a/n: I have this planned out as a 6 part story. I know this first one is short, but it'll pick up on length (and become more interesting g) in later parts. Please, REVIEW! I love feedback. Hope you guys enjoy!
In My Hands, part 1
Sam hates when there's nothing to hunt. Maybe if it was different, if he had somewhere to go home to during these quiet times, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But now, all he has is Dean (loud, messy, angry), the Impala, and a string of cheap hotels bought on a scammed credit card. It's too much like growing up again, being a scared and frustrated kid, and wanting so many things that are just beyond his reach. So, yeah, now he'd rather hunt until he's achy and tired and past caring if the bed's scratchy and hard. All of that is better than watching Dean pace and fidget and snap. It's better than wondering what's out there that they just haven't heard about.
He's sitting across from his brother in some tiny little diner in Kentucky, scanning the daily paper for any signs of activity. It's useless, he thinks, but the repetition is comforting, and it's better than staring. At Dean. Or the three other people slouched at the counter. Better, but Dean's scraping the sugar holder back and forth, and even as Sam's determined not to look up, he can't block out the monotonous grating. Still, after fifteen minutes, Sam's starting to wish Dean'd just choke on the damn thing.
He's saved by the arrival of their food; his salisbury steak is thrown down with so much force that he thinks the overcooked meat might splatter across the table. Half of Dean's fries do, however, end up in his lap; he can see Dean open his mouth, ready to say something, but their waitress (Shana) has already stomped away. "Well," he says, staring at the spiky hair at the top of Dean's bent head and smirking as his brother plops limp fries back onto his plate. "Guess she's still upset."
"Yeah, well." But Dean's not eating, just staring at the food, fists lightly curled and drumming the table. Sam can see the faint white lines of scars criss-crossing his brother's knuckles. "I take it the paper didn't having anything." It's not a question, but seems pulled out of Dean, anyway. Sam shakes his head, starts cutting into the lump of meat in front of him; he doesn't know if he wants to eat it, can imagine everything pretty, little Shana did to it when Dean turned down her offer. He cuts open the patty, anyway; sees gray and goes for the mashed potatoes. Dean's mumbling goddamnit, and it's a sentiment Sam can agree with.
"I don't know," he says. Dean's shifting in his booth, and Sam can feel his booted feet on his, knocking against his ankle. At least it's not the freakin' sugar again, but when Dean grinds his heel into Sam's right foot, Sam's had it. "Would you stop? Jesus," and he pulls his foot away, kicks out, hoping to get shin. Dean grunts, narrows his eyes; score, Sam thinks, not really expecting Dean's boot sliding behind his knee and jerking his leg into the the bottom of the table. Hard. Not expecting it, but not surprised. "Fuck," and Dean cocks an eyebrow. "You know, this is the most demented game of footsie I've ever played."
"Whatever," but Dean's smirking as he picks apart his burger. "I'm gonna play some pool down at the bar tonight. You wanna come?" Sam watches as Dean prods at a pickle, the soft brown spots caving to mush. His brother frowns, lips settling into a thin line that he privately thinks looks ridiculous.
"Nah," pushing his own plate away, and refilling his cup from the carafe. Coffee's the safer bet. "Nah, I want to try to find a lead on something."
"Okay," and that's the end of it. Dean pours himself a coffee, and Sam stares out the window.
888
It's anticlimatic when Sam notices it. He's searching local discussion groups when he sees a post by a woman named Melissa Zach. It's the best he's seen so far, and it only takes a minute to scan her user page, see the website she created and click on it. It's for her nephew; kidnapped, the police believed, but there was never any signs of forced entry or fingerprints that didn't belong to the mother or the oldest son. So. Disappeared from his bedroom, about three months ago. He writes down the address 567 Firestation 501, in Afton, North Carolina. Even if it's not supernatural at least it'll get them out of Kentucky.
Sam wishes that is wasn' t a kid, though; thinks that he could skip over this one, try to find something else. Thinks of all the jobs he and his brother of have done, and how the worst ones always end with having to tell a motherfathersisterbrother that the child is dead. There's something unfair in it; he just doesn't know if it's the death, the grief, or the fact that they get to drive away and not see any of it, never have to deal with the aftermath.
And the victim's only six, birthday come and gone during his absence. Six, and been gone for months. Those aren't good odds. But. It's a little boy, and maybe if they go in expecting the worst it won't be that bad. He knows Dean'll be all for it if Sam tells him, 'cause after Sam, children are his brother's weak spot. Sam's seen him run himself ragged trying to turn a case around, to bring the parents what they've lost. Even just the remains, if that's all that's left, and it's hard. Which is why he has to decide before Dean's back, because between his brother's own shit and the stuff their dad is pulling Sam doesn't know if Dean can handle it. Doesn't know if he wants to see his brother fall apart that way.
He keeps the paper, tucks it into their dad's journal to show Dean tomorrow. It's something, at least. And what they need, for now. But his eyes are dragged back to the screen, to the picture of the boy, Jacob, who's all sunny smiles and blonde hair. He stares until the harsh light pricks at the headache pounding through his temples. All right, he thinks, North Carolina it is, and shuts down the laptop, breathing easier in the darkness.
888
There's a heavy weight on his back, pressing him down into the mattress, when he wakes up. He smells nicotine and alcohol and the traces of perfume; feels hot breath against his skin where Dean's head is resting between his shoulder blades, feels heat where Dean's arm is thrown over him, where his hand rests against Sam's hip. He wonders vaguely when his brother got in, glances at the clock and sees 4: 07 flash back at him.
He tries to shove an elbow back, prod Dean to move, but his brother doesn't wake up, doesn't shift, just curls the leg that isn't thrown over Sam's and pushes the knee into Sam's thigh. Fine, he can still sleep for a few hours, even with his brother coiled around him like a damn octopus. Even with his face feeling stuffed full of cotton, and whether that's from being mashed half in the flat pillow or from the energetic air-conditioner clunking away beneath the window, he doesn't know. He huffs, once, and gets a mouth full of fabric. Fine. The minute changes to eight before he closes his eyes; the green light plays across the back of Sam lids until it fades to black and he sleeps.
The second time he wakes up, it's to the door slamming shut and heavy footsteps on the thin carpet. "What?" He turns his head, glares at the clock that reads ten o'clock, before rolling onto his back, and wincing at the pain spreading like fire in his shoulders and the dull ache in his chest. Ow. Throwing an arm over his face, he says, "For future reference, Dean, I am not your freakin' body pillow."
"You're a whiny, little bitch in the morning, dude." Sam hears rustling, feels Dean's shadow fall over him. "Here. Coffee." He grunts, but sits up and takes the paper cup from his brother. The heat seeps into his hands, and the strong smell of artificial vanilla--sharp and sweet--wafts up. He smiles, knows Dean hates ordering sissy shit, has heard it too many time to forget. "You find anything?"
"Mm," he says, watches Dean settle in the chair by the table, tenses to keep from moving when the bed dips as Dean stretches his legs and rests them on top of the blankets. "Yeah, maybe. A case in North Carolina; little boy went missing a few months ago with no traces of anyone but the family being there."
Dean shifts and the chair groans in protest. "Kinda weak, Sammy. Anything saying it's unnatural? Any patterns in the area?"
"Not really, no." He sips at the coffee, feels it burn it's way down his throat. "But there's nothing saying it's normal, either." Dean's staring at the cup in Sam's hand, or at his chest, eyes wide and distant. "I mean, we don't have anything else to do, so why not check it out?" He smears the drops of liquid along the mouth of the cup, follows it as it soaks into the paper. "Worst case scenario? We end up doing nothing but in another state." He flicks his eyes back to Dean as his brother's running a hand through his hair. "Not a lot of choices."
"Alright," Dean sighs, stands up and heads toward the bathroom. "From here to North Carolina it's about nine or ten hours, I guess. We'll get somethin' to eat on the way."
After Dean shuts the bathroom door, Sam thumps his head against the wall. Hot chills are running along his skin, like he hasn't gotten enough sleep; but that's nothing new, so he drinks the coffee and ignores the ache building behind his eyes; he listens, instead, to the hum of pipes as the shower's turned on.