A/N: Well, I have updated my multi-chapter story and posted two oneshots, so I hope you all are happy! Note: I'm not a medical professional and I did make up the creature in this story. Okay, enough said. Enjoy!
-Jaq
"I just think we should go this way," Sam insisted, pointing at the gaping cave with the part silver, part iron custom blade. His hair flopped back over his eyes and, with an annoyed twitch, he shooed it back away.
"The lore points to an underground tunnel or burrow, Sam, not a cave," John growled, his frayed patience almost gone. He pointedly walked past the cave, placing himself at the head of the three-man troop.
The wind whistled slightly ominously in the trees, and the muscles of all three Winchesters tense ever so slightly. Because, yeah, according to a dusty old tome, this particular creature prefered underground, but it could, theoretically, take to the ground of even the air if that suited its fancy.
Sam muttered something under his breath, shooting his father a glare. After their previous argument in the motel room, neither had much tolerance of the other. Dean was desperately trying to act as a buffer, but even he was wearing thin. At almlst sixteen, his brother no longer kept his opinions to himself, and his stubbornness equaled that of his father's.
"We could split up, cover more ground," Dean suggested after almost a minute of silence. "The thing can be killed with a mixture of silver and iron, and even though they were a bitch to make we've all got the blades."
John spun around. "Since when have you lost your mind, as well? First rule of hunting: stick together, no matter what. You understand?"
"Yeah. Sorry," Dean added as an afterthought.
It was Sam who spoke up next, outraged. "Don't split up? That's rich, coming from you. I don't remember you being anywhere near last week when Dean almost got killed by that poltergeist, or a month ago when I was almost a shapeshifter's next meal. You're fine telling us what to do, but when it comes to the mighty John Winchester, the rules just don't apply, do they?"
John stopped walking. "You watch your tone," he snapped. "I've had more experience than you, and I know what I'm doing."
"And I don't? Last time I checked, I wasn't half bad. Who got us out of that ghost scrape when the two of you were unconcious and bleeding? Me. I'm almost sixteen, sir, and I know what I'm doing, too. Now, if I were the offspring of the night or whatever, know where I'd go? The damn cave," Sam snarked back, holding his own. Any fear he might have had at his father's tone of voice had dissolved into anger, and he was nearly shouting withoht realizing it.
Jabbing his finger at Sam's chest, John glared back. "There's one leader here, and it isn't you," he warned, clearly trying to end the argument.
"Right, I forgot this was a dictatorship, sir. Or would your prefer Your Highness"
"Shut up, both of you," Dean suddenly hissed, drawing their attention back to their situation. "I think I found something."
The somthing turned out to be a patch of leaves that were clearly dead- they were shriveled up and pale brown as opposed to the greenish, damp leaves that they saw covering the rest of the foresr floor through their headlamps.
"The Nightling went this way."
They settled back into a tension-filled silence, following the trail of shriveled leaves and occasional dead salamander or frog. It led to a hole hidden in the shadow of the rock face, partially covered by a dead tree limb.
"Children of the Night," or Nightlings as they were often called, were extremely rare and extremely dangerous. How they came about was unclear, but their touch warranted death to anything, unless said thing was touching or wearing silver or iron. They were mainly passive, and only exited their burrows during the midnight hour on a cloud-covered moonless night in November, but they wreaked havok when one of them entered a town, which is why the Winchesters had to stop this one fromg getting that far.
Sam glanced at his watch, the hands glowing faintly green. "It's eleven forty-eight," he announced. "Since it's cloudy, you can't see the sliver of moon, so it'll be out just like yesterday."
Dean and John nodded. They formed a loose triangle around the burrow, waiting.
The wait wasn't long. At precisely 12:02 (Sam figured his watch had to be a little off), an inky black form crawled out of the burrow.
It stank. None of the Winchesters had ever hunted a Nightling before, and the lore didn't memtion the smell of rotting corpses.
Lunging in quickly, Dean stabbed with his blade. The creature was faster than anticipated, and instead of catching it in the ribs as intended, his serrated knife lodged itself in the Nightling's upper arm. The thing hissed, and an odorous steam rose from the cut.
Dean scampered away before he could be sliced open by the Nightling's sharp, claw-like fingernails.
John was next, his knife landing a painful blow to the monster's gut, but it wouldn't kill it. Instinctively, he left the knife in as his elder son had done. The silver-and-iron blade would hopefully eat away at the Nightling so much that, eventually, it would succumb.
Which left Sam holding the only weapon, and posing as the only remaining threat. The Nightling lunged, and Sam screamed as four claws raked down his chest. He stumbled backwards, Dean at his side almost immediately.
John spared a glance at his boys before picking up Sam's knife and hurling jt with all his might at the creature.
This time, his aim was spot-on, and the heavy blade buried itself into the Nightling's chest. With a bone-chilling wail, the monster dissolved into a pile of fine, foul-smelling ash.
Dean was cradling Sam's head, and had taken off both his shirts to try and stop the bleeding despite the chill November air.
Sam's breathing was erratic, and his heart pumped blood fast and furious through his veins, unwittingly helping him bleed out. "D'n," he gasped. "Th' Nigh'ling..."
"Dad ganked it, Sammy, it's okay, hold on for me, okay? You gotta cam down, you're making the bleeding worse. C'mon, can you stand? You're gonna need a ton of stitches, man. That's it, there you go. Lean on me, I gotcha. Dad, you got the weapons and the car keys? Go on ahead and drive her closer to us. Yeah, that's it, Sammy. The car's this way..." Dean rambled, his soothing tone masking the worry that gripped his gut whenever Sam got hurt. Himself hurt, he could deal. His dad hurt, he could mostly deal. But Sam was just a kid, and whenever he got hurt, Dean felt personaly responsible. Sammy was his responsibility. Don't let Sammy get hurt, protect Sammy, keep Sammy safe. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.
Sam moaned in pain, but he could walk with Dean's help. John drove the car down to meet them, and Dean gently laid his brother down in the back seat.
The drive back to the motel was quick, grim, and silent. Dean hauled Sam out of the car and down to their room, depositing him on the couch. Sam looked really small, despite his ever-growing frame, and sorta pale. He shouldn't look that pale, Dean thought.
His father's no-nonsense voice startled Dean out of his thoughts. "Take his shirt off and get the slashes cleaned up. I'll sterilize a needle and get some dental floss and whiskey. I'm going to need you to hold him down, understand?"
"Yes, sir," Dean said immediately. Sam and his dad might have the occasional (daily, whatever. It didn't matter.) fight, but John wasn't going to waste any time getting his youngest son back to full health.
Dean scrambled to do his assigned jobs, grabbing a grayish towl and dousing it with warm water. He had to cut Sam's shirt off, afraid of making him move too much and worsening the injury. Gently, he wiped the excess blood- there was a lot of blood. Too much blood- off, frowning when it continued to ooze out. It didn't gush like before, but it was far from stopping.
"Alright, Sammy, it's your lucky day, you get to get stone-drunk," Dean tried to joke. Sam just groaned and made a face, but he leaned up and chugged the whiskey like he was told. When Dean was satisfied his brother was completely drunk, he took away the bottle before he could give Sam alcohol poisoning. The kid was only fifteen, after all.
Even out of it, stitches hurt like a bitch, Dean knew from experience. He grimaced as he held Sam's frame steady while his dad worked away. In, out, with the needle, in, out, in, out. It took more than forty stitches total, but when John was done the bleeding had all but stopped. Sam dry-swallowed two Tylenol PM's, and within two minutes was out like a light.
"Dad," Den began, once he was positive Sam was asleep.
"Yeah?"
"About what Sam said earlier...he's just a kid, and he can't control his outbursts like that real well yet. Please...just don't let it get to you, if you can."
John ran a hand through his hair. "He's my son, but there are rules, and if he won't obey them then he's going to get himself hurt. It's for his own safety."
Dean resisted the urge to argue, like he always did. He never could stand up well to John like Sam could. His dad wasn't perfect, was a far cry from it, but Dean didn't have anyone else to look up to. So he nodded, said 'I know,' and let it drop.
"I'm going to bed," John said finally. Dean nodded, knowing he himself wouldn't. Not while Sam was badly injured and out for the count.
He sighed and pulled a chair up to the cracked faux-leather couch.
Dean carded his hand almost umconsiously through his brother's hair. John had always wanted Sam to get a buzz cut, something easier, but Sam's rebellious streak insisted on longer locks. Dean, of course, had sported a military cut since he was five.
Lying still on the couch, Sam seemed a lot younger than fifteen-going-on-sixteen, and Dean remembered the first time Sam had gotten seriously hurt on a hunt. It had been Dean's fault. Twelve-year-old him had made a stupid mistake, leaving his brother for mere seconds. It was only Sam's third actual hunt, and the eight-year-old had mostly stood in the corner in a ring of salt clutching an airgun that shot modified salt BBs as if his life depended on it.
Which it might have.
Dean had heard a door creak, and had left the room for barely ten seconds, but that was enough. When he reentered the salt line had been blown away in a weak spot, and Sam was emptying BB after BB into the seemingly empty room. All of a sudden, the ghost appeared from behind him and grabbed his neck. Dean ran to them, unable to use his shotgun for fear of hitting Sam. Finally, he managed to disspell the ghost by kicking him with his new iron-studded combat boots (which he'd stolen, but right then he was glad to have done it).
Sam had been okay, but for a while it had been touch-and go, the boy's airway having been crushed.
A noise from the couch brought Dean back to the present.
"Sammy? Hey, Sam, you doin' okay?"
"Deeeeaaan," Sam slurred. He was still drunk. At least he wasn't hungover yet.
"Yeah, I'm right here. How're the scratches?"
"'Vrythinggg...hurts. 'Specially chest. Dean, I think Dad hates me," Sam said, tears- of physical or emotional pain, Dean didn't know- filling his eyes.
"He doesn't. He's just trying to keep you safe," Dean repied automatically.
"Yeah, sure. Keepin' his kids safe, or his personal militia?"
"Sam, you're drunk. Dad does not hate you, and we are not his personal militia."
Sam's face clouded with anger. "Stop defending him! You know he hates me. I should just leave. I lied before, you know. I'm crap at hunting," Sam sobbed, grabbing Dean's shirt just like he had all those years ago.
"Sh, Sam. No you aren't. Sh..."
"I am! I never wanna do what Dad says and I always end up being the loose piece and Dean I failed."
Dean felt as if his heart might explode. "No, Sammy, you didn't. You're gonna be fine, and you're gonna keep being fine, ya hear me?"
Sam nodded, and Dean absentmindedly petted his younger brother's head until Sam fell asleep.
A/N 2: I hope you enjoyed! Please, please leave a review- I've never written a pre-series fic, so comments are especially welcome! Thanks for reading. -Jaq