A/N: I found the early pilot draft a fascinating reading experience, and it made me wonder what the show would have been like if that had been the first episode. This is what I came up with. I've changed some details, but for the most part I tried to stay true to what was already there.
A thousand thanks to the wonderful RiverSongTam for her help on this story!
Sam dodges the fist swinging toward his head, only to run straight into a blow to the kidney from his opponent's knee. He grunts, staggers, manages to regain his balance just in time to block a sucker punch to the gut. A second punch follows close on the first, and Sam fades back just out of reach. In the split second his opponent takes to recover, Sam manages to seize his outstretched arm, twist, toss him to the ground, and pin him.
"Gotcha!" Sam crows happily, not caring one bit that his weight is probably crushing the air out of Dean's lungs.
They're in a small patch of scraggly brown grass under an overpass in Oregon, hidden from the road behind the thick concrete supports. Ever since Sam decided to join Dean in what Dean calls "the life," they've been stopping at every likely-looking overpass for "training." Sam was quick to master all the different types of knives and guns Dean has packed under a false bottom in the trunk of the Impala, but he's only recently started to come out on top in their sparring matches, so he figures he's entitled to a little gloating. He therefore doesn't shift at all when Dean flails a bit under him. This turns out to be a mistake. Before Sam knows what's happening, Dean has hooked a leg around his and heaved the two of them over.
"Don't be so sure of that, little brother," he smirks from where he's now sitting on Sam's stomach.
Sam shoves him off and sits up. "I beat you, admit it."
"How do you know I didn't just let you win to be nice?"
"Because you're not nice?"
"What?" Dean yelps in mock outrage, pausing in brushing dust off his clothes to fix Sam with a wounded expression. "I'm a joy to be around."
"Oh yeah," says Sam, rolling his eyes. "Who wouldn't love loud music in the car, or greasy fast food wrappers all over the motel rooms. Not to mention your choices in television viewing."
"Hey, Dr. Sexy, MD is quality programming," says Dean as they get back into the Impala, parked in the shadows next to a concrete column. "And you're going to have to get used to it if you want to help me work this case."
Sam perks up at that. "You mean I get to actually help this time?"
If Sam thought, when he got into Dean's car back in Palo Alto four months ago, that he was going to be included on Dean's hunts he had been wrong; he's spent every single one of them holed up in whatever crappy motel they were staying at that week, sealed in with not just a deadbolt and chain, but also with rock salt lining the door and windows, strange sigils drawn on the walls, and creepy little bags of dried herbs and animal bones tucked into the corners. The first time he saw this, Sam might have reverted to thinking Dean was crazy, except that he'd just been attacked by a ghost on a lonely stretch of highway, and if it wasn't for Dean he wouldn't be alive to read the journal that belonged to their father enough times to know it by heart. No matter how many times he reads it, though, he still can't seem to get used to the stares of the creepy eyes doodled all over the pages. On the paper they're just black, but Sam knows from experience that the real version is just empty. Bottomless. And they're only the first of many scary, impossible things Sam now has to accept as real.
Sitting alone in a motel room while Dean is off killing monsters certainly leaves a lot of time for reading.
"Yeah, Sammy," says Dean in response to Sam's question. "I think you might be ready."
"It's Sam," he corrects, but he's too distracted by the prospect of a case to act properly offended at the nickname. Dean's excuse for not letting Sam join him on the hunt for the last two months is that Sam isn't "ready"—no weapons experience, no combat training, no knowledge of the supernatural. In fact, according to Dean, the only useful thing Sam learned at Stanford is his research skills. Those Dean has been taking full advantage of, much to Sam's irritation.
"So, what is it? What's the case?" Sam asks. He tries not to sound too childishly eager, but judging from the way Dean smirks at him, he doesn't entirely succeed.
"You'll see when we get there," says Dean, more serious now. "It's not anything big. You're still a rookie, you know."
"A rookie who is no longer going to be sitting around doing your research."
Dean pokes him in the shoulder. "You love research, college nerd."
Sam thinks the insult shouldn't sting so much by now; he's been listening to it for weeks, after all. Even longer if you count the summer before he started at Stanford. But now is not the time to start acting like a baby over petty jibes, so he just says, "Yeah, you better learn to love it, cause you're going to be spending a lot more time in the library from now on."
Dean gives Sam an appraising look as he pulls the Impala back onto the road. "Let's just see how this case goes, first."
*S*P*N*
Sam isn't very impressed when he finds out what the case is.
"Ballet slippers," he says blankly from the passenger seat, as Dean slides into the driver's side. They've just managed to slip out of the Portland police station without anyone noticing that they swiped a pair of— "Cursed. Ballet slippers."
Dean glares at him, and then at the evidence bag in his hands, containing a pair of innocent-looking pink ballet slippers. They aren't nearly as innocent as they appear, though. Dean remembers the police photos in vivid, grisly detail. The ballerina who had been wearing them had danced until her feet were nothing more than bloody, mangled stumps, and had bled out quietly on the floor with the mysteriously unsullied shoes arranged neatly a few feet away.
Dean shakes his head, distracted. He'd intended to say something to Sam, but he can't quite remember what it was at the moment. He's sidetracked by the color of the slippers. They really are a mesmerizing shade of pink, all satiny and sleek and perfect….
Sam bursts out laughing.
Dean tears his eyes away from the slippers to glare at him again. "What's so funny?"
"You," gasps Sam. "You—oh my God. You've got an urge to try them on, don't you?"
"This isn't a joke, Sam!" snaps Dean. "These things are dangerous."
He says it in the most matter-of-fact tone he can muster, but Sam only laughs harder. He pulls the evidence bag out of Dean's hands and waves the slippers annoyingly in front of his face.
"What's the matter? Afraid you wouldn't look good in a tutu?"
Dean bats the slippers away, scowling. "It's not funny."
Sam's smile fades, and he sighs. "I can't believe we're actually working this case. This is all you thought I could handle?"
He fiddles with the evidence bag as he speaks. With a thrill of fear, Dean sees his fingers pulling absently at the plastic zipper holding the bag closed, and he snatches it out of Sam's hands and chucks it into the backseat.
"Clearly you can't even handle this," he says sourly, starting up the car.
"I just thought I was supposed to be helping you find Mom's killer," says Sam over the roar of the engine. "Not risking arrest to steal ballet slippers."
"I don't need your help if all you're gonna do is goof off," Dean snaps.
Sam subsides into a sullen silence as Dean takes them out of Portland. Soon, they're cruising down a narrow, twisting country road, heading for an abandoned church they'd scouted out earlier. The slippers' curse can only be broken by ritual burning on hallowed ground, and it isn't usually advisable to perform spells or rituals where someone might notice and think they're devil-worshippers.
As they near the church, Dean peers sidelong at Sam, who hasn't said a word since they left the police station. He's staring out of the side window, the setting sun throwing orange gleams over his face and hair, glinting off the bronze amulet he wears around his neck.
"You should take that thing off while we're on a case," Dean says of the amulet. He tries to sound casual, but it comes out a little strained. "It might get caught on something during a fight."
Sam snorts. "I don't think we're going to be fighting anything on this case, do you?"
Dean clenches his teeth. Sam can really be a pissy little bitch when he wants to, especially when he doesn't have any business sulking. Stanford isn't the greatest preparation for the life, but surely a summa cum laude graduate like Sam should be smart enough to realize the danger, and to realize that Dean is just trying to keep him safe. Of course, Dean has to admit that Sam would probably be a lot more aware of the danger if he hadn't kept the last page of their father's journal from him.
"Still," Dean says, forcing himself to speak normally. "You should at least tuck it under your shirt, or something, just in case." Sam says nothing at that, so he continues, "I can't believe you even still wear it."
"Mom gave it to me," Sam reminds him, as if Dean had forgotten. As if that one fact explains everything. He makes no move to either remove the amulet or tuck it away. Dean shakes his head and gives up for the moment.
They don't say a word to each other the rest of the way to the church, or while they survey the churchyard for a good spot for their ritual, or while they dig a small pit in which to burn the slippers, or while they carve the necessary symbols into the ground surrounding the pit and set out the herbs that must be thrown into the fire, working by flashlight in the gathering dusk. Dean's voice is hoarse when he finally breaks the silence with, "Go get the slippers."
Sam huffs, probably annoyed at being given an order, and stomps off to the car. Dean sighs, and returns to checking the lines they've drawn in the dirt. When he's satisfied that everything is correct, he lights the fire, and carefully places the bundles of sage, mallowsweet, and rue into the flames. Then he looks around for the slippers. That's when he realizes Sam hasn't come back from the car.
Dean whips around, heart pounding. The car is only about a fifty yards away; Sam should have been able to walk there and back several times over in the time it took Dean to get the fire started. The sun has fully set now, and the light from the fire makes the surrounding darkness seem completely impenetrable by contrast. Dean shines the beam of his flashlight in the direction of the Impala, scanning the churchyard carefully, and, to his immense relief, he spots Sam lurking next to an old gravestone just outside the circle of firelight.
"Sam?" Dean calls. "Come on, you wanna do the honors?"
But Sam doesn't move. Dean starts to panic again. He leaps forward, one hand keeping the flashlight trained on Sam, the other brushing against the handle of the old Colt revolver he always keeps tucked into his waistband. He reaches Sam in a matter of seconds, and shines the light directly into his face. His eyes are unfocused, and hardly blink at the sudden brightness.
"Sam?"
A crinkle of plastic causes Dean to look down. Sam is holding the evidence bag with the slippers—sliding the zipper open and reaching inside.
With a growl, Dean knocks the bag out of Sam's grip and onto the ground. The movement seems to bring Sam back to his senses.
"Dean—what—?"
Dean doesn't pause to answer him. He snatches up the evidence bag, sprints back to the fire, and upends the slippers into the flames. A great flare of sparks shoots up as the pink satin blackens. Only when he is certain that the slippers will burn into ash does Dean turn to Sam, who followed him back to the fireside.
"Want to explain to me what happened back there?" he asks, fixing Sam with an accusatory stare.
Sam looks abashed. "I don't know. I grabbed the slippers, and I was heading back to you, and—"
"—and you weren't paying attention, and the curse got to you," Dean finishes roughly. "Dammit, Sam, if I can't trust you with a pair of freaking ballet slippers how am I supposed to trust you with a monster?" His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and Sam gives him an odd look. Dean wills his expression to remain steady, though his insides are fluttering with fear. If the kid doesn't watch out, he's going to get himself killed, or taken, or whatever the warning in the journal was supposed to mean. "You don't even know how to take care of yourself."
Dean stops, presses his lips together, silently cursing as Sam's eyes narrow.
"I took care of myself just fine while I was at Stanford," he says coldly, and the words hit Dean like ghostly, invisible blows. He opens his mouth to speak—whether to apologize or continue arguing, he isn't sure—but before he can say anything, the shrill ring of a cell phone cuts through the air, making them both jump.
"Don't tell me that's your girlfriend again," Dean groans. He thought—or maybe hoped—that Sam and Jessica's "long-distance" relationship would fizzle out before long, but they still call each other with what he deems irritating frequency.
Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at it for a moment, his bemused expression telling Dean that whoever is on the other end of the line, it isn't Jessica. Sam flips the phone open to answer.
"Hello?"
Dean can hear a voice speaking through the cell phone's tinny speaker, but can't make out the words.
"Yes, that's me," Sam says in response to the other person's query. The muffled voice starts up again, and Sam's frown deepens. "What? Oh, God…." Even by the dying light of the fire and the glow of his flashlight, Dean can see that Sam's face has drained of color. "Yeah. No, I'll...we'll be there tomorrow. Thanks for calling." He hangs up, and stares at the phone with the same unfocused expression he had when the curse was working on him.
"Sam?" Dean asks tentatively.
Sam looks up at him, but the unfocused expression remains. "That was the police," he says. "From Utah. Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Tommy…they're dead."