CHAPTER TWO - WINCHESTER'S LOST PROPERTY
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 :')
NOTES: Sam - 15, Dean - 19
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AmaraRae
Imtheonewhofeelinglost
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Sam wakes up awkwardly. Perched against the quiet dryer and head pounding furiously. It seeks revenge for neglecting hours of sleep over the past few days. Sam pulls his slumping body up straight and stretches out his aching limbs. Slowly, he slips down the wall, colliding gently with the floor.
A yawn begins to itch in his throat, burning slightly as Sam swallows. The feeling is nostalgically similar to the time he ate seventeen pure sugar cubes on a dare. A dare Dean had given him, he muses tiredly.
Sam sighs as his breath turns chalky white.
The silence is only met by the hum of the mechanical disappointment next to him which, at some point, during the early morning had turned itself off. At least he isn't unbearably cold yet. Sam huddles tighter into the corner, pulling his legs closer to his chest and wrapping his arms round his torso. The young Hunter hums along with the dryer in satisfaction.
Under his oversized clothes, a layer of cosy heat has built up. The Metallica hoodie had retained Dean's scent, while the long baggy sleeves covered his hands, insulating his fingers. Sam felt himself begin to drift. He stays immobile for a few short, sweet moments.
Until the bright bulb above flickers on.
Sam cringes, covering his eyes with his arm from the harsh light. The scream that follows is enough to shock the boy out of his sleepy haze. He had given the old laundry lady quite a scare. Stumbling on him curled up and half-asleep on the floor. The shill cry that sounded throughout the crumbling motel causes a grand total of one other guest to come running down the corridor at half six in the morning.
The blush that decorates Sam's pale features is born of embarrassment and his stuttered apologises. In a rush, the young Hunter tries to explain in his tired state that the heater in his room had given out and with nowhere else to go, he had taken refuge here. The lady gives him a pitiful look. The unspoken question in her mind. Why is a kid like you alone? Where's your family?
Sam sighs again.
Where indeed?. . . But hey, he isn't a kid. Just incapable, untrustworthy and an incompetent Hunter in John's eyes. In what kind of normal family does a teenager end up in a full blown argument with his father about wanting to stay in school? . . . Maybe he's too young to understand? The excuse tastes bitter. But every time he opens his mouth and talks to John it turns into World War III.
And Dean becomes collateral damage.
Guilt flushes Sam's lanky frame. Followed by a miserable anger because Dean sides with John. Every. Single. Time.
The out-stretched hand that appears in front of his face, brings Sam back to the here and now.
A handsome man, possible in his mid-thirties becomes his saviour. He offers Sam a hand up and laughs it off, saying how they'd all been there at one point. Maybe it's the movement, but the minute Sam is on his feet the room feels a few degrees colder. Sam shivers. The sooner he leaves this place the better. Why couldn't they find a job in Florida for once?
With a warm smile, the man places an uninvited hand tightly on Sam's shoulder. At first it seems like he has nothing to offer but good intentions, and Sam ties to subtly brush off the uncomfortable grip. The young Hunter quickly realises the man is refusing to let go. He sends a pleading look to the only other person who might be able to help him. The maid only melts at the man's smooth words. He asks her to ignore everything she'd seen and a knot tightens in Sam's stomach.
He gentle guides Sam to the hallway, closing the laundry room door behind them and the youngest Winchester's heart begins beating a mile a minute. They stands alone as Sam's shaky breaths quicken to fill the space between them. For a moment, his minds freezes and the corridor light flicker above.
"I'm fine really. I'll go back to my room." Sam whispers cautiously. Tugging from the his hold and giving the man a wide berth as he steps away. All too eager to return to behind the safety of saltlines and rickety motel locks.
'Are you sure? You had quite a night.' He coos, firmly grabbing Sam's upper arm instead as the Hunter tries to sneak past. Intensive green eyes gaze into hazel ones.
"Yes. My Dad and brother are expecting me to call them, they're coming to get me today." Sam lies with all the steadiness he can muster.
Be strong. . . Strong like Dean. . .
The raven-haired man just smiles in response, but something else is hidden just beneath the surface.
'Why don't you stay with me for a bit?' He offers. 'I'm sure they won't mind. The heater in your room is still broken, isn't it? So you'll be cold if you go back.'
"No, honestly. I'm-"
'I insist, Sam.'
The youngest Winchester frowns, feeling a little light headed.
"I never... never..." He stumbles forward, side slamming heavily against the motel corridor wall. Fingernails claw deeply into the dry plaster for all the support it could not give. Sam's hand reaches for the concealed weapon under his clothes.
But the choice comes too late.
He falls to the floor, sprawled out on his front. The revolver thuds on carpet just beyond Sam's reach. His breaths morph into shorter, shallower gasps for air. Each inhale burns inside his lungs.
'Never what, Sam?'
His concentration is slipping, limbs feeling weaker and weaker with each passing second. Everything grows cold again. But somehow this is worse. It dances over his skin and burrows into his flesh.
The thought of freezing to death crosses Sam's addled mind, and strangely, he cannot stop the giggle that escapes his lips. Then out of nowhere, he feels hot. Burning up and sweating from the unbearable fire pulsing through his veins. He needs to take his clothes off now or he'll die, Sam's sure of it.
Twisting his body awkwardly, the Hunter ends up on his back, blindly attempting to reach for the bottom of his hoodie to take the cursed thing off. Yet his limbs just won't obey. Please God, Dean, anyone, it's too hot.
Sam's agitated body vaguely notices as the man slips one arm under his knees, and another behind his shoulders. A pitiful whimper escapes his lips and Sam's hands search for something to cling onto. The abrupt change in perspective brings waves of dizziness. The young hunter barely registers the man lift him up as if he weighs nothing. Looking up through half-lidded fevered eyes, Sam attempts to focus on the hazy face of the man above.
'What, Sam? You never answered me.' He asks smugly.
His abductor holds him so there is no give. No way he can struggle or wriggle free. Arms clamp tight around his shaking frame. Sam remembers why something wasn't right.
He never. . . He never. . .
"Never said my name. . . was Sam." His voice is barely audible against his now soft, slow breaths.
At some point his body had fallen limp. Strangely numb and limbs too heavy to comply. He's so very, very tired.
The man begins to stride down the hallway. Smirking slightly at his prey's dwindling resistance. Passing the room Sam had been staying in, the man's grip on the Winchester tightens. But the young human is barely lucid enough to notice. He's freezing again. Small body racked with shivers and teeth clattering in a desperate bid to chase along the cold.
.
.
.
Like luminous petals, snowflakes fall haphazardly to the concrete.
Damn, it's cold.
Is practically the only thought running through Dean's head. A navy blue scarf wrapped tightly round his neck, protecting his amulet, he continues down the deserted streets of 'no one cares this town exists' or whatever its name may be.
He was suppose to meet John here half an hour ago, but at this rate, he will have frozen to death before the older hunter finds him. John was meant to have finished the research with what little lore the town's small library had to offer.
Stopping at a crossroad empty of cars and people, Dean sighs - this is going nowhere.
Being away from Sammy for so long, even if the kid is fifteen, Dean does anything he can to avoid sleeping. Even if it means walking down a deathly cold street, in a some crappy town, searching for a hunter who still doesn't know how to use a map.
A smooth purr stills air, growing louder from around the corner. Dean's smile graces his face as a small smirk. Ever since his Dad had given him the car, it had quickly become better than any female companionship. The time spent together on the road, the memories it held of Sammy and him together, was more important to him than anything.
The impala pulls up beside him and the nineteen-year-old leans down to rest his arm on the hood.
"For certain then, we're dealing with a nest of vamps?" Dean asks.
"Yeah," John's gruff voice replies, 'there's all the usual signs. Feeding patterns, typical binging, the whole package. We could be in and out by tomorrow evening with all the prep with've done."
Dean nods thoughtfully. "How many we looking at?"
"Six at the most, from the number of regular victims. Could of really used Sam's help right about now."
"Dad-"
"-No, listen, Dean. I let that kid get away with too much, what happens when we're not their to protect him? Hmm? I shoulda dragged his ass along for the practice, kid's gotta learn these things."
"Yeah, Dad that err, maybe so. But all that school shit is important to Sammy, he's-"
"-not like you," John grips the Impala's steering-wheel tighter, turning his knuckles white. "I know. I know and it's my damn fault. I'm too damn soft on him."
"Dad-"
"-Anyway I'm perfectly sure the kid's back at the motel lazing about, or sneaked into some bar without a single thought for us. I just called an hour back and he didn't bother to pick up."
Your brother. Not my son, not Sammy. Dad couldn't ever be bothered- wait, "Sam didn't answer?"
"What of it?"
"Sam always answers when we call unless something is wrong!" Dean bits his lower lip in frustration and runs both hands through is hair. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"Don't you take the tone with me! The signal's been low on our end." He sighs. "Sam's fine, Dean just get in, we'll be back by the tomorrow anyway."
"That's still one more days he'll be on his own." Dean argues.
John shakes his head, ignoring his eldest last retort. "The kid probably hasn't even noticed we left. And Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Your brother wanted to stay behind, he doesn't want to be with us, he doesn't want to be part of this family. Just remember that."
Dean grimaces at the underlining anger in his father's voice.
Because those words are empty. There is no promise. Just a lie played on permanent repeat to keep Dean from arguing further. And he knew it. God, he knew John believed every word of it.
When Dean was younger he didn't care. Hunts were a special privilege. Just Dad and him. A chance to prove he wasn't a little kid anymore. That he was mature, more responsible, than his younger, baby brother. He didn't even spare a thought for what he was leaving Sam behind in those motel rooms.
Alone.
Isolated.
The fear and loneliness he must of installed in his brother every single time he walked out the doors. Not to return for days, sometimes even weeks. He wonders how often Sam worried that weren't going to come back. He sometimes wondered too, if this hunt or next or the one after that might be his last.
But now this is different. Sam isn't a child any longer. Dean frowns. John had stolen that right from them many years ago. But the oldest Winchester refuses to see what Sam had became. He trained with dedication. Even when he didn't want to. He could put up a fair fight against Dean while still being at great height disadvantage.
And the kid is miles ahead in his studies, further than anything Dean could of hoped accomplish at that age and probably now as well. Yet, none of that seemed to matter to John.
For whatever reason he didn't trust Sam. Plain and simple. Maybe it was because Sam could just be so, so stubborn? Or maybe John is worried that Sam won't listen to him when on a hunt? If Sam is anything, it's strong-headed, strong-willed. And always at the wrong moment. The sound of raised voices rings in Dean's ears. Their fight from last week still clear in his memory. John's right. Sam isn't like him.
His little brother is everything John and him are not. And the thought only makes Dean proud. Why couldn't their Dad see that just once Sam wanted to have something other than the Supernatural on his mind?
Dean sighs, stepping out into the road and crossing in front of the Impala. As he slides to sit in shotgun, John revs the engine. A small cars crosses Dean's lips because God he loves this car, but it quickly fades.
When they got back to the motel, back to Sam, things were going to change. If John was ever going to listen to him, it wasn't while they were on a hunt. But that didn't excuse the fact that maybe it was high time he started.
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