CHAPTER ONE - WINTER & A WINCHESTER
TITLE: COLD LIPS, SHARP FANGS
RATING: 13+
FULL SUMMARY: John and Dean Winchester are chasing a hunt, leaving fifteen-year-old Sammy alone in a small, sleepy town a few degrees past forgotten. The young Hunter had begged, pleaded, fought with bitter words on his tongue to stay behind and finish the semester. Eventually John had lost his patience. He stormed out with Dean in tow and just drove away, leaving his youngest behind and very much alone. But it's just for a few days. What's the worst that could happen? It's quite, secluded, and Sam's a smart kid. There's only vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, banshees, dragons, vengeful spirits and wendigos to worry about. Or did I miss something? Oh, yes- the Motel is falling apart at the foundations and one of the guest seems a little. . . unusual.
WARNINGS: Hurt, injury, blood, gore and many feels
DISCLAIMER: I wish I owned the rights to Supernatural :')
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TWO DAYS EARLIER
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Rains thuds against the windows, demanding entrance into the room laced with dust. Sam exhales and watches his breath turn white in the cold, early morning air. The sight sends shivers down his spine.
Dim threads of moonlight escape between the tattered tea-stained curtains and paints the rotting walls. It's unsightly. With a deep sigh, Sam scrunches his eyes tightly shut and rolls over. The texture of the motel bed sheets against his skin gave little comfort compared with the leather seats of Dean's Impala.
Since his father and brother left, the November weather had remained unwavering. Granite skies and mizzling rain colour the dreary week he had spent alone in this town. Sam had, quite plainly, failed to 'make friends' within the first days here or at school. Then he came to peace with the fact that once this semester ends, John would haul his ass to the next hunt, no matter how much Sam fought him, no matter what bitter, venomous words leave his lips.
It hurts and hurts and crushes his chest. John never listens. And a part of Sam realises that he probably never will.
Their last fight had John storming out of this motel and Dean trailing after him, ignoring Sam as he sweeps the room and collects weapons for the hunt. He doesn't even glance at his younger brother, closing the door behind him without a single word. It cuts Sam deeper than any knife ever could. Why does Dean take John's side every? Every. Single. Time? He just wanted to finish the semester in the same school. Leaving would mean having to catch up and, this time, catching up had not an option. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so.
Only the boredom parallels the dropping temperature in abundance. Everything just grows colder and colder. Until, finally, the outmoded heater unit, which was half-hanging off the wall, decided this was a good time to end its career.
Sam balls his hands on the edges of the extra blankets, pulling them tighter around his body. More shivers rack up his spine, in protest of the unfavourable, unbearable chill. He sighs. Rolling over on the hard, lumpy bed, he checks the salt line by the door. The white stood proud, illuminated in the dark motel room. A barricade to a fortress of hunting research and an arsenal of guns, knives and silver-forged weapons.
Alone in the darkness, there was no distraction and his thoughts were swiftly consumed by the feeling of the deathly cold room. His body heat didn't so much as drain away, or leach out slowly after the heater gave out, it abandoned him completely.
The constant, relentless hum of mangled conversations through the paper-thin walls, fall on numb ears. It has been a long, bitter night. No, scratch that. It's been a long week.
Sam's 'allowance', or more specificity that money Dean had secretly left him when John had told, yelled at him that if he wanted to stay, he would have to pay for himself, is now dwindling in the double digits. Neither his brother of father has bothered to call him once. At the very least, they could of found an area that held some small reminisce of signal to check up on him. This much he expected from Dad, but Dean always phones him. Surely, they had cooled off from the fight by now? There's a pang in his chest, cutting deep into his heart. The disappointment in his father's eyes that he couldn't be more like Dean haunts Sam like a ghost. There's an undeniable sense of loss that he'd never be as fast, as strong, or as skilled a Hunter as his older brother.
But something is wrong. Which wasn't all that strange. Something is always wrong in his family. This world and his life only seem to fuel their problems.
He would give the situation another couple of days to play out. Odds are Dean would show up with a smirk that said 'we ganked the sons of've bitches. Time to move on, Sammy.' And that would be the end of it.
Bye, bye town that no one knows exists unless you live here. Hello next place that stands out just as much as the last.
A Hunter's life was one endless cycle of roads, towns, takeaway meals and monsters, oh, then back to the roads.
He was no longer that clueless six-year-old boy, the world of the supernatural was far too real for his liking. But even at fifteen, the idea that the thing under his bed is less dangerous than the things outside the front door, probably isn't the healthiest thought for a teenager.
Sam fidgets formulating a plan in his head. If nothing changes in the next three days, he'll pack everything he can and run. From then on he would hitchhike to Pastor Jim's or Bobby's place. It's not ideal but it's a start.
Rolling over, Sam stretches out an arm to reach the crappy motel alarm clock. Angry red lights flicker behind the cracked plastic screen in the dark.
2:07 a.m.
Give or take half an hour. He cannot sleep, it's just too cold. No one is at reception so he cannot ask to bring someone in to fix the heater. And even if he did, a repairman wouldn't arrive till morning.
'Dean would be able to do it,' he thinks sullenly. 'Wouldn't be lying here freezing his ass off.'
Sam braces himself, inhaling deeply. Then with the grace of a newly hatched chick, fights his way through the rubbish on the ground to the extra hoodies piled on Dean's allocated bed.
A few more complimentary shivers rattle his body, in warning of the dangerous outside-bed conditions.
Pulling the baggy Metallica hoodie over his head and the long sleeves past his hands, Sam turns to get back to his bed. He quickly changes into an abandoned pair of jeans and slips on his dark blue sneakers. Anything is an option if it keeps him warm.
The rain falls heavier, thumping on the windowpane. Change of plans, neither the sky nor cold would allow him any rest in this room. Sam prepares to find a place in this motel where the cold hasn't sunk into the foundations.
Perhaps, the pantry or laundry rooms still retain some heat? There was practically no one here, let alone anything supernatural. Nothing had bothered the few residents or Sam in last few days, causing him to highly doubt anything ever would. But just to be on the safe side he moves to dig up a small revolver stashed under a pile of dirty clothes. Slipping it between his waistband, the metal only burns against his skin.
Grabbing the keys off the side table, Sam slowly unlocks the motel door. Accidentally disturbing the salt line in his wake. The young Winchester peers out into a deserted corridor. Which, in his opinion, had seen better days and probably would never again. He slowly proceeds to carefully ebb into the hallway. Checking the coast was clear once again, Sam locks the door behind him and slips the keys into his pocket.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Sam takes to a light jog. Tallying the rooms in his head as he walks past.
42
39
32
28
After a minute's search, the old laundry room comes into view and a genuine smile crosses Sam's chilled lips. He knocks on the door and, upon receiving no reply, allows himself inside.
Mould cakes the ceiling and the clanky humming from the beat-out dryer vibrates along the floor. But hey, at least it is warm?
Sam exhaustedly drags with feet across the room and slides down the opposing wall. Pulling his legs tight to his chest, he rests his chin on his knees. It's late, and John had ordered him to continue training every day after he came home from school. If it had been anything else Sam would have faked participation. But somehow that man always knew when he'd tried to skip a session. And punishment for his actions usually entails double the work that was first given. Sometimes it was just easier to follow orders then try to challenge them, no matter how pointless they seem. Sam sighs.
How many hours had he spent lying awake wondering if his family were dead or alive? Taking their last breath or safe and sound? How many times had he cried himself to a restless sleep after not hearing from Dean for days? Sam can't even count how many times he had considered running away. Escaping? Being normal?
But with as many other nights like this, Sam's loneliness keeps him company. Tired eyes fall shut, and the young Winchester hazily wonders what his Dean is doing right now and, more importantly, is he safe?
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