Disclaimer: Only the idea is mine. Supernatural and the characters therein belong to the actors, writers, directors, producers, and technicians that bring it to life. Rated T (just in case).
This story has a few chapters, but I plan to publish one chapter per day, so the wait won't be too long. Reviews and criticism are always welcome if you have the time. Any typos, etc. are mine, because I didn't want to bother my fabulous reader (cause she is very, very busy). Thanks for reading!
"Behind Enemy Lines"
John re-arranged the items in the trunk of the Impala. He barked the usual orders at Dean as he readied himself to leave. "I won't be gone long. A week, maybe two. Check in with Bobby every few days, like always. You're going to have to do that on your way home from school, since there's no phone here. Outside the corner store is probably the best pay phone to use. You won't attract a lot of attention there. Take care of your brother." John glanced at his younger son, lingering on the stairs to the cabin.
Dean thought about the phone outside the corner store. Dangerous was his assessment. The few times he'd gone by the store there had been people hanging around, looking for drugs or sex or who knows what. It wasn't a place Dean wanted to go, never mind bring Sam. They would be exposed – targets.
He said, "The pay phone outside the library might be better. Sam's going to want to stop there every day anyway. No one will think twice about two kids using a phone outside a public library. It's a little closer to the house too, for when we have to walk to town on Saturday or Sunday. Would that be okay?" Dean presented his argument carefully, trying not to challenge his father while still changing his mind. John considered while he took the duffel from his older son and tossed in back seat. Dean waited.
With a curt nod, John said, "The library pay phone is acceptable. You're right that Sam will want to spend all his time there. Don't neglect his training – or yours – and make sure you protect the house. Lay salt lines, keep the weapons clean and loaded, don't draw any attention to yourselves. Enemy lines, Dean. Behind enemy lines. You've got to be both careful and smart."
John looked again at the sullen ten year old on the steps. "Sam, I know you've got the smart covered, but you need to be careful too. Do what Dean tells you and don't cause any trouble."
Anger flared in Sam's gaze and he started, "I never cause..." but Dean, positioned outside their father's line of sight, made a quick slash with his hand near his throat. Sam quieted. John turned to Dean suspiciously.
His eldest gave a quick nod and answered, "Yes, sir. We'll be fine, we know the drill."
"Don't get complacent," John said.
When Dean shook his head no, John relented. He studied Dean for a long, uncomfortable moment. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he opened his mouth, but shut it again without speaking.
Dean took a step forward and debated giving his father a hug, but John placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed. "You boys behave." He clasped Dean's shoulder a moment longer, smiling slightly. When he took a step toward the porch and Sam, his youngest son crossed his arms and moved back. Sighing, John studied his baby boy. Just before it became a staring contest, John turned to his eldest and said, "You're going be as tall as me pretty soon."
Dean grinned. "Already as tall as you, old man. Taller even. I'm going to be the tallest one in this family, just you wait."
Chuckling, John slid into the Impala's front seat. "You might want to have a word with Sam about that. I think he'll take that title before he's through. He's already 2 inches taller than you were at his age."
"Pipsqueak? Nah. He's an early bloomer. I'm big brother, always will be." A brilliant smile graced Dean's face as he held the door of the car open for his father. They both ignored Sam's annoyed huff behind them.
"We'll see." John waited for Dean to close the door so he could drive away, but Dean just stood there, fingers tight against the frame. After a moment, he said, "Son, it'll be fine," and gently tugged until Dean let go. John started the engine and said out the open window, "I'll see you both soon," then drove away.
Shoulders slumped, Dean said, "Take care of yourself, Dad," at the retreating bumper of the Chevy. He waved once and walked over to Sam. Slinging his arm over his brother's shoulders, Dean said, "C'mon kid. Let's get back inside. We can have Spaghettios and cookies for dinner."
Sam slid out from beneath Dean's arm. "Whatever. Just stop covering for him, Dean. He promised when he missed your birthday that he'd spend a few weeks with us after the next move. I should have know it was just a lie."
"Hey! Dad is going to help that family. He saves lives Sam. It's important," Dean said to his brother's retreating back.
Eyes alight with fury, Sam whirled around to face him. "I know it's important, Dean! But so are we! We're his sons! He's our father and he knows nothing about us. He doesn't know what we like or don't like, what we eat, what we're good at, what we think about, what we want to do when we grow up... All he knows is our names and where we stand in our training. There's more than that. There is!" Sam's anger burned itself out and he slumped on the porch step. He placed his forehead against his knobby knees and put his arms over his head. When he felt Dean's gentle touch on his shoulder, he leaned against his brother.
"I just worry, Dean. I worry that he won't come back. And sometimes I think maybe it would be better if he didn't. Then I hate myself for thinking that. I love Dad, I do. But every time he goes I get this sick feeling in my gut. When he takes you, it's even worse. I'm terrified that something will happen to you and I won't be there to help you. Like when you broke your arm last summer. I don't know what I would do if you weren't my brother."
"Puh-leeze. Listen, you little nerd, nothing is going to happen to me. Knock it off with that. I'm supposed to protect you, not the other way around – remember? I'm the big brother. So quit thinking you are going to get rid of me so easy, cause it ain't happening." Dean bumped shoulders with Sam, nearly pushing him over. "C'mon. Let's get inside. It's cold out here, and I for one, am hungry." He stood and held out a hand to Sam.
"You're always hungry," Sam muttered. But he let Dean shuffle him inside.
The first night after their father left, Sam woke up in a cold sweat. He could have sworn he heard footsteps on the wooden porch outside. A glance to the right showed him Dean was still asleep, so he relaxed. If Dean didn't wake up, then Sam knew he must've imagined it. Every strange sound woke Dean, especially when Dad was gone. Only Sam could walk around the room without waking his brother; even their father's tread was unfamiliar enough to trigger a wary wakefulness from Dean. So if Dean wasn't awake now, everything was fine. Sam curled under the covers and fell asleep.
Over the next weeks, little things continued to unnerve both boys. The bedroom windows were always in frostbitten in the morning. Once in a while, when they were outside training late and dusk darkened the sky, Sam would see a shadow from the corner of his eye. He ignored it, but noticed that Dean often turned to look as well. A few times, he woke in the middle of the night to find Dean standing by the icy window, peering out into the yard. Mutually ignoring what was happening, they triple checked the salt lines each night and hoped John would keep his promise to return soon.
One night, Sam woke suddenly, startled by an unfamiliar sound. Lying motionless in bed for a moment or two, he listened until he heard it again. The wind moaned outside, caressing the edges of the house. Slipping from beneath the warm covers, he padded to the window. He took care not to wake Dean, sleeping in the bed next to his. Pulling the dingy gingham curtain aside, Sam gazed out. Snow still fell, occasionally whipping miniature tornados of white across the barren yard. It was like a cotton candy machine he'd seen at the carnival last year when he and Dean snuck out of the motel while Dad was off hunting. Wisps of spun sugar twisting in circles, lighter than air on his tongue. Sam wondered if snow tasted as good as cotton candy and smiled. Maybe as good, if not as sweet. It started earlier that night, shortly after he and Dean got home from school. Dean's only interest was in whether or not they would have school in the morning. Sam spent an hour by the window in the kitchen watching, until Dean asked if he was looking for the Snow Queen.
Clouds blocked most of the moonlight, so Sam saw only the vague shapes of trees behind the small cabin. Swirls of snow danced on the windy gusts blowing through the yard. A rarely indulged imagination took flight with them. Imagination was bad on a hunt; Sam could frighten himself worse with 'what-ifs' than by actually confronting whatever monster they hunted. But this? There was nothing sinister in imagining himself out in the yard, surrounded by winds that could talk and snow spirits that wanted only to giggle and laugh in the chill. A burst of lightning arced overhead, illuminating the yard. The crack and rumble that followed shook the cabin deep through the bones of its walls. Dean snorted, rolled onto his stomach and tucked his head under the covers. Sam smiled again as the wind flung itself past the window where he stood, shrieking and seeping cold air through the joists to chill him. It was just so beautiful. Amazing really. Dad usually seemed to gravitate toward the warmer sections of the country once winter hit. This wasn't Sam's first time in a snowstorm, but it was probably the first time he could remember really understanding what the word blizzard meant. When he'd tried earlier to describe his awe, Dean laughed at him. Gently, rather than mockingly, but Sam was at the touchy age of ten, just starting to feel like he wasn't a kid anymore. Having his fourteen year old brother – no fifteen, Dean's birthday was two weeks ago – laughing at him was always annoying.
A second flash of lighting graced the sky, followed immediately by the percussive rumble of thunder. Sam's toes were getting numb, so he reluctantly decided to head back to bed. No school tomorrow. Even if there was, Dean would keep them home, rather than walk the three miles to get there. He checked the salt line on the windowsill reflexively and grasped the curtain to pull it shut. As he did, he noticed a figure standing along the tree line, about two hundred feet from the house. Frowning, he stepped closer to the window, pressing his face against the chilled glass. A branch snapped, succumbing to the weight of heavy snow, and fell, eerily silent, to the ground. The distraction was enough. Sam glanced away from the figure; when he looked back it was gone. He waited for few more minutes, searching the yard in each lightning flash. Eventually, he chalked it up to imagination and went back to bed. But he double checked every door, window lock, and salt line first.
And his hand stayed on the gun beneath his pillow as he slept.