Subject: !IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ
This message has been marked as urgent.
Most of us know Sam Winchester or have read his books and website. He's been a huge help to our community for many years but what you may NOT know is that he has MURDERED Gordon Walker who was our friend and fellow hunter. Sam is currently on the run with a demon. The demon is a knight of hell who was captured by Gordon.
We don't know if Sam is possessed or hipnotized or has just been won over by the demons but theres no doubt hes DANGEROUS. So is his knight who we think he "loves" which would be a SIN even if it wasnt a demon. It is important we BAND TOGETHER to take out this threat.
There are pictures of Sam and the knights vessel attached underneath. If you see them KILL THEM but DO NOT do it alone. The demon is VERY strong and we should not underestemate Sam either he killed Gordon after all. There are consequences for killing a hunter and dont we have enough to deal with without worrying about these two!
Thank you for doing your part to help us all and PLEASE FORWARD this email to AT LEAST two people to spread the word!
- E-mail recently circulated throughout the hunting community of the continental United States and Canada
The steam rising out of the insulated paper cup smelled so good Sam had to work hard not to tear up. He took it from Dean when he offered it to him, mumbling out a thank-you. It was warm even through the cardboard sleeve that Dean had actually remembered to put on this time, which was more than welcome. The heat was finally working in the car (sort of), but his fingers were still stiff, courtesy of the frosty Idaho morning.
"I cannot believe," Dean declared, slipping back into the driver's seat once he'd handed the coffee off, "how many flavors of coffee there are these days. And at a gas station. Seriously."
"This gas station's nicer than most." The community - which they were just passing through, because Dean thought it was too big - must be fairly well off. Sam took an experimental sip of coffee, then a larger one once he'd reassured himself that it wasn't going to burn a hole through his tongue. "Speaking of flavors, what is this?"
"French vanilla." Dean must be able to tell how much Sam liked it, because he looked extremely pleased with himself as he pulled away from the pump he'd just used to fill up the car. "And then they had all this stuff you could put in it, syrups and creamer and stuff, so I put in a splash of half-and-half and a couple squirts of caramel."
"I thought I tasted caramel," Sam said, nodding as he took another sip. It was like drinking a sundae, but not in a bad way. He couldn't get over how incredibly good at flavor combinations Dean was for somebody who couldn't taste any of them. He worked with what he could, now that he no longer had Sam's kitchen at his disposal.
There was comfortable silence for a while, not even music coming out of the speakers. There were no classic rock stations around here, at least not ones that were up to Dean's high standards, and the box of tapes (salvaged from Bobby's basement; most of them had originally belonged to Dean, according to him) had been knocked onto the floor during a particularly awkward lovemaking session yesterday afternoon - the Impala had not been designed with two men their size having sex in mind. Dean had yet to pick them all up.
Sam stared out the window, nursing his coffee. He'd forgotten the name of the town, despite the fact that they'd driven past a sign proclaiming it less than twenty minutes ago, but it looked like he'd been right about it being well off. The houses were nice. New or restored. They were separate from the stores, too. He frowned slightly; he hadn't spent a lot of time in places like this, because monsters didn't tend to settle in wealthy communities very often. Not monsters that caused problems, at least. He wondered why that was.
"So now that you've had your go-juice," Dean began, breaking into Sam's thoughts, "you awake enough to talk?"
Sam brought the frown back out. "Well, yeah," he said. "But I was before, too." He was only twenty-five, and he'd worked very hard, while living at the cabin, to wean himself off the gallons of coffee he'd had to drink to function in high school. He was tired without it, sure, but it wasn't a necessity.
Then again, he had been drinking a lot more lately. Because, ironically, he hadn't been sleeping as well as he had back when his leg had given him grief all night.
"Good to know." Dean nodded, eyes staying on the road. They probably didn't need to, between his reflexes and the light traffic, but Sam found it comforting anyway. He also appreciated the fact that Dean was probably only doing it to make him feel better. "Any preferences as to where we go next?"
"You mean you're not gonna just choose for us this time?" Sam felt a yawn coming on and hid it with another swallow of coffee. "Lemme think. I can't say 'somewhere cooler,' since the weather changed." And since Dean had finally given in and headed north. "I guess...someplace with parks? Or trails, at least. I'm getting tired of running on the side of the road."
"You're getting good at that," Dean commented. "You're staying out longer. And I haven't asked, but you haven't said anything, either - you still feel sick during? Or afterwards?" Sam shook his head. "Well, that's good."
"Yeah. It's..." Sam searched for something to say that wouldn't come out sounding weird. It'd sucked starting out, just like he'd been expecting, with what he remembered from when he'd started running outside of the standard training his dad put him through. It hurt, especially the day after; Dean had helped him out of bed on that first morning, even though Sam would have been perfectly fine with just lying there and wallowing in his agony for the rest of the day. He got nauseous. Bent over and dry-heaved on the shoulder of a deserted road, once. And, of course, he looked awful in shorts. He'd hated his legs even before a huge chunk had been taken out of one. It was a huge relief when the first freeze came and he could wear long pants without risking heatstroke.
It got better, though. Everything got better, just so long as you did it every day - or at least every day you weren't spending ten hours in a car. So now he didn't throw up anymore and he didn't walk like he was ninety the morning after he went running. Other things had changed, too. He was getting to know his left leg again as more than a burden and a source of pain, to trust his weight to it even unconsciously. His feet were planted more firmly, more equally, on the ground. He thought he might be sleeping better. He was definitely more patient with Dean, and it was getting easier and easier to hold onto the tranquility he felt when running after he was finished.
Between this and what he was doing with Dean, the weapons training and the sparring and the quizzing him on basic lore (which he did not need, having literally written the book on most of this stuff, but Dean seemed to get some kind of kick out of it, so...), he felt - stronger. More competent. Like, maybe, he could actually defend himself now, or hold his own on a hunt. Maybe.
At the very least, he wasn't anxious about Dean having failed to retrieve his cane from his cabin anymore.
"I'm doing better," Sam finally decided on.
"Yeah, you're not limping nearly as much anymore," Dean agreed. "Which is just fantastic. And your stance is way better when you're shooting. Not to mention your aim. Just like I told you." He offered Sam a smile, which Sam returned. He'd been right ,and it didn't hurt to admit that every once in a while. Plus, it really had felt good, the first time Dean had shown him a target with most of its bullet holes clustered in the center. "You're feeling better about that now, right? About guns?"
"I really am," Sam admitted. "I'm feeling better about everything, really. Finally." He took another pull from the paper cup in his hands. It felt like it was about half-full. "It just takes a while to get back in the saddle."
"Nature of the beast," Dean agreed sagely. There was a beat of silence, then he said, "Once we get to this trail-place of yours, wherever that winds up being, we'll have to find the library."
"How come?" God, did he ever have mixed feelings about libraries.
"Well, 'cause you said the internet sucks at motels, and you can take your computer and get on it at a library, right?" When Sam nodded, he continued. "And I know they've got other computers at libraries. So, if you can teach me how to use one, I can help you out."
"With...what, exactly?" Sam asked, shaking his head and squinting at him. He really didn't use his laptop all that much. He was afraid to check his website or his e-mail, so mostly he just connected to motel wifi every couple days to take a look at the headlines coming out of the east. They were experiencing a crime wave over there, along with a lot of unseasonable storms. That was the civilian explanation, at least.
Sam was a little suspicious. Up until now, Dean hadn't shown much interest in his computer or the internet, which he'd always thought was strange for a guy who'd died in the eighties. Maybe he'd gotten all his freaking out over new technology out of his system back when he'd first crawled out of Hell. Maybe he'd never been told the World Wide Web was a third porn. That seemed more likely, Sam thought to himself as he raised his cup to his mouth again. He doubted Dean's handlers would have felt the need to teach a Knight of Hell how to Google smut. They hadn't even told him he could lay curses.
"Finding a hunt."
Sam's latest mouthful of coffee caught somewhere in the back of his throat, then hurt like hell going down when he forced himself to swallow again. A coughing fit hit him hard once his airway was clear, and he struggled not to spill what little was left in the paper cup as he sucked in air through a shrunken trachea, fighting the urge to double over. He would've set it down, but the car didn't have any cupholders and he knew it wouldn't be safe on the floor.
"I wouldn't've sprung it on you like that if I'd known you were gonna choke." Dean sounded concerned, and when Sam opened watering eyes, he realized he'd pulled over. They were idling right in front of someone's driveway. He'd probably been about to pound him on the back before realizing he wasn't actually dying, too, judging from the way he was just barely putting one hand back on the wheel. "Wrong pipe?"
"Yep," Sam managed croakily. It felt like most of what he'd just swallowed had wound up in his lungs, though he knew it hadn't actually.
"That sucks." Dean looked genuinely sympathetic. But Sam doubted he really remembered the pain of swallowing wrong while drinking, even if that'd been something he was tortured with in Hell - which was unlikely. "Thanks for not doing a spit-take all over the car, though."
"Right. Yeah. That was definitely first on my mind," Sam replied dryly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Dean guided the car back onto the road, then reluctantly sipped at the remainder of his coffee. Ironically, drinking more made him hurt less.
He waited for Dean to say something else about hunting as they continued on through the town, but he didn't. There was silence in the car as the houses started to thin out around them, and Sam eventually realized Dean was waiting for more of an answer from him than just sputtering. So he cleared his throat and said, "I didn't choke 'cause you mentioned finding a hunt."
"Okay."
"I really didn't. It was just a coincidence."
"I believe you."
Sam didn't think he did, but it wasn't worth arguing about. "I mean, sure, it surprised me." He looked out the window rather than at Dean. The houses just kept getting further and further apart, so they must be on their way out of town. "I hadn't even thought about it. I guess I've just been focused on the training and not what it's for." He wondered where, exactly, Dean was going, considering they hadn't picked out a real destination yet. "Do you...think I'm ready?"
"Do you?" Dean returned.
Sam drained the dregs of his coffee, thick and sweet in a way that almost made him gag with caramel syrup, instead of answering right away. He didn't know. He sure as hell didn't feel ready for a hunt, even an easy one like a ghost or a very amateur witch. It'd been only a few weeks since the top of the hill in Nevada, a few months since he'd gotten his leg back. And before that, more than a few years since his last, bloody, disastrous, tragic hunt. In his head, he was still a researcher and a writer, only comfortable with monsters when they were in captivity. His body still seemed to reflect that, too. He knew he'd kept fit, and he knew he'd managed to put on some muscle - especially in his legs, seeing as his calves were finally looking more or less equal. But not much. He was still slimmer than Dean, whose muscles were entirely for show.
He just didn't look like a hunter, in his opinion. Or think like one. And he definitely didn't feel like one.
"No," Sam told Dean eventually. It came out sounding more like an admission than a statement. "I don't. I think I need more time, to practice."
"How much?" Dean asked.
"Huh?" Sam hadn't been expecting the question.
"How much more time d'you think you need?" Dean clarified, looking at Sam.
"Uh..." Just how the hell was he supposed to quantify something like that? Dean was still looking at him, and he was doing that not-blinking thing that seemed to happen way too often. It was clear he wanted an answer, so Sam scrambled to come up with something. "A few more months?" he tried, tentatively.
"Why not make it a solid year?" Dean asked. Sam was surprised, mostly because he didn't hear any sarcasm in his voice. Which didn't mean he wasn't feeling it, but his green eyes - blazing like emeralds under glass in the early-morning sunlight - were unreadable.
"That'd be okay," Sam risked. Dean nodded.
"You'd definitely be stronger by then," he agreed. He went back to looking at the road, which was still comforting. "And maybe you'd have gotten past some of the things that are eating you up right now, too." Sam remained silent, picking at the dead skin on his lower lip with his teeth. "But probably not. Those're things you carry with you for your whole life. Longer, if you're real unlucky." He was almost smiling. Sam wondered if he was talking about himself. "You won't feel like you're ready a year from now, or two, or ten. No amount of training'll change that."
Sam swallowed. "The way things are going, the kind of stuff we can hear about what's been happening back east, I doubt I have ten years," he said, rather that admitting that Dean was right.
"There's a thought," Dean agreed. "They didn't tell dumb grunts like me anything about the big picture, of course, but I know the plan allows for a whole lotta carnage. There might be a deadline on closing the Gates, otherwise everything could be overrun. All those hunters who want your head on a stick tortured to death, or maybe kept around. Lilith and Alastair both like pets. That what you want?"
"No!" Sam snapped. He was too pissed about Dean even asking if he'd be okay with that to seize on the fact that he'd mentioned two Lords, both of whom he probably knew far too personally.
"Didn't think so." Dean sighed through his nose, and Sam, glaring at him, saw his features softening. "None of us get to choose, or wait 'til we're ready to jump in. It just gets shoved straight at us."
"Not everyone," Sam pointed out, feeling stubborn. "Sometimes somebody'll pick up on everything without any kind of tragedy. They aren't motivated by revenge or having to save somebody, so they can take all the time they need to get outfitted and - "
"Yeah, I don't count those," Dean interrupted. "You know the morons who see one shifter shedding its skin and decide to play van Helsing don't last long. They don't take any of it seriously 'til somebody winds up dead, and it's usually them."
"Fine," Sam said. "Okay. Nobody gets to choose. I know I didn't the first time; I was brought up in the life. I wasn't ever normal. Neither were you." Defiance seeped involuntarily into his voice as he demanded, "So why can't I choose this time? Now that I've got the luxury?"
"'Cause you don't," Dean replied. "Neither of us do. Hell, Sam, you think I'm looking forward to this? I don't wanna go through all the trouble of finding and working a case just to hurt something. There're easier ways to do that."
Sam struggled to keep his face blank. Dean was a demon; that was a perfectly normal and healthy desire for something like him to have. He should just be grateful he'd been doing such a good job of keeping it in check so far.
"And I can tell you that I'm not crazy about the idea of you being in that kinda danger," Dean went on. "No matter how tough I know you are, or how well I know I can protect you. But you've got your heart set on doing the Trials and saving the world, and I know I'm not gonna get you to change your mind. So I can at least keep you from charging into the first one totally fresh. Which means hunting." He glanced at him, just out of the corner of his eye. "And the longer you stay outta the game, the easier it's gonna get to talk yourself out of it. To give up. And while I honestly don't give a shit about anything that isn't you or me - pretty sure we've established that - you do. You even care about people who think you belong in Hell, and if you don't do everything you can to save them and everybody else, you're gonna wind up hating yourself." His hands moved on the steering wheel, loosening and slipping down towards the bottom. "And I don't want that for you."
Sam looked at him, at the side of his face, and swallowed for the second time before looking away and letting his hair fall over his face. It hurt again, like when he'd nearly choked on the coffee earlier, but the pain was different. He was swallowing past a lump this time.
He peered out from under the dark fringes of his hair, at the empty paper cup that was still in his hand, the ridge of the bottom resting on his thigh. He thought about crushing it, but doing that seemed stupid and ineffective. Plus, he just wasn't all that angry anymore. Not even at Dean, for being so frequently and infuriatingly right about him and what would happen.
What he felt, mostly, was fear. It was frustrating because of its sheer familiarity, and it would've been humiliating to force it out through his tight throat. So, instead, he just stayed quiet and focused on it. He was afraid of getting hurt. Of ruining the gift Dean had given him before he'd even really gotten used to it again. Of letting someone innocent die. Of making the wrong call. Of screwing up. Of losing Dean, stupidly enough, even though he could probably count the ways to kill a Knight on one hand. Of proving everyone who hated him right, when they talked about how weak he was, how cowardly and useless, how much of a traitor. He'd never actually had anybody say that last one to his face, but he was sure they were saying it by now.
Maybe there was a little bit of self-pity mixed in there with the fear. And already some self-loathing, even though Dean had predicted that he wouldn't hate himself unless he didn't start hunting sometime soon.
"Sam." Dean's voice was so soft that he could barely hear it over the audible growl of the engine. He'd felt it; of course he had. That'd been Sam's intention. "I can promise - promise - that this won't be anything like your last hunt. Or mine." He reached for Sam, who closed his eyes when Dean's callused hand closed over his own and squeezed gently. "There'll be no wendigos, no hellhounds, no isolated forests. We'll choose an easy one, we'll do our research, and then we'll work together and take it slow. Nothing'll go wrong."
"You can't promise that nothing'll go wrong," Sam protested quietly, shaking his head and keeping his eyes closed.
"Guess not," Dean admitted. "But I can promise I'll do my best to keep it from happening."
Sam opened his eyes now, turning his head in order to look out the window. They were still moving, and they'd left the town behind. There were no houses anymore; just flat landscape. The plains were filled with shards and furrows of shiny black rock, broken up by scrub brush and stunted little trees. He hadn't had any idea there were lava fields in Idaho, but he guessed it made sense. Yellowstone wasn't too far away, and it was just one big volcano.
"And I know that you're gonna do your best," Dean continued. Sam finally looked at him again, a laugh that really didn't match his current mood but that he couldn't hold back anyway bubbling out of him.
"You've got a lot of faith in me," he observed.
"You're the only thing I've got faith in," Dean replied. His voice had the flat ring of truth as he turned in order to make eye contact with Sam. Sam swallowed, holding it just long enough for it to start getting a little uncomfortable, at which point Dean asked, "We're having a chick-flick moment, aren't we?"
"Little bit," Sam agreed.
"Right." Eyes back on the road, Dean blinked, and they went black in the light that was now pouring in through the windshield. Sam just flipped his visor down and made a mental note to remind Dean to change them back if they ran into any traffic. Most people probably wouldn't notice, but they didn't need to risk causing an accident. "Let's try not to do that too much."
Sam snorted.
"Anyway," Dean said, forcefully, "I'm not gonna decide for you. Especially since you seemed so pissy about me always choosing where we go. This has gotta be your choice, 'cause you're gonna wind up resenting me no matter what I try and make you do."
Sam rested an elbow on the car door and cradled the side of his face in his hand. Was it comforting, creepy, or offensive how well Dean knew him, or at least thought he knew him? He needed more time to figure that out. And it probably didn't matter right now.
"Take as much time as you need to decide." The radio suddenly switched on, staticky music and voices pouring out, volume and content jumping around as the knobs twirled. Even though Dean still had both hands on the wheel. Sam narrowed his eyes at it where it was set into the dash; he was still getting used to the whole "telekinesis" thing. The whole "demonic powers" thing in general, really. "Make sure you're happy with it."
Sam sighed, straightening up and shifting his position. The empty coffee cup, which he was tired of holding, went between his knees. He'd toss it the next time he had Dean pull over at a rest stop to allow him a bathroom break. It'd be easier to just drop it on the floor, but Dean would throw a fit. Like Sam could tell he wanted to do when the radio got steadily fuzzier, all the stations blurring together as they moved out of range and the reception weakened, and he finally just shut it off with a grunt of frustration.
"Happy," Sam repeated softly.
Well, to be happy, he'd have to be not doing...this. Hunting, Trials, hiding both from demons and from people he'd at least considered allies, if not friends, several months ago. And he couldn't just choose to turn his back on it all, because he was wired with an overwhelming sense of duty and he knew he'd drive himself crazy with guilt if he hunkered down somewhere with Dean and played house. So he'd have to live in a world where closing the Gates of Hell wasn't a necessity, which would mean demons and monsters didn't exist, which was just the most stereotypical hunter wish ever. Not to mention that it was a lot to ask for, even if he hadn't suspected that living in that kind of world meant he wouldn't have ended up with Dean.
With things as they were, and not likely to change anytime soon, the best he could hope for was not to feel awful about himself. That meant completing the Trials as fast as possible, and he did agree with Dean: he couldn't go green into the first one. Hellhounds were nasty; he needed to get his sea legs back before he faced any.
"I want to hunt," Sam said finally. "Now. We can start looking as soon as we get to the next town."
Dean looked at him, and Sam couldn't tell if he was surprised by his decision or not. "Sure?"
"Yeah." Sam couldn't help thinking that it should've felt more momentous, saying that. After all, he was pretty much sealing his fate. He was returning to hunting after years on the bench, when he'd been at peace with that being something that would never happen. But it didn't feel like much at all.
Maybe that'd change when he actually laced up his boots and grabbed a gun for something other than target practice; maybe it'd be better if it didn't.
"Better start looking for a town with parks and trails and a library, then," Dean replied. "A small one. That's everything you wanted, right?"
"Yeah - you don't know of any places like that?" Sam asked.
"Not like I've got Idaho memorized," Dean pointed out, glancing slightly at him and arching a brow. His eyes were still black. "'Specially not anymore."
Sam huffed, then twisted in his seat, going up on his knees in order to lean over the back. He dug through the road maps, some loose and some bound in books, in a box on the floor of the back seat. Both he and Dean had cell phones, but they were way too cheap to have any kind of internet capability. And he couldn't use his laptop in the car, though Dean had asked him to before; explaining why he couldn't just get online anywhere had been a pain in the ass, maybe because he didn't understand it all that well himself, either. So that just left old-fashioned, impossible-to-refold maps.
It was nostalgic and painful at the same time, sitting in the passenger seat and reading off a road map. He'd started acting as his father's navigator as soon as he'd learned how to read, which had somehow also qualified him to sit in the front seat. Sam grabbed a map of Idaho as a whole and a booklet that went into more detail on some of its cities with the hand that didn't have an empty cup in it, then turned again and dropped back onto the leather, one leg folded comfortably beneath him.
He hadn't missed how Dean didn't react much to his decision to go ahead and start looking for a hunt right now, just like he hadn't felt much when he'd made that decision. Either it hadn't surprised him or he just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. That did seem like something he'd do, try and keep things as normal as possible while Sam made the transition back into a lifestyle he'd been forced out of while he was still a teenager, and Sam was grateful even if Dean wasn't doing it consciously. Leaving hunting had been so huge and awful and traumatic for him that it just felt good for the return to be quiet. For only him and Dean to know about it and neither of them to care very much. He could do his part, too.
Sam spread the maps out on his thighs, trying not to take up too much of Dean's driving space as they spilled over onto his side of the car, and spent some time studying the little dots along the red and black lines of the roads that indicated small towns. The sun rose a few degrees in the sky, so they weren't driving into it anymore. Sam just barely heard Dean's eyes switch back to human colors over the admittedly-soothing purr of the engine, and even then only because he'd been straining his ears to try and catch it.
He opened the booklet after a few minutes. With the sun coming up, he was finally starting to feel uncomfortably warm, so he shrugged out of his jacket. It was a Carhartt - bulky and, because it was brand-new, stiff. It took some clever acrobatics, considering everything else he was juggling, and he was pretty sure Dean intervened telekinetically at some point to help keep him from dumping everything onto the floor. At any rate, he got settled again and began flipping through the booklet, glancing back and forth between it and the bigger map.
"Okay," he announced eventually. "I think I've found a place, but it's back in the other direction..."
"Got your cell phone?"
"Uh huh."
"Wallet?"
"Yep."
"Water?"
"I'm not going far. I'll rehydrate when I get back to the room."
"You sure?" He wasn't even looking at him, but Sam could tell that Dean was frowning. "You need a crazy amount of water to keep all your squishy parts...y'know, squishy."
"I'm aware. But if I drink too much before or while I'm running, everything'll get too squishy."
"You'll puke?"
"I'll puke."
"I am so glad I haven't seen you do that yet."
"Yeah. Me, too."
Sam tugged the loops of his running shoes' laces, making sure they were tight, then straightened up and pushed himself off the bed. The shoes had rubbed horrible blisters onto his feet the first few times he'd worn them, refusing to yield, but now they were broken in. They were more comfortable than his boots. Still not as comfortable as wearing nothing at all, but he couldn't run unpaved roads in bare feet.
"All right," he announced. "I think I'm ready to go." He gave Dean, sitting at their room's small table with his arms folded over his chest, a little wave. "See you later. Have fun at the library."
Dean snorted. "Yeah. Right." He twisted at the waist to reach for Sam's laptop, already strapped into its padded case. "Pretty sure that old bag at the front desk is gonna exorcise me if I try and use the printer again. Told me yesterday I'm lucky she isn't making me pay for all the paper I've used so far."
"Okay, so, one, I don't think she'll be there today. And two, just...don't use the printer, then." Privately, Sam had been wondering why Dean kept on handing him paper copies of online articles. He'd shied away from all of them so far, recognizing the weird stuff they talked about as the work of something he either wasn't comfortable hunting yet or that wasn't even their kind of monster, so they just went straight into the nearest recycling bin. "You're using my laptop, so keep the articles you find open in another tab or bookmark them or something. Then show me when I get there."
"Yeah, okay." Dean paused. "I don't remember how to do either of those things."
Sam bit back a sigh of irritation, even though doing that was basically useless: Dean would be able to feel that he was annoyed with him. (Although his expression didn't change.) They'd been here, in the town Sam had chosen, for a couple of days. It was called Bellevue, and a large portion of the first of those days had been taken up by a crash course in computers for Dean. Both Sam's laptop and the dinosaurs at the library, because they were definitely different. He'd never taught somebody how to use a computer before, especially someone who had something like less than zero experience with them, and it'd forced him to realize that he was kind of an awful teacher. In this area, at least. He was impatient, he couldn't answer a lot of Dean's questions, and a lot of the stuff Dean found most confusing, Sam just took for granted. Like file names and hyperlinks and search terms. So it really wasn't Dean's fault that he wasn't computer-literate yet.
"Okay," Sam said patiently, crossing the room. He grabbed the other chair at the table and dragged it over next to Dean's, dropping into it as he unzipped the laptop case. He pulled the Velcro straps free and lifted the computer out, flipping the screen up and setting it on the table. "I'll give you a refresher real quick."
"You don't have to," Dean said quickly. "I'm sure I can figure it out when I get there. You should go before it starts warming up outside."
"It's fine. It's not a big deal," Sam replied, tracing swirls on the track pad with his index finger to wake the computer up. He didn't say it, but he didn't want Dean messing around aimlessly on his laptop. He might accidentally download a virus or a toolbar or something. "This won't take too long."
He logged into the account he'd set up for Dean. The desktop, with its generic background image, was pretty bare. He hadn't set many icons out for him, wanting to keep things as simple as possible. Dean hadn't seemed to mind. Sam double-clicked on Chrome, newly installed as of about eight months ago, and then made a conscious effort to keep himself from impatiently tapping his fingers on the tabletop. The wifi at this motel sucked. It was even worse than dialup, which Sam had suffered through for years, having been a teenager in the late nineties. That was the main reason they were spending so much time at the library.
The Google homepage finally came up, much to Sam's relief. "So, to open a new tab, you hit this little square over here. The one with the plus sign on it." He demonstrated. "To open something in a new tab, right-click on the link, then hit 'open in new tab' when the menu comes up. Or hold the 'control' button - on the keyboard, right here - " He pointed. " - before you click. That works, too." He moved his cursor. "To bookmark something ,go ahead and hit this star up here while you're on the page. That'll put it in this list here, so you'll be able to go back and find it anytime you want. Even if you close the tab." He glanced at Dean, who was staring intently at the screen. "Got it?"
"...yyyes."
"If you don't understand, just call me. I might be able to help over the phone." Probably not; he was never going to land a job in tech support. He also wasn't sure whether or not he'd have cell service. "Otherwise, just wait. I'll be at the library in an hour or two."
"Right." Dean softly closed the laptop, then put it back in the case and started strapping it in again. He was gentler with it than Sam was. "Guess I'll see you then. Have a good run."
"Thanks," Sam told him, and pushed himself up out of the chair. He headed for the door, opened it, and stepped out.
It was cold out here. Below freezing, probably, seeing as everything was covered in a thick layer of fluffy-looking white frost. The sun had yet to clear the horizon, but its light was slowly changing the sky from a deep violet to pink. Sam had to close his eyes for a second to dam up the tears that the harsh air had triggered, and the first weak rays of dawn were stamped in negative on the undersides of his lids. He was glad he'd opted to pull a hoodie on over his usual T-shirt.
It was fall, though, not winter. The temperature was already rising, so he didn't have to worry about getting frostbite or burning his lungs. But for now it was still chilly, so he flipped his hood up, over his ears and the high ponytail he'd pulled most of his hair into, and shoved his hands into his front pocket.
Bellevue was rural. There weren't that many parks - not ones meant for running in, at least - but there were plenty of trails. Or maybe poorly-maintained back roads Sam used as trails, but whatever. It got him away from cars and gave him somewhere to run. That was where he was heading now. It wasn't at all far from where he and Dean were staying.
He stopped where asphalt transitioned to gravel, and then dirt. A faded sign full of pellet gun holes stated that motorized vehicles were strictly prohibited, and a much newer one that'd been screwed to the pole directly underneath it warned of rough road ahead. Sam kept his eyes on them so his head would stay steady as he shifted into a deep lunge, wincing at the burn in his thighs and hamstrings. He held it for about a minute, then switched legs. He went through a few more stretches once he was finished with that. He'd had his share of cramps and pulled muscles when he was younger, until one of the soccer coaches he'd had in middle school had finally hammered home the connection between preparing before he ran and not wanting to die afterwards.
Sam could've stretched back at the motel. There was plenty of room, and it was a lot warmer inside, but he knew he looked stupid doing this. Dean probably wouldn't make fun of him, but Sam didn't want to force him to struggle with the powerful temptation.
Once he was feeling reasonably limber, his body warm, loose, and ready to move under his sweats, he took off. The air burned slightly in his airways, and his breath puffed out white in front of him, but it got harder and harder to see as the day got steadily warmer. His heartbeat, his breathing, and the rasp and crunch of his soles on the uneven ground was loud in his ears. Maybe it would've been nice to listen to music. But he never had before, and he didn't have anything he could use for it. Just like his twenty-dollar pay-as-you-go cellphone couldn't go on the internet, it couldn't play music, and he wasn't about to dig into his very meager funds for an iPod. Maybe it was for the best, seeing as how he wasn't sure headphones or earbuds would even stay put. After all, it wasn't like Sam jogged. He ran.
He was built for distance running. His math teacher at the last high school he'd attended, who'd doubled as the track coach, had told him that, and it still rang true. Long-legged and leanly muscled, he felt awkward and gangly for the first couple minutes or so. But once he found his rhythm and his heart rate evened out, it felt like he could keep going forever.
He'd just hit that point in this morning's run. Trees blurred by on either side of him, the frost on their colorful leaves glittering as the rising sun burned it off. His stride was smooth. It felt less like his feet were hitting the ground and more like the ground was pushing them up. He might as well have been flying.
Everything was beautiful, and everything was loud and quiet at the same time. And then, of course, there was the best part: when his body was moving this fast, almost every muscle group working, his mind more or less ground to a halt. There was no fear, no anxiety, no guilt. He didn't stress about his leg. It became just another part of his body, and worked exactly as it was supposed to. He never limped when he was running.
When Sam first started doing this again, Dean showed no interest in going with him. He still didn't. It was a relief - he wanted to do almost everything else with Sam, so he'd been dreading telling him he'd rather not have him along. Not to mention unsure how, exactly, he was going to do that. Maybe the idea of running just didn't appeal to Dean, seeing as how he could literally run forever with no problem. Maybe he could sense that Sam needed some time alone, though he didn't think his empathy worked like that. The reason didn't really matter. He'd probably be talking if he were here, since exertion didn't affect his breathing. Sam loved him, he'd told him that plenty of times, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the peace that came when he was running by himself.
It could only last for so long, though. He got to revel in the feeling of perfect calm for a good while, then other things started creeping in. The fatigue in his legs, the aching in his chest, the sweat between his skin and his clothes. He was starting to get really thirsty, too, though he stood by his decision not to bring any water along.
Sam kept going for a while, until all the discomforts stopped being kind of pleasant and just got annoying. When that happened, he slowed to a jog, then a trot, then a walk. He was breathing hard and he was tired, but not so much that he had to sit down or bend over with his hands on his knees. Like he'd told Dean in the car, he didn't get sick anymore, either (unless he drank too much water), and he was very proud of that. Probably too proud, but he hadn't had a lot of wins lately, so he was gonna cut himself a break on this one.
The path he'd followed was a loop, taking him out away from town and then bringing him back, as long as he stayed on it and didn't follow any of the smaller ones that branched off it and led deeper into the country. He might've turned onto one of those and started running again once he'd recovered, but he knew both that he shouldn't push himself too hard and that Dean was waiting for him. So he walked the remaining length of the trail, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie as he went as soon as his breathing had gotten a little slower. It'd been just under an hour, Sam saw when he checked it, and he didn't have any missed calls from Dean, either. That was encouraging. Hopefully it meant that he hadn't run into any problems with the laptop and not that he'd smashed it in a fit of frustration.
Sam put his phone away as he approached Bellevue. He was feeling better now, and he was once again tempted to start running again. He'd just grab a quick shower back at the motel and then head to the library, though. He'd probably had enough of a workout for today. The run, and the cold air, had definitely woken him up.
That alertness would fade once he was in the hot, stuffy little library, though. Reading through articles from all over the country - or the western section, at least - that were more or less identical. It might be a good idea to have some caffeine in his system. The trail he was on came out in the parking lot of a gas station; he was almost to it. He could buy a coffee there. Maybe put some -
A loud burst of laughter suddenly derailed Sam's thoughts. He blinked, realizing he was closer to the parking lot than he'd realized. He could see cars through the trees that separated him from it, arranged in a haphazard circle in blatant violation of the yellow-painted spaces. There were people, too, sitting on the hoods or standing in the middle of the circle. Of course he couldn't make out their faces, but he could see a lot of flannel and denim, and from their voices - which were coming to him loud and clear - he could tell they were all men.
Lumber guys, maybe. Or oil field workers. Was there even any oil around here? Probably. It seemed like the west was covered in wells and rigs.
"Hoo, boy," one of them said as the laughter wound down, and an involuntary image of him wiping an exaggerated tear from the corner of his eye popped into Sam's mind. "That was a good one...seriously, though." A pause. "Would any you've guessed he swung that way?"
"Well, I never met him in person." Somebody else spoke up. "Never saw a reason to. But, I mean, I heard he was kinda quiet, real into books, like to keep that place of his clean. And, far as I know, never had any girls up there, neither, 'sides that ginger dyke. All that points to this sorta thing, don't it? More or less?"
There was a low murmur of agreement, and Sam pressed his lips into a thin line. It was pretty obvious what they were discussing. It also wasn't any of his business, though, and it wasn't like homophobia was new or shocking to him. He did feel bad for their friend, or whatever he was to them. Hopefully neither he nor the "ginger dyke" knew they were being talked about behind their backs. Or maybe it'd be better if they did.
"Yeah, only girl up there was him - heard all about how long he kept his hair."
Despite himself, Sam felt heat rising in cheeks that the morning air had numbed, and flipped his hood up to cover his own hair. Just a precaution.
"That ain't strictly true," the first speaker pointed out. "He had lots of girls up there. Sort-of girls."
"Yeah, I always figured he was using those for stress relief," a third man commented. "I mean, I would've. If I were in his position."
"I used to thank Jesus every day I wasn't." And that was a fourth one. Sam would be able to see them all soon. He was on a bend in the path now that would lead him out from behind the trees. "I mean, only one leg. Goddamn."
Phantom pain ticked mechanically up Sam's left calf, from his heel to the back of his knee.
"He ain't missing a leg," one of them corrected. "He just can't use it."
"Last I saw him, he just had a bad limp."
"Oh, yeah. That was it."
Sam stumbled, having to slap a hand against a tree in order to keep himself from twisting an ankle. He swallowed, and the sides of his throat - suddenly dry as sandpaper - rasped painfully against each other.
They couldn't be talking about him. It was impossible. It had to be a coincidence. His palm stung as he forced himself to keep walking forward, but he didn't see any blood or scrapes when he glanced down at it.
He'd just stepped out into the parking lot when one of the men, maybe the second one he'd heard talk, commented, "Wonder if that's what made the demon take such a shine to him in the first place. In my experience, they like that kinda thing. Y'know, the wounded, cripples. Stuff that's...wrong."
It felt like someone had broken a water balloon of near-freezing water over Sam's scalp, allowing it to wash down over his whole body. There was a hollow, weightless clenching in his stomach and at his tailbone. In the small of his back, his kidneys hurt, almost like he'd been kicked in them. He blurrily wondered if so much adrenaline was being dumped into his bloodstream that the glands were cramping.
Oh, god.
So many occupations wore denim and flannel. Lumberjack. Roughneck. And hunter, which he hadn't even considered. Hadn't allowed himself to.
"Way I heard it, he took a shine to it." Their conversation was still going. "Had to've been what happened. Thing couldn't've been trussed up tighter if it'd been in a straitjacket, when Gordon dropped it off."
Sam didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until he began to feel dizzy, and had to manually suck in air. At least he'd managed to keep walking, and his pace had stayed nearly normal.
"Gordon! Shit. What a waste."
"Yeah. Tell me about it. Gotta find the backstabbing little fruit and his black-eyed bitch and gut 'em both before anybody else goes his way. Rest in peace."
There was a faint trickling noise, and Sam imagined half a finger or so of whiskey being poured out onto the asphalt. Then a "Hey."
It was guarded, and louder than the rest of their conversation had been, but Sam barely picked up on that. He was just focused on getting out of here without drawing attention to himself, in the only direction left to him. He couldn't dart back onto the trail. They'd notice.
"Hey. Gray hoodie."
Sam came to a stop, both stiff and faintly trembling all at once, because he knew that that that was him, as much as he didn't want it to be. Boots scuffed over the asphalt towards him, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't turn to face them. At least one of them had seen him before; they'd recognize him. He couldn't run, because they might shoot him. He couldn't fight. He never carried any kind of weapon with him when he ran - it'd never occurred to him, and Dean had never suggested it, either. At six-four, he was immune to most of the dangers that befell lone joggers.
He remembered someone telling him, once, that angels could hear your prayers, as long as you knew their name. He wondered if it'd summon Dean if he screamed curses at him inside his head.
"Whatcha up to, Ike?" someone in the pack of hunters called. The boots stopped.
"Winchester's a tall son of a bitch, ain't he?" replied the one who'd peeled off from the herd. "And I thought I saw long hair."
A snort. "You dumbass. That's not him - you see a limp?" Sam reflexively tensed the muscles of his left leg. "Leave that kid alone and get back over here. I gotta clear out soon and we still haven't heard just what it is you've been up to."
There was a huff, a sound of annoyance meant to cover up the embarrassment Ike was probably feeling. To Sam, he muttered, "Sorry - thought you were somebody I knew." He heard him turn around and prepared to take a step himself, but then Ike tossed a parting shot over his shoulder: "And cut your goddamn hair, son. For Chrissakes."
He returned to the other hunters. Sam left the parking lot on legs he could barely feel, sure his face (which was also numb, again, and this time not from the nip that remained in the air) was blank with shock. The thought of coffee entered his mind again as another gout of laughter erupted from behind him, but he didn't even glance at the small building beyond the pumps he was now passing. He didn't want to, couldn't, stay here any longer than he absolutely had to.
He made it out of the parking lot and onto the narrow road. Walking on the shoulder, gravel made soft by a layer of fallen leaves, he turned a corner and put another thick stand of trees between himself and the hunters. Then he started running again. Not at the steady lope he'd been moving at earlier - this was a flat-out sprint. He made it ten steps before his leg failed him.
The muscles locked up and refused to listen to him, just like they'd used to back when large pieces of them had been missing and they'd been webbed with scar tissue. They spasmed, all the strength leaching out of them and everything they were connected to. So when Sam's full weight came down on it, because that was just how running worked, it folded like a soggy toothpick. His ankle rolled and his knee tried to bend in a direction he was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to, and he went down hard. His hands flew out, but it didn't do him a lot of good. The leaves and gravel were slick with melted frost, so his hands just skidded out from under him, and tore the hell out of his palms in the process. Then his face smacked into the ground. Shortly followed by the rest of him. There was a loud crack; he knew being able to hear something breaking wasn't good.
Sam's teeth sank into his tongue and the hot taste of copper flooded his mouth, but not because he'd fallen. Biting his tongue kept him from crying out. He couldn't make any noise that the hunters back in the parking lot might hear, because of course they'd come, and then they'd see his face, and they'd realize who he was, and then...he really didn't want to think about it too hard, because he was sure his imagination could provide him with dozens of worst-case scenarios about what they might do to him. He could feel gravel embedded in his chin and cheekbone, and the entire left side of his face was hot and tight, already swelling. If he wasn't bleeding yet, he would be soon, but he didn't think any of it was enough to make him totally unrecognizable. Not to people who'd met him in person before.
He pushed himself up with a low groan. He wasn't hurting too bad yet; the adrenaline that walking past the hunters had dumped into his system was coming in handy now. His arms shook as he dragged himself over to the trees and bushes lining the road and sat down, breathing hard and half-hiding himself while he assessed the damage. He knew he didn't blend in very well; his hoodie was gray, his pants were navy blue, and his running shoes were predominantly white, all of which clashed with the yellow, red, and brown of the leaves and twigs. But the instinct to take shelter was too strong to ignore.
Sam looked down at his hands very first, grimacing. The heels had taken the brunt of his impact. They were raw, the first few layers of skin having been peeled off; what remained was hot, wet, and tender, a dark pink stippled with red dots of blood. It was already purpling up with deep bruises in some places, and was brown and black with dirt in others. Gravel, mostly tiny pieces, was embedded in the meat. The idea of digging them out made his stomach turn over.
His face throbbed. The pain went deep into his skull, taking root as a headache. He could've run his fingertips - mostly undamaged - over it and felt what was wrong, but he didn't want to make it worst, and he wasn't sure what good knowing would do him, anyway.
His ribs and his sternum ached from where his chest had hit the ground, but nothing was broken. He knew what that felt like, and this wasn't it. There was a ticklish kind of pain in his lungs, and he couldn't suck in too deep a breath without feeling the urge to cough, but that was just from having the wind knocked out of him.
There was a sharp pain in both his kneecaps (at least those hadn't gotten torn up, courtesy of his pants). His hips kinda hurt, and weirdly enough, his balls did a little, too, even though he was pretty sure those hadn't hit the ground. And there were a hundred other different aches and pains and scrapes and bruises scattered all over his entire body - and he still had no idea what that crack had been - but the worst hurt by far was his left leg.
His knee had a sick, pinching pain inside it, and his ankle was sore, but what was between them made both pale in comparison. It felt like someone had taken a giant melon baller and scraped off all the flesh between the back of his knee and his Achilles tendon, the serrated edge grating against the bone the whole way down. It felt like someone had held the dull, rusty blades of an outdated lawnmower to his calf. It felt like...it felt like...
It felt like it had right after the wendigo had first swiped its claws across it.
Sam licked his lips, tasting blood and grit and earth. He did have to feel this one out, make sure there was nothing actually wrong. Lowering a hand to his left calf, he accidentally triggered another, unwelcome spurt of adrenaline when he felt an empty pant leg hanging off his shin where rounded muscle should have been. He felt dizzy, his system overwhelmed by the hormone, and as he swayed slightly where he was sitting, he forced himself to take a few breaths as deep as he could manage before he could pass out or throw up. His calf hadn't just fallen off, that was ridiculous. And sure enough, when he grabbed at his leg - and hissed at the fresh pain the touch of his fingers sent through him - it was still whole. Just cramping so hard that it'd shrunk down a third or fourth of its normal size. His foot was pulled down, into something almost like some sort of ballet position, and he couldn't fully straighten his knee.
His eyes stung suddenly. Not from the pain, even though it was excruciating (and familiar). He swiped the back of one bloody, dirty hand across his eyes like a five-year-old, trying to push the memories that'd just flooded involuntarily into his mind back down where they belonged. Memories of mornings at the cabin after overdoing it the previous day, of waking up from nightmares that somehow set off his leg, of trying to do too much or move too fast and being instantly punished for it.
"Dammit," Sam whispered. "Dammit, dammit, dammit..." This hadn't been supposed to happen ever again, but it wasn't worth crying about. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, either. He was still too close to the hunters. One of them could drive by at any second. He had to get to Dean, and then they had to leave as fast as they could, because neither of them were safe here.
Panting, he touched his leg again, letting his eyes fall closed. There was no way he could walk on this. Cramps this awful could last for upwards of an hour back when he'd still been living at the cabin, and usually nothing - not a hot shower, not rubbing, not medication - could get it to release. Now that the muscles were whole and healthy, it might last even longer. Never mind that the fact the muscles were whole and healthy should've meant that this wasn't even a problem.
He needed to call Dean to come and get him. Sam didn't want him anywhere near the hunters, who probably wouldn't recognize him but still might be able to somehow tell what he was, but he didn't have any choice. He fumbled into the pocket of his hoodie with his left hand, which was already starting to stiffen up. When he touched his phone, he groaned loudly. Just my fucking luck.
He pulled his cell phone, all the separate pieces of it, at least, out of his pocket, letting it fall to the ground next to him so he could open his eyes and stare down at it. That was what that loud cracking sound had been. He almost would've rather had it be a bone.
Sam sucked in a breath. To hunt - to do the Trials and save those assholes back in the parking lot whether they wanted him to or not - he could not depend on Dean all the time. Tempting as it might be. He had to be prepared to solve his own problems, and he needed to have control over his body.
He couldn't sit here for much longer, either. The cold dampness of the leaves and mud he was sitting on was seeping up through his pants and into his boxers; his ass was going numb.
So he scooped what was left of his cell phone back up into his pocket, because he couldn't just leave it where it was. Hitting the ground had knocked the hood off his head, so he went ahead and pulled it back up, because it made him feel better. Then he reached up, grabbed the nearest branch that seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight, and hauled himself upright with a gasp of pain.
He wobbled, still unsteady with adrenaline. His right leg wasn't used to doing most of the work anymore, either. He squeezed the branch he was holding, letting the rough bark dig into his scrapes. The pain gave him clarity and let him focus on something besides his leg. He'd been holding it up in the air, but now he let the toe of his shoe rest against the soft ground, which sent an agonizing quiver through his hardened muscles. Then he forced his sole entirely flat. Flexing like that undid whatever was holding his calf tight, and everything spontaneously released.
Sam gasped, and only the fact that his hand was still on the branch kept him from collapsing again. He'd forgotten how good a sudden absence of pain could feel. Better than an orgasm, in some ways.
He pushed off the tree and started walking. His heart was still galloping in his chest, but he'd wasted enough time already, and he was hurting more by the second. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hunched his shoulders, focusing on staying off the ground. It was hard because of how off-balance he was. Even though his left leg wasn't cramping anymore, it was weak as hell and the knee and ankle still hurt, and he had to limp heavily. He could only hope Ike didn't drive past him. If he saw how he was walking now, he might decide he wanted another conversation. A more in-depth one, this time.
Thinking about him had Sam remembering what he and the other hunters had been saying as he walked by, even though he didn't want to. They'd been talking about him, he couldn't deny that. And his sexuality. Their opinion of that had been very clear. He remembered his last conversation with Gordon (while carefully skirting around how it'd ended), what it'd called him and how he'd said it didn't matter to him, because being a fag didn't have any bearing on a person's ability to hunt. Not on its own, at least. Sam smirked, which made his face hurt. He'd never thought he'd miss Gordon.
They'd mentioned somebody else, too, a friend of his. A "ginger dyke." That would have to be Charlie. Who...hell. He hadn't thought about her in months. He supposed he'd just been too busy, even though he couldn't have survived at the cabin without her and Garth bringing him supplies once a month or so.
He hadn't thought about Garth, either. Or Ellen, despite the fact that she'd taken him in after what'd happened with the wendigo and acted as his nurse and therapist and almost his mother. He'd lived under the same roof as Jo, and Ash, too, when he'd showed up, and not a single one of them had crossed Sam's mind since he and Dean had taken off. A stab of guilt hit him low in the gut. He would've run a hand through his hair, if he hadn't known it would hurt. Both because it was in a ponytail and because of the state that his hands were in.
They had to have heard the same version of events that everybody else had, since he hadn't even tried to give them his own. Were they worried about him? Did they suspect he might be dead? Could they believe what had been said about him? Were they wondering what he'd been thinking?
Did they hate him?
Sam swallowed. His mouth still tasted like blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. He wouldn't think any of them could hate him, but it wasn't like he'd made all that much of an effort to be close to them in recent years. Charlie and Garth usually only hung around long enough to unload his supplies and make the bare minimum of small talk, because they knew he wouldn't tolerate them staying any longer than that. The last time he'd called Ellen, she'd assumed he wanted something, and she'd been right. He only communicated with Ash via short, impersonal e-mails. And he couldn't even remember when he'd last spoken to Jo.
He'd withdrawn up there, in Bobby's cabin. Resented visits from hunters and people he'd used to consider family alike. The only ones he'd interacted with on a daily basis were the monsters, and he hadn't even taken good care of them, as proven by Vaughn. And he still missed all that, remembered it as the best part of his life. He probably deserved the wounds covering his body right now.
Sam closed his eyes, but only briefly, since he didn't need to trip over something and go down again. He should call them, all of them - just as soon as he got a new phone, he thought dryly to himself as the remains of his old one scraped against his knuckles. After everything they'd done for him, they at least deserved an explanation and an assurance that he was all right. Even if they did hate him.
He turned down the street that led to the library. It was a small building, and looked like it'd been a boxy little house before being converted into a library. The front yard had been paved to make a minuscule parking lot, but because it was a weekday morning in a rural town, there was only one car in it. The tiny Jetta that belonged to one of the two librarians - the younger one, the one Dean didn't have beef with but whom unfortunately dressed like she wanted to single-handedly enforce at least three different stereotypes at once. Hopefully, she and Dean would be the only ones inside. Sam knew he looked like roadkill and would rather not frighten any small children.
Normally, he would've gone back to the hotel first. Taken a shower, gotten dressed. But that would take time he didn't have, and the idea of hot water hitting his scrapes had him shuddering.
He pulled open the door and stepped inside. Almost immediately, there was a startled gasp from the front desk, which was squashed into a corner right next to the door. Sam glanced over to see the librarian (blonde, but with very obvious brunette roots; early twenties; lensless glasses; cable-knit sweater) covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide.
"Oh, my god," she blurted, lowering her hands slightly and balling them into fists. "Did - did you get hit? What happened? Do you need me to call an ambulance?" One hand wavered towards the phone, a clunky corded model.
"No - no." Sam shook his head. His neck was stiff. "I just took a bad spill. Tripped over my own feet." He tried to smile, but shit, it hurt. "Doubt I need an ambulance; nothing's broken. I just need to find my..." He trailed off, nervous about using the word "boyfriend," aware of the area of the country he was in.
"He's over there." The librarian pointed. She and the older lady switched off day to day, and Sam and Dean had been here for a few days, so she knew them. She knew they were together, even if she might not know in what way, and she knew Sam was a runner. She was also under the impression that they were investigative reporters. "Behind the Fiction shelf. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"
"I'm fine. Thanks."
The small space was almost suffocatingly hot, and reeked of acid-based paper. It was a shock after coming in from the relative chill of the morning outside, and made Sam's fingers feel swollen and stiff as he folded his hood back. His shoes, wet from the leaves and mud, squeaked on the yellowing linoleum as he walked deeper into the library and rounded the lone bookshelf that housed the Fiction section. Dean was there, sitting at his usual round table, near the bank of three outdated computers and the printer. Sam had been kind of wondering why Dean hadn't come charging up as soon as he came in. His hearing was definitely good enough to alert him. He got his answer, though, when he saw that Dean was wearing his headphones, the cord plugged into the laptop and the band adjusted to fit his smaller head.
As Sam approached, Dean casually lifted his eyes from the screen to him. Then he instantly leaped to his feet, swearing - without bothering to take off or unplug the headphones. Sam yelped a little as the rubberized cord jerked taut and nearly yanked the laptop off the table. The headphones noisily clattered against the keyboard as Dean disappeared out from under them a fraction of a second later. Then he was right in front of Sam, studying him frantically and growling questions under his breath.
"Who did this to you? Where all are you hurt? Did anything bite you?"
"Nobody did anything to me, it's just road rash - and don't teleport in public." Dean had been going to touch his face, so Sam grabbed his wrists with his flayed hands, then glanced towards the librarian. She'd stood up at her desk and was peering worriedly over the shelves towards them. "We've gotta leave. Right now."
"Whatever it is, you look like you fell in a meat grinder," Dean replied, tugging his wrists free of Sam's hands and apparently ignoring everything else he'd said. "Lemme heal you."
"Not here," Sam said tensely. Another glance at the librarian. "Not 'til we're in another town - or, even better, another state. I remember it drains you and I'd feel better if you were at full power."
Dean eyed him, then shook his head. "Fixing scrapes and bruises wouldn't put me out too much," he pointed out. "Not like when I did your leg." He took a step back, then lowered himself into his chair. Sam stayed where he was, impatient and frustrated. "What's got you so spooked?"
"There are hunters in town." Sam tried not to spit it out. But he felt awful and he was afraid, and it seemed like Dean wasn't taking this seriously. "And they were talking about us."
Dean straightened, finally looking troubled. "What the hell're they doing here? There's nothing to hunt. I'd know if there was."
"I don't know, just - talking." Sam pulled the rubber band out of his hair, wincing when doing that pulled on several (likely bruised) areas of his scalp. "They're at the gas station. They might be gone by now, I don't know. They were standing around and drinking, maybe four or five of them. I got the feeling they were just passing through the area and happened to meet up."
"The gas station's a good distance from here," Dean said, nodding. "Did they see you?"
"Yeah, but they didn't recognize me," Sam replied. "'Cause I wasn't limping."
"How come you didn't call me?" Dean asked. "Clearly, you were freaking out about this the whole way over here. And I'm not saying it's not a problem," he added hastily, holding up a hand. Maybe in response to Sam's increasing annoyance. "But we could've worked out a plan."
Sam huffed out a laugh, then pulled a few pieces of his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed a few onto the table in front of Dean. It was a good thing they were alone in the library. Between the two of them, they were sure making a lot of noise.
"I would've," he replied. "But I landed on my phone."
"Hell, Sam." Dean picked up what'd once been the charging port and its surrounding case, then dropped it again. "I don't wanna see the bruise this must've left on you. We're gonna have to get you a new one of these ASAP." He looked up at him. "So...what happened, exactly? I'm assuming they didn't road-haul you."
"No." Sam played with the rubber band, which he was still holding. He should really stop, considering how much it was making the scrapes on his hand hurt. "I..." He sighed, and barely stopped himself from rubbing a sore hand over his equally-damaged face. "It's stupid. But as soon as I was away from them, I started running again, then I..." His left leg trembled slightly inside his pants, and his tongue suddenly seemed as weak as it was. At least it wasn't cramping up.
"Tripped?" Dean supplied. Sam nodded. "You're gonna have to let me heal that eventually, I hope you realize. It looks awful and the smell of blood's everywhere." He paused, and it almost seemed like an afterthought when he asked, "Does it hurt?"
Sam just nodded, even though what he was feeling was rapidly approaching agony as the last of the adrenaline wore off, leaving him tired and fuzzy-headed. It didn't surprise him that Dean didn't remember the pain of frayed nerve endings exposed to the open air. Scrapes just seemed so human when he really thought about it.
"Yeah, no wonder," Dean said, nodding and then leaning forward to squint at him. "Looks like you've got dirt ground into you. That's just nasty." Regretfully, he added, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch when I take care of it for you."
"That doesn't surprise me," Sam said, heaving a sigh. Regrowing anything, from muscles to skin, was just about as painful as taking it off had been.
He waited silently after that, although he wasn't sure what for. Maybe for Dean to pack up and follow him back to the hotel. Or, better yet, teleport them as soon as they were out of the library. But none of that happened. Instead, Dean just cleared his throat after a while, gestured to the chair next to him, and almost gently suggested, "Go ahead and take a seat, Sammy."
Sam reflexively glanced towards the door, feeling a thread of panic wrap itself around his stomach because Dean wasn't listening to him and it wasn't like he could run off without him. "But we've gotta - "
"I know," Dean interrupted, but not in an asshole kind of way. "And we will. We'll leave in just a few minutes, I promise. This is bad; I don't like that they're here, and I really don't want either of us near them. But you're gonna choose a hunt first, so we know where we're going."
"Do we really have time for that?" Sam asked, shaking his head and spreading his hands.
"We're fine," Dean replied. "They're a ways away, and if they're not working a case here, they're not coming to the library. They're not gonna follow you, either. You said they didn't recognize you."
"They didn't, but - " Sam looked at the door again, and cut himself off, not sure how to justify how anxious he was feeling. There had to be a reason, right? He just needed to find the right words to explain it to Dean.
"I'll get us outta here like that if one of them comes in," Dean said, snapping his fingers. "And if they try to put a devil's trap around this whole building so I can't teleport, I'll feel it before they close it, and we'll leave. It'll be okay." He just stared at Sam for a few seconds, then sighed, looking away and shaking his head slightly. "Just sit down. Please. You're shaking."
Sam knew Dean was trying to placate him, and wasn't sure he could actually tell when a devil's trap was being drawn around him. Other demons couldn't, and at the end of the day, all that separated a Knight from the infernal hoi polloi was raw power. Not so much increased sensitivity. It shouldn't have made him feel better, and he hated that it did.
"Fine," Sam said stiffly, and not just because it was getting hard to move his face. Especially the scraped part. He crossed the few feet between himself and the chair, almost painfully conscious of the weakness in his left leg, and hoped Dean wouldn't say anything if he didn't. He should've known better.
"You hurt your leg, too?" Dean asked as Sam lowered himself into the chair.
"Yep."
"Well, that sucks." Dean turned the laptop towards him, unplugging the headphones and winding the cord up around the ear cups. "Sooner we finish this, though, sooner I can patch you up."
"I know." Dean's abilities wouldn't do anything for his leg, but they would at least take care of all the external injuries, which would admittedly be pretty nice. They were starting to get really distracting.
He reached for the laptop and scooted it a little closer to himself, studying the screen. He'd intended to go through the tabs, every one (besides the one Dean had open to listen to music), and at least skim through the articles that Dean had dug up; he really had. Even though he was still pretty sure that this was a waste of time that they couldn't afford, and he felt like this was a way for Dean to force him to pick a case because he didn't trust him to do it on his own. As soon as he touched the track pad, though, everything that'd happened today seemed to bear down on him at once. Running into the hunters, the fall, remembering everyone. An irresistible urge to be as petulant as possible came with it. He clicked on the first tab that Dean had open, then pointed to the story that came up without bothering to read the title or where it was from.
"That one," he said. Dean reached for the laptop and tugged it back over to himself so he could see what Sam had chosen, then frowned.
"That one?" he repeated, a little doubtfully. "You sure?"
"Yes," Sam replied, stubbornly ignoring the feeling that he'd end up regretting this later.
"Okay." Apparently content to give Sam enough rope to hang himself if he was really determined to do so, Dean shrugged and folded the screen of the laptop down. "Grave desecration in Montana it is."
Sam remained stonily silent as Dean put the laptop back in the case and added the headphones before zipping it up. He was frustrated and angry, but still couldn't put a finger on exactly why. Maybe it was just everything, all of it, since he'd had to leave his cabin. Or since Dean had been brought to him. Or since his leg had been ruined. Or maybe just since he'd been born.
"Let's go." Sam was broken out of his thoughts by Dean's voice, and looked up to find him standing over him. He had the laptop case in one hand and was offering the other to Sam. His eyes were soft and his face was kind. He seemed to have trouble with expressions sometimes, apparently not quite used to using his meat to imitate the human he'd been born as, but he'd nailed it this time.
Something loosened in Sam. Just barely. He let Dean help him up.
They left the library, pausing to assure the still-worried librarian that Sam would be fine. Dean would be with him for the rest of the day and he knew how to take care of him. Sam considered telling her goodbye, since they wouldn't be back and she'd been pretty nice to both of them, but ultimately didn't. He pushed through the front door with Dean.
Once they were past the parking lot, Dean put his free arm around Sam's waist, letting him lean heavily on him since he was still limping. They weren't that far from the motel and people might be watching, so Dean didn't teleport them. He did turn and press his face into Sam's hair when they were nearly to their room, though.
"C'mon - you don't wanna do that," Sam complained. He nudged Dean with his shoulder, but not hard enough to actually push him away. "I haven't showered since yesterday and I'm all sweaty."
"I think you smell good," Dean replied, voice muffled by Sam's scalp. He did pull back after a second, though, and look at Sam. He observed, "You're in kind of a dark place right now."
Sam sighed. "It's just been a shitty morning. I'll be fine - especially once we're out of here."
"Is that all it is?" Dean asked, rubbing Sam's hip. When Sam nodded, he asked, "How d'you feel about the hunt?"
"'Bout as well as I can expect to," Sam replied. "It's just something I'm gonna have to do no matter how I feel about it."
"Could be worse, I guess." Dean unlocked their door without using the key. "Before we pack up and go, I'm gonna heal you, and you're not gonna argue. Go sit on the bed."
Sam groaned loudly, unable to suppress a twinge of resentment but aware he wasn't going to change Dean's mind. He limped into the room, lowered himself gingerly onto the foot of the bed, and braced for what was coming.
