in his chest.
"What are you talking about! We can't just leave!"
Dean shrugged, long and slow. "We can and we will Sam." he said. "Dead teenagers are a bit more pressing that someone's pet Imp"
"I don't care about the imp!" Sam shouted, and he lashed out, grabbing Dean's shoulder in a bruising grip and forced his brother to turn around and face him. "We need the Witch, and the Imp's the only way to find her."
Dean's eyes hardened as he shoved Sam's hand away, which forced his brother to take a step back. "I don't care what you think we need Sam. We're done here."
"The hell we are!" Sam snarled, his voice rising in counter point to Dean's icy calm. "This could be the answer! We could save you! What part of that isn't making it through your thick skull!"
A bark of laugher rumbled low down in Dean' chest, dead and as chilling as a black dog's. "Why can't you get that through your thick skull" He mimicked as he continued to chuckle. "That's rich coming from you dude."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. "I don't know how many times I got to explain this Sam. I live past my year and you drop dead at my feat, end of story. So sorry if i'm not jumping at the chance to cremate your sorry ass. "
As if someone had slashed a knife through the tension, the air between the brother's shifted from red hot to ice cold. Sam felt the tension slip from his bones like oil. It left him feeling dirty, used and exhausted in ways he had never imagined. For a moment Dean's mask collapsed in on itself as the true impact of what he had done slammed upon them like hurricane waves upon crumbling rocks. Fear and agony flickered across Dean's face for the briefest moment, and then it was gone as if it had never existed at all.
Dean reached up and placed his hand on Sam's trembling shoulder. It was warm and heavy, the smooth band of Dean's ring dug into Sam's skin. "Go to sleep Sam." he said, giving Sam's shoulder an anchoring squeeze before heading back to his own bed. He lay down, pulling the scratchy sheets up over his shoulder and stared blankly at the ceiling. It wasn't difficult to spot Dean's ever so subtle attempt to end the conversation, but Sam couldn't let this go. Not when the where so close to an answer.
With a soft sigh, Sam sat down on the edge of Dean's bed. His brother tensed, but didn't say anything as Sam rested his elbows against his knees, letting his arms hang limply between his legs. "Dean this witch can help us. Please, let me do this."
"Sam" Dean said in the same warning tone as before. But the words lacked the icy edge. "I'm not doing anything that could damage the deal. And even if I was, the last place I would go for help is a witch. Nothing for nothing, you know that."
"But if she could help..." Sam pressed on. "We could kill the Demon who holds your contract before it had a chance to hurt me or you."
"I don't think it works that way Sam. " Dean breathed, as his arm came up to drape over his eyes. Sam winced at the resigned note in his voice. "And I'm not going to gamble you to find out."
"Dean..."
"Enough Sam."
"But..."
"I said enough!"
Dean rolled onto his side without another word. In that moment Sam realized that he had finally lost a fight that he never had any chance of winning. As long as Dean thought that Sam's life was in danger, he would make no move to protect his own life. But Sam was a big boy now, he was old enough to make his own decisions. And if Dean wasn't going to save himself, then Sam would find a way to do it without him.