ULTIMATE DISCLAIMER: Every content, character, plot etc. that anyone is able to recognize as other's property is NOT mine. I have no intention to get into any trouble involving law and money.
Hey everyone!
First of all, I want to apologize for the long pause in updating anything. The last couple years were Hell on my writing in a couple ways. Real life got in the way of getting to any of my stories or just to get myself to write. But when I did manage to write anything, it was... not exactly suitable to most audiences, and most likely will not be posted on the Internet. (Let's just say that there was some darkness that needed to come out on paper. :/).
I do wanna say though, that despite the massive emptiness of my uploading, I intend to write stories for the prompts posted by you guys to me. I am hesitant to promise any deadline, unfortunately, because I am unable to predict how things will go in a future. There is one thing that keeps me in anxiety for a whole year now, preventing anything progressing in my life other than my obligations (read: work). This includes writing, sadly. A lot of you might think it something small if you knew, but for me it's a major part of my life. And yes, COVID has everything to do with it.
However, let's get past this depressing stuff and into the story, shall we? After a lot of brainstorming and trying to finish this wonderful suggestion, I present to you the story for one of Idreamofivan's prompts:
"Sam (around 16) is recovering from a wound, complicated with an illness, complicated with Winchester luck. He is almost ok now, has a low grade fever( that tends to spike up when he exerts himself), little aches and pains, maybe even problems breathing once in a while, gets exhausted very easily, but he is "I am fine". But really, he is not, he is better but can relapse any time.
Being bed ridden, with a strict medicine schedule (plus if there are IVs involved), bored out of his mind and momma bear dean and papa bear John are driving him nuts. He wants to do something, anything desperately but is forced to stay in bed by doctors and his family. John finds a hunt nearby and Sam wants to help at least with the research but he is not allowed. After John and dean are gone he goes through their notes and find out they missed something or made a mistake. Scared for their lives he goes save them. He does but relapses spectacularly while doing so. - Please, dont make John a jackass"
I left out the doctors and the extra illness, but I hope everything else will be to your liking. I really enjoyed this prompt when I had the time/energy to write it and I can't wait to start in on the others you posted. :D And thank you for helping me realize my dream scene in this story: a father-son talk between Affectionately-Hardass!John and Chastised!Sammy. ^.^ John might come off as very OoC, but I'm usually on Jeffrey Dean Morgan's side: he might be flawed, but he loves his children.
So, I hope you like this story! And once again I apologize for my absence. :(
Enjoy!
The Family Business
The groan that emerged from Sam's aching throat was broken and barely audible, but the reaction he received was just as instantaneous as if he had screamed bloody murder.
"Sam?"
"Sammy?"
The two voices spoke almost at the same time, filled with equal amounts of worry. The intensity of them was enough to urge Sam to open his eyes, which he had a really hard time with. After what felt like an hour, his left eyelid slipped open into a tiny slit.
Another, this time pained, groan escaped his lungs, brushing past dry airways. Sam grimaced as his vision filled with white light and as he shut his eyes against it, he felt the itch in the corners start up. As his mouth twisted into the grimace of discomfort, he felt cracks pulling on the sensitive surface of his lips.
How long had he been asleep?
"That's it, Sammy" one of the voices spoke in a hushed tone and the warm breeze against his cheeks indicated the owner leaning over him and speaking close to his ear. It was a gruff, aged voice... softened yet awkward from rarely used tenderness...
'Dad...?' Sam felt the twitch of muscle in his brow as the thought flashed past his exhausted mind. Since when did John Winchester wake his sons up gently?
"Come on, kiddo" the second voice chimed in, this one overly familiar for the teen's ears: big brother Dean, most likely gripping his shoulder or his hand, encouraging him with his presence, as well. A long second later, the pressure of the grips on both his shoulder and hand registered in his mind... along with a grip on his opposite upper arm, the touch more calloused than Dean's. "Wakey-wakey..."
Despite the joking words, Sam sensed the slightest of tremors in his big brother's voice, which always filled him with worry. Dean barely showed any weakness or fear, especially in front of his family.
So what could've happened...?
This time urged extra hard by the concern for his family, Sam squeezed his eyelids shut, hoping to open them up with the momentum of the muscle movements. An ache shot through his head as he did that, one he vaguely remembered associating with dehydration.
How long had he been asleep...?
A hand waded into his tresses, thumb massaging his temple soothingly.
"It's okay, son" John Winchester murmured softly. "Take your time. Your brother needs to learn patience, anyway."
Sam had already leaned into the touch before he realized it was his father's hand resting on his head. It was a surprising but not unwelcome gesture from the drill sergeant Winchester.
"Yeah, you're one to talk, Dad" Dean replied, his tone teasing but still distracted.
All these signs... Despite the calmness of the scene, Sam knew something was wrong... He needed to find out what happened.
With that final shove of determination, he opened his eyes.
The light was now dimmed, which Sam was thankful for. He didn't need being blinded added to his confusion. The blurry colors of the motel room swam into his line of sight, but that was the only time he had to take in his surroundings.
Because the paler features of Dean and John Winchester appeared above him, staring at him with wide, concerned eyes, lines of worry creasing their brows.
"D..." Sam tried, but his throat gave an almighty throb of draught, causing him to let out a weak cough. The jostle of his body sent a dull ache from his left side up to his fuzzy brain. The grip on his upper arm tightened and the thumb on his temple stilled abruptly. Sam gulped against the stinging in his throat, but it wasn't easy without spit. "D-Dad...?"
A cool sigh rushed past his face, smelling slightly of whiskey and mint. Sam thought he could see an upward twitch of John's mouth as his shoulders sagged immensely. As the teen blinked slowly, he found the bags under his father's eyes, which were bloodshot from, what Sam could guess, sleepless nights. Sam frowned at that sight, but John was always restless and had a lot of bad nights.
"Welcome back, Sammy" Dean's voice interrupted Sam's careful examination of John and lured the teen's attention to his brother. The frown deepened on his brow as he took in the older boy's sight.
It was worrying to see happy-go-lucky, 19-year-old Dean Winchester looking the same age as his Dad.
How long... had he been... asleep...?
Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to wake himself up faster. The hand on his head carded through his hair, slow and careful. Sam didn't understand the tentative nature of the gesture, but a sudden set of small pinpricks on his scalp helped him recognize the reason: his hair must be a tangled mess. Halfway into the caress, John pulled his hand back and returned it to just rest on Sam's head, thumb resuming the rubs on his temple.
"Dean, get him some water" John said, the order lacking the usual bark of a sergeant. Sam felt his stomach twist from all the unusual moments of this scene, now extremely sure that something had gone horribly wrong.
"Here, Sammy" Dean said, his hand worming under Sam's head and carefully lifting it up. Sam gasped softly at the ice-cold touch of glass but when he parted his dry lips, a small stream of cool water flowed into his mouth. "Small sips, kiddo. Wouldn't want your stomach to throw another hissy fit, okay?"
His twisting stomach gave a painful jolt at that.
Because now he was sure that the 'something horribly wrong'... had happened to him.
The glass was soon lifted away and Sam licked at his dry lips, soothing the cracks on them with a sigh. When he looked up, Dean was just settling back onto the edge of the bed, and John was keeping a watchful eye on him, barely blinking.
"Feelin' better, kiddo?" John asked as Sam's focus gained strength with every waking moment. Sam shifted his head in a nod, the pillow under him rustling a bit too loudly still.
"What..." the teen cleared his throat, hoping to improve his cracking voice, - what happ'ned...?
His question earned a quick exchange of fearful looks between the two older Winchesters. Sam's frown, in the midst of easing away, returned to full force at that.
With a sigh, John turned back to him, his gaze meticulously roaming over every centimeter of Sam's features.
"What do you remember?" the man asked cautiously, but Sam didn't miss the re-tightening of his grip on his upper arm.
The teen looked to the side as he sifted through his memories, hoping to find the last one before the darkness he had just emerged from.
"Guns ready?" "Yes, sir." "Knives ready?" "Yes, sir." "Alright, remember to watch each others' backs. We'll meet back at the car in an hour." "Yes, sir."
"Hunt...?" Sam mumbled, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. He didn't wait for confirmation as more flashes appeared by his mind's eye.
Rustles of leaves... Snap of twigs...
"Stop making so much noise!" Sam whispered angrily, as he turned back to his brother.
No one behind him...
"Dean?"
"I'm here, Sammy" Dean's voice broke through the scene, making Sam realize that he had spoken out loud. The sorrow in his brother's voice was audible and when Sam glanced at him, he knew the older boy was fighting against tears. A second later Sam felt the grip again on his hand, which he grasped as tightly as he could in his weakened state.
With that extra reassurance, Sam resumed his trek through his memories.
The click of the safety... Bullet chambered...
Rush of air to the side... Above his head... Behind him...
Screech in his left ear...
A shove swiping into his side.
"AAH!"
Sam's back arched as intense, deep, flesh-splitting agony slammed into his body. His eyes squeezed shut as his throat throbbed from the scream exploding out of his lungs. The pain gripped his muscles so tightly, he couldn't move or think or breathe...
One long, agony-filled time later, air rushed through his mouth, his head slamming back into the pillow. He felt himself twitch and shiver and shudder furiously as ripples of torturous pain washed over his body, over and over and over...
"Hold him down!"
"I got him, Dad."
The next gasp of pain was accompanied by agonized sobs and the trickle of warm tears down his face and temples. He vaguely felt his hands snapping towards his torso, but tight grips seized his wrists, one of them pulling his arm back onto the mattress. He instinctively curled his fingers up, the tips catching onto fabric and ensnaring it in their grasp.
"Focus on my voice, Sam."
The hardened murmur of John Winchester fell straight into his ear, puffs of warm exhales settling onto his dampening skin.
"Don't fight the pain. Relax and let it take its course. It's going to weaken sooner."
Sam's eyes slammed open, vision blurred with tears and terror as ripple after ripple tore at his flesh. A long, whining cry slithered out of his mouth as his body convulsed and bucked against his will, flaring the fire of agony in his... in his side... his left side...
"Calm down, Sam. Focus on my voice. Relax and let it happen."
Sam's eyes slid to the right where John was leaning towards him, mouth by his ear, talking to him slowly. An arm was pushing into Sam's chest, firm and grounding, while the man's other hand was gripping his right wrist tightly, pressing it into Sam's sternum to keep it in place. His voice tapered off into rapid, whimpering exhales as his chest jumped up and down faster than ever. His fingers knocked against his chest as they spasmed fiercely, involuntary convulsions from the still harshly rippling pain in his side.
Sam forced his gaze onto his own body, needing to know how badly he messed it up this time. The first thing he found was Dean straddling his knees, one hand trapping his left wrist on the mattress, the other holding his left thigh in place, fingers digging into Sam's flesh in an effort to keep his leg still.
The second thing was the large pad of white gauze visible under Sam's rumpled T-shirt, leading under the blanket and onto his hip.
The sight registered the tightness around his stomach and the pull of tapes on his skin. As his body twitched with another ripple, he could now discern the stinging pull of stitches where the gauze kept them hidden.
"Calm down, Sam" John continued into his ear relentlessly. "Relax and take deep breaths. Let it happen, Sam."
Sam gulped down one of the harsh gasps, keeping it inside his lungs a second longer...
Then forced himself to exhale slower.
His head fell back again onto his pillow and this time he focused on riding out the pain, slowing his breathing into an even rhythm. His cheeks puffed out with every harsh blow through gritting teeth as he gradually regained some control over his body.
After what felt like days, the pain eased up into bearable territory and the grips on his limbs relaxed. John's hand passed Sam's face and carded through the teen's hair again soothingly.
"Good boy" the man praised him softly before sitting up, sharp eyes still roaming his son's features, keeping tabs on every inch.
Dean's weight also lifted from Sam's legs and soon the older boy was sitting on the edge again, careful not to touch Sam's injured side. He exchanged his hand so he could grasp Sam's wrist tightly and Sam returned the gesture with his own twitching hold on his brother's wrist.
"Is it...?" Sam finally gasped out, instantly resuming his even breaths once the broken question was out.
"Yeah" Dean nodded. "Once I realized we lost each other I retraced my path. Luckily, although I don't know how, I met up with Dad."
"That forest was confusing as hell" John shook his head, his gaze darkening with his words. Sam recognized the anger. "I got turned around myself." But this time it seemed to be aimed at himself.
"When we found you..." Dean started but his voice choked up. Sam saw his brother's gaze slide onto the gauze on Sam's left side. "Dad shot the bastard but..."
"Remember the venom we discussed before the hunt?" John asked in a grim tone. Sam nodded, his body relaxing slightly as he was distracted from the pain. "The damn thing was feeding off of you. Its saliva got into the wound and..."
Sam groaned as the words evoked a harsh throb in his side. His body jolted with it and the grips tightened once again on him, but once he remained still the two other Winchesters relaxed.
"How long...?" Sam asked, rerouting his attention to his family.
"Five days" John replied, his hand stroking Sam's head gently. The teen leaned into it again, recognizing how shaken the veteran Winchester must be. A rare occurrence... "You had a raging fever for three of them then stayed unconscious for two more. We were starting to plan a trip to a hospital by now."
"No" Sam shook his head firmly. He hated hospitals... and he was sure his current state would be hard to explain, anyway.
"It's okay, Sammy" Dean assured him with a smile. "Now that you're with us again, there's no need for the men in white."
"W'r' leavin'...?" Sam asked, blinking slowly as his tongue grew heavier, slurring his words.
"Get some rest, kiddo" John said, his voice lowering in volume. Sam tried to open his eyes again, but his body was yanking him under. "We'll talk more later..."
And with those words, Sam was swallowed up by the darkness and silence of blissful sleep.
It took two more days for John Winchester to act normal - as in packing up and getting his sons out of town as fast as possible. Sam didn't really mind it that much this time: he was going to start climbing the walls, screw his injuries. There's only so long a fifteen-year-old teenager can stare at piss-colored, peeling wallpaper and static-filled, crappy sitcoms of ages long-forgotten.
So, when John had declared that they were heading out and no arguments, Sam had stayed silent except for a "Yes, sir." It had most likely shocked the hell out of the oldest Winchester, but John must've decided to take the good without a fuss.
Dean, though, who had been sitting by Sam's side, reclining against the headboard and keeping the teen company, had smirked down at Sam knowingly.
"Shut up" Sam had grumbled, jabbing his elbow weakly into his brother's side.
Now, the youngest Winchester was lying flat on his back in the backseat, his knees bent and feet wedged under the doorhandle to keep himself still during the bumps on the road. The last IV bag of antibiotics was hanging from the cracked-open window, leading into the back of his left hand, which was resting on his sternum. Sam didn't really want to know where the other two got the IV bags from, although he had some suspicions.
Not that it mattered now.
Sam took a deep breath, grimacing as his left side throbbed in protest from the movement. He instinctively kept his right hand protectively over it, the white gauze hidden under many layers of clothing to keep him warm and an old but still very much serviceable blanket.
He fought down a shudder as his mind took him back to that morning.
"The hell are you doing?!"
Sam jumped at the enraged shout from behind him, causing him to cry out in pain and curl up, his hand flying onto his side. As he breathed hard against the agony erupting inside him, stomps rushed to his bed, grabbing his shoulder. Sam let the tears roll down his cheeks before looking up.
John's angry-worried hazel-green gaze stabbed through his matching eyes.
"What part of 'stay put, Sammy' did you fail to comprehend?" the man growled out, but his steadying hold opposed his furious tone.
"I..." Sam gasped out and resumed pushing himself up to his feet. "I'm f-fine..."
The hold on his shoulder tightened, keeping him on his ass with a silent reminder to stay still. John's free hand, however, slipped gently onto his forehead then cheek.
"I leave you alone for five minutes and you're already exhausted and running a fever" John grumbled, his voice only shaken by growing concern. "What the hell were you thinkin'?"
Sam started shaking his head to deny the accusations, but one movement sent the whole room into a whirlwind. His stomach churned painfully, tugging at his injured side with its force. Sam let out a groan of pain, but before he knew it, his hand was gripping and twisting his Dad's shirt tightly, trying to find a banister at the precipice of darkness he knew he was balancing on.
"Alright, calm down, kiddo" John murmured, his anger ebbing away in an instant. His arms wound gently around his son as he sat onto the bed next to him. "Deep breaths and relax. You know the drill by now."
Sam was extremely relieved to have a wall of steadiness by his side and he didn't hesitate to lean against it. His head fell onto his father's shoulder and with a hitching moan his body sagged, his mediocre strength he had spent two days gathering dissipating too easily.
"You done playing the hero now?" John spoke softly after a long pause. Sam, unable to reopen his eyes now, just grunted unintelligibly. "That's a yes, then."
John shifted away from him but still held Sam upright. A moment later, Sam was lifted into the air, his father's arms behind his back and under his knees. Sam's side throbbed with the movements but his mind was growing fuzzier again, dimming the pain into an aching pressure.
"Finally" he heard above him, a sigh rustling his damp tresses on the top of his head.
"He okay?" Dean's muffling voice reached Sam's ears, a hand stroking his hair tenderly.
"Painkiller's kicked in" John's echoing grumble was the last thing that followed him into numb darkness.'
His gut twisted uncomfortably, but this time it was a sort of panic he had gotten to know nowadays. He hadn't seen his injury yet, but... it must be something major to knock him this hard off his feet. Because he's able to handle pain pretty well... Well, not as much as his Dad or Dean, but still... It had to be big to weaken him this much so quickly... right?
Sam let out another sigh, shoving away the unpleasant doubts and thoughts, and his eyes slid up to the front seats. He suppressed the content smile wishing to break forth for the thousandth time, but he couldn't help it: seeing his Dad behind the wheel, with Dean babbling about who knows what or just drumming the rhythm of the classic rock song blaring out of the speakers, was a normal Sam thought he would never witness again. He found himself watching the two more times than he would dare to admit, just basking in the peace of the picture in front of him.
Just as Sam managed to rein in the giddiness - which he would blame on the painkillers - Dean turned around to check on him over the seat.
"How you holdin' on, Sammy?" Dean asked, smirking happily at his little brother. Sam grimaced just as expected, but he just accepted the warmth filling his heart at the flippant concern. At Dean's words the rearview mirror reflected John's eyes as the man glanced at him briefly.
"'M sore" Sam complained, hoping he put enough little-brother-whining for Dean's peace of mind. Dean chuckled then John piped up:
"We'll stop for lunch soon if you boys feel like it."
Sam's grimace this time was genuine: at the mention of food, his stomach gave an ominous gurgle. The teen swallowed a bit erratically as his throat tightened up against any unexpected... visits.
"Good idea" Dean replied, but Sam could feel his brother's gaze on his face. He dared to open his eyes once his stomach settled somewhat. He knew he needed to eat, especially if he wanted some more painkillers or other medicine. But just thinking about the types of food his Dad and Dean gorged themselves on...
He moaned again at another wave of nausea rushing through him, leaving him with chills.
"Alright" John suddenly spoke up, startling Sam back into reality. The teen just realized that the car's engine had shut off. "I'll be right back."
"Get me some pie?" Dean quickly said as the door creaked open. The sudden silence lured Sam's gaze up to his father, who was scowling at his eldest son.
"A 'please' would be nice every now and then" the man finally grumbled, then, not waiting for a response, got out. Dean snorted softly, but as he turned to Sam, the teen saw a triumphant smirk on his face.
"So" the older boy started, resting his head on the arm draped over the top of the seat. "How you holdin' up?"
Sam let out a sigh. He already knew his recuperation will be fun.
"'M fine" he answered, rolling his eyes. He did it slowly, though, feeling the instability of his vision.
"And what's your definition of 'fine' right now?" Dean's words held the usual big-brother-annoyance, which eased Sam's mind. If his brother acted his usual self despite all of this, things shouldn't be as bad.
"Obviously, it hurts" Sam said with a scoff. His hand tightened slightly on his left side, just shy of causing himself pain. "But it's nothin' I can't handle."
"That doesn't mean you'll be doing cartwheels any time soon, you know that, right?"
Sam shook his head as he glared at his brother. Just the thought of that much exertion made him want to curl up and die, but he's not gonna admit that.
"I'm fine" he repeated, putting emphasis on both words. He softened his snappy tone when he saw how serious and worried Dean was. Only when the older boy's features relaxed some did he add: "Quit buggin' me."
"Not a chance" Dean grinned, ending the conversation this way. Sam scowled, but the sniggering next to him indicated that Dean found him amusing, not intimidating. "You can pout all you want, it doesn't change anything."
"Shut up, jerk" Sam mumbled, but inside he felt lighter when he got a soft laugh in return.
"Love ya too, bitch."
As if it was intentionally timed this way, the front door opened up.
"There you go" John said, holding out a plastic bag for Dean, who eagerly accepted it.
"Yes" the older boy fist-pumped after checking the contents. "Apple?"
"Cherry" John replied, setting more bags down onto the seat then the door slammed shut. Sam frowned, not sure what else his Dad wanted to get as footsteps walked by behind him.
A minute later, John appeared on the other side and opened the door by Sam's feet. The teen startled again as his Dad began climbing in, crouching next to the seat by Sam's side.
"How you feelin'?" the man asked, his voice still holding the softness of concern. Sam couldn't bring himself to snark at his father with that caring tone aimed his way.
"I'm fine" he replied with a twitch of a smile. He didn't chase his father's hand away when it lay against his forehead. "Hurts but that's expected, right?"
"Of course" John nodded, taking his hand back. "But don't tough it out. Wouldn't want the infection to return."
Sam nodded with the millionth sigh. Yep, his recovery will be 'fun'.
"Alright, let's get some food in you."
Sam got confused when John leaned over him, worming his arms under the teen's torso.
"Hold on tight and let me do the work, okay?" the man spoke into Sam's ear. With a nervous gulp, Sam curled his fingers around the fabric of John's jacket, rumpling it on his shoulders. A deep breath later, he nodded, signaling that he was ready.
The explosion of pain in his side showed him how wrong he was.
His own pained cry penetrated the rush of blood in his ears as he was shifted around. He felt the rub of the seat under his legs and the pull of stitches as he was moved. A warm, clammy palm engulfed his left hand where he was desperately clutching at his father, who was murmuring into his ear.
As his voice tapered off into harsh gasps, his back was pressed against something bumpy and hard. Fingers gripping the back of his skull slowly tilted his head back then John pulled back just enough to see his son's face.
"You with me, kiddo?"
Sam sniffed against the panicked hitches of his lungs then opened his eyes. He felt shame wash over him as the tickling of tears sailed down his cheeks.
"S-Sorry-y..." he choked out, his body jolting slightly from the sobs breaking forth from his mouth.
"Ssh, Sammy" John whispered, reaching up to brush Sam's hair out of his eyes and tuck it behind his ear. "You've gone through Hell in the past days. There's nothing to apologize for, alright?"
Sam nodded, even though the shame of being useless and a dead weight continued simmering in his gut. John and Dean barely broke into pieces when they were injured and here he was, crying like a baby because of some clawmarks.
"Stop that" John's hardened voice interrupted his self-pity. Sam's gaze snapped up at his father in surprise, and flinched at the glare of anger in the man's eyes. "Have you ever had an injury that needed almost fifty stitches just to keep your body intact?"
Sam's eyes widened at that question. Was it really that bad? He knew it wasn't a simple scratch, but...
"When I was clawed to ribbons by a werewolf years ago" John continued, keeping their gazes locked to ensure Sam was paying attention, "I was whining and screaming Bobby's house down myself. I ended up with forty-six stitches and a lump on my head when Bobby whacked me for trying to tough it out."
Sam involuntarily let out a hiccuping chuckle, his mouth stretching into a shivery smile.
"Remember when that wendigo got me?" Dean took over, squeezing Sam's hand to get his attention. "Almost forty for my leg? I know it's not a picnic and I'm pretty sure I told you all about it while I was recovering."
"We had to practically tie him to the bed for three days" John added, nodding his head towards his eldest with a teasing glint in his eyes.
"I th-thought I was gonna kn-knock you out myself" Sam said, turning to his brother, his breaths evening out as he spoke. "Just to have s-some peace."
"See, we're all as bad as each other" John spoke after Dean scoffed indignantly. "So don't you dare beat yourself up over it."
"Yeah" Dean chimed in again cheerfully. "Now you know what it feels like to be shredded, so you can snap at us as much as you want when we fuss over a scratch on your face."
Sam laughed again, but it quickly turned into a grimace of pain and a hiss.
"Alright, that's enough horsin' around" John said firmly as he carefully straightened up. Dean let Sam's hand go and the teen lowered his arms into his lap, mindful of the still throbbing injury in his side. He found himself sitting upright, leaning against the door, his head pillowed by the window. John sat onto the edge of the seat, avoiding pressing into or brushing against Sam, then reached forward and lifted a bag over the seat. Sam's stomach gave a weak churn of protest, but John only pulled out a Styrofoam cup and a plastic spoon. Placing the bag onto the floor, the man popped the lid off the cup and stuck the spoon into it. Sam watched as steam floated out of the cup and the scent of chicken soup filled the interior of the car.
"Just some light meal" John muttered and Sam thought he could see a flush of red on his father's cheeks. John threw the lid into the bag then began stirring the soup. In the background, Dean let out a soft moan of delight, his mouth already full with what Sam guessed was a burger.
After a minute of stirring, John leaned closer to Sam and held out the spoonful of soup.
"Dad, I can feed myself, you know" Sam huffed, but opened his mouth and accepted the offering.
"Humor me" John replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. Sam rolled his eyes as he swallowed, knowing his teenager reaction would ease the man's mind, as well. He only felt a hint of the usual annoyance, though.
After a few minutes filled with companionable silence, John glanced at his watch.
"We'll drive a couple more hours then settle into a motel until you get better. Think you can make it?" he asked Sam as he fed him another spoonful of soup. Sam chewed on the chicken meat in his mouth as he assessed his condition. His side was throbbing a little less now and his stomach seemed to be pleased with the warm meal. The chills from the morning were also easing up and he was starting to get sleepy.
"I think so" he finally replied after swallowing. John nodded, trusting him on knowing his limits. Sam appreciated it.
Especially when Dean turned back to his pie, satisfied with his own silent assessment of his little brother.
Did Sam ever say he was touched that his family was taking very good care of him, pretty unprecedented in their line of work?
Well, if he did, he's taking it back now.
Sam suppressed a growl of frustration as he was tucked in for the fifth time in a row. Three of them were from Dean, but the last two was John. Sam felt suffocated by all the mother-henning he had to endure.
"Sam, stay in bed!" "Sam, don't walk alone, you'll tear your stitches out!" "Sam, don't lift the book, your stitches will pop!" "Sam, don't research this, you need rest!" "Sam, don't press the button on the remote, you'll pull a muscle!"
... Okay, the last one never happened. But Sam sure felt like it did!
The past week had been a vacation compared to the rest of his life. After being carried into the motel room by his Dad - which Sam had not particularly consented to, but endured anyway - he had been spending the majority of his time in bed, letting his body heal. Dean was his usual self, running to fuss over him at every wince and whimper that escaped Sam's guard, but it had come as a surprise to see John, freakin' drill sergeant, badass John Freakin' Winchester, act as a hen clucking over her injured chick. The two older Winchesters even managed to get into an argument about how to care for Sam - which was only broken up when Sam began snorting and laughing at the ridiculousness of the scene.
The teen had an inkling why his father was so eager to give him rest and let him take it easy. Sam had been on hunts since he was ten, mostly as backup or lookout, always far away from the action. Not that the training Sam had to take was any easier because of that, but at least he had been eased into it. Dean had told him after the third hunt that John had done the same for him until Dean turned thirteen and demanded that his father let him help out more actively.
Sam hadn't felt the urge for that at that age. He had his fights with his Dad for weeks, maybe even months, since he wanted to focus more on studying than chasing nightmares, but a year later - thanks to a rather messy hunt with a narrow escape from officials - he realized that his help is needed... occasionally.
So not much before his fifteenth birthday, Sam had decided to get some more active roles.
After that decision, the first couple hunts were successes and he had survived with only a few scratches and the occasional stitches and cuts. Nothing a Winchester couldn't handle, as John had always said before chasing them out for training.
This one, though... this was a failure.
Yes, the hunt was done - the monster was dead and they all got out alive - but Sam has become bedridden for a long time, because his left leg acted up whenever he put any pressure on it. The first time he had laid eyes on his injury, he collapsed into the bathroom counter, throwing up his meager dinner of soup into the sink. It wasn't the stitched skin and darkened mess of lines and indentations that made him sick, but the picture of what it had possibly looked like initially that flashed across his mind.
Let's just say that he was surprised his organs were still intact... and inside his body.
The mental image was convincing enough to scare him into obedience for a few more days, much to Dean's surprise, but not John's. For the first time in a long time, the two hard-headed, short-tempered Winchesters had reached an understanding.
However!
Enough was enough!
As the door to the motel room slid shut, letting John out for some ice - Dean had left for dinner earlier - Sam slammed his hands against his mattress then yanked the cover in front of his face and muffled a scream into his fists. One more 'Take it easy, Sammy, your stitches will burst!' and he'll blow someone's brains out!
A few seconds of seething later, he forced himself to take a deep breath, keeping the covers over his face. He concentrated on the darkness in front of him and persuaded his mind to ease up. He took another deep breath, his lungs now expanding easier, then as he let it out, he lowered his hands carefully. He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
He didn't want to sound like an ungrateful asshole, but he had inherited the infamous Winchester-patience his father is famed for: no patience with a short fuse. He was glad, honestly glad, that he wasn't thrust into another hunt while he couldn't even sit up without sending himself onto the verge of passing out. It's not like his Dad had mercy on him with other injuries.
The fact that John was adamant that he rest and take it easy in a nice bed was telling of how serious the situation was.
But... he was so bored out of his mind!
As his heartbeat settled after the burst of frustrated anger, his eyelids grew heavier. Before he knew it, he was tumbling into sleep, not even a moment's chance to think up a complaint against his weakened system, making him tired too easily and too fast.
The loud chirping of crickets flooded into the motel room before the door swung shut with a soft click. Dean glanced up instinctively from the book he was - quite reluctantly - perusing, body tensing at the prospect of an intruder. The reflexive reaction subsided almost instantly as he recognized his father's form in the doorway, shedding his jacket.
John nodded in greeting to his eldest then snuck further in, straining his ears for any sound and trying to peek past the partition, searching for any movement from the beds.
"He's asleep" Dean said softly, once he found the destination of his father's attention. He turned back to the lore of manticores, but he added morosely: "At last..."
"Cut him some slack" John replied with a snigger as he averted his gaze from Sam's resting form under the blanket. "Would you suck it up and be good in his place?"
"Well, I wouldn't be such a bitch about it" Dean glared at the method of extracting venom from the manticore's stinger. He sent a burning glance at John when the man snorted in obvious disbelief.
"Keep telling yourself that."
"Cause you're so much better."
"I am" John took a seat opposite Dean and fished a notebook out of his pocket. Dean scoffed with narrowed eyes, clearly objecting to his statement. "I don't whine about it."
Dean scoffed again then lowered his gaze back to the book with a shake of his head.
"As much" he grumbled.
"As much" John repeated, knowing when to win and when to let the other triumph. He flipped the pages of his notebook until he reached the latest writings.
"So?" Dean shut the book, keeping his hand inside as bookmark for now. His attention quickly shifted into hunter mode.
"You were right" John nodded, reading through the information he acquired that day. "There's definitely something here. From what I could gather it's a harpy."
"A harpy?" Dean's eyes widened. John had encountered a few of those in his earlier days, but Dean had only seen one. In a safe distance, luckily.
"Yeah" John wiped at his features, the age-old tiredness washing over him momentarily. "We'll have to check the lore again. It's been awhile since I ran into one of those sons of bitches."
"Sure" Dean nodded immediately, straightening up. "I can start now."
"It's fine, son" John waved dismissively. "Those books are not here right now. I'll have to get them first. Luckily, it's only a couple hours drive from here. I can get them tomorrow."
"You want me to go with you?" Dean asked hesitantly. John stared at his oldest, slightly surprised by the question.
"Are you fed up with your brother already?" he teased finally. Dean's cheeks seemed to grow a bit pinker, but his eyes showed defiance.
"Of course not" he snapped back indignantly. "Forget I asked."
John chuckled, knowing his son would rather die than leave his younger brother alone and defenseless - and injured.
As the conversation tapered off and peaceful silence filled the air between the two Winchesters, they remained unaware of the hazel-green eyes sliding shut in the shadow of the dim bedroom.
The rustle of sheets joined the steady, rhythmic snores filling up the motel room. Sam clenched his jaw as he moved gingerly, pushing himself shakily upright. As soon as he felt as stable in his seat as possible in his condition, his mouth gaped open for a silent gasp of breath. He focused on controlling his breathing, letting one shaky hand rest gingerly on his left side. With a gulp, he glanced over his shoulder at the bed closest to the partition.
Dean was sprawled on his back, his snores soft and the slightest bit muffled by his upper arm, which was resting around his head. Sam gulped against the slowly approaching tightness in his throat as he took in the grey bags under Dean's eyes. His brother had spent a week practically sleep-deprived, making sure he had an eye on Sam while the younger boy was lost in fever dreams. The thought of his big brother sitting vigilant by his side, living on caffeine and hair-greying worry, made Sam more determined.
He needed to prove to his brother that he was fine.
That he survived.
With a slow, deep breath he straightened up then slowly shuffled himself towards the edge of the mattress. Switching hands on his side, he grimaced as he forced back the pain-filled grunts and groans and gasps. Just tensing his thighs sent a wildfire of agony up his body and through his wound.
Once he managed to lower his feet onto the coarse carpet, his mouth snapped open again, giving way for fresh oxygen into his lungs. He felt his chest rise up and down faster, but he made sure he barely let out any sound. One wrong tone of voice and the Winchester mother bears would be on him relentlessly.
And that wouldn't help anyone.
He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily as a wave of heat swept over him, erupting out of his already clammy skin. He gulped against the rising nausea that began rumbling in his stomach. He was fine! It was freakin' searing hot in this room, that's all!
After a few minutes of stillness and steady breathing, the pain in his side eased up into an aching throb. Sam opened his eyes, the room standing still around him, then with another deep breath, he began pushing himself onto his feet.
His breath hitched even though he was trying to keep his weight on his good leg. The wound in his side gave an almighty thrum, forcing him to snap a hand out and grab the nightstand to prevent his body collapsing. He pushed against the urge to rub his side, knowing that would just undermine this whole operation.
Small pressure at the bridge of his nose started oozing forward. Sam sniffed softly against it, ignoring the tears rolling down his rapidly paling cheeks. He was fine! It's not like he was rushing to go for a hunt. He was perfectly capable of standing on his own two feet and... go to the bathroom... or to the kitchen... He won't be fighting a monster, just... sitting around... reading some books...
"Sam, stay in bed and rest! Your stitches will burst if you do anything extraneous!"
His fingertips tenderly probed at the gauze through his T-shirt. He had to gulp against the cry of pain hurrying to explode out of his lungs. At least, it was worth it: he couldn't feel anything out of place or worrying.
Leaning against the nightstand, he took in the path he had to tread in order to reach the kitchen table and the blissful heaven of a chair. In his mind he cursed the tradition of Dean sleeping closest to the exit. Stupid big-brother heroism...
He straightened up and with a hesitant pause he lifted his left leg. Those steps were always easy: his thighs barely tensed and his hip just shifted under the injury. It just throbbed with a dull ache. He put his foot down, not too far ahead. He paused again, dreading the next two-three seconds.
Then lifted his right leg.
The dull ache screamed through his muscles so hard that it would've woken up the whole town if it had been a sound. His foot slammed back onto the floor, but luckily it was in front of his left foot. Sam shivered as the sweatdrops rolled down his skin, dampening his T-shirt and tickling his chilled skin through another heat wave. He glanced towards Dean, but to his utter relief, the older boy was still sound asleep. He must be pretty tired to sleep so deeply...
Shoving back the fresh onslaught of guilt, Sam continued his slow, painstaking limping towards the table. Every time he had to stand on his left leg, he had to pause, convincing himself that he will be fine after the long seconds.
He almost collapsed into fits of sobs when he finally reached his destination.
The table was relatively empty, considering there was an imminent hunt. A couple tomes lay haphazardly on the surface and some papers were strewn about with Dean and John's handwriting cropping up on the margins. Sam frowned as he leaned forward, searching for the reading order of the notes.
From what he could gather, there were some disappearances in the last few weeks. Most of them were healthy, strong men in their late twenties. Their bodies were found days later, abandoned and broken, deep claw marks on their arms and torsos. Sam guessed they could be talon marks, judging by the conversation last night...
His musing was interrupted by a deep, resonating snore next to him. He jumped, clamping his mouth shut against the hiss wishing to break free. Once the throbbing eased up, he glanced to the source - and his heart almost stopped.
John Winchester was haphazardly sprawled over the couch in a seated position. His head was leaning back onto the headrest and Sam could see his mouth open to a slit as he slumbered on.
If John woke up, Sam would be dead for being out of his bed.
Without making anymore noise, Sam hobbled painfully over to the chair and gingerly lowered himself into it. His speed and caution earned him the lack of creak as his weight rested on the rickety wood. Now that the pressure was off his left side, the pain took even less time to subside. As soon as he was able to feel the fabric of his T-shirt brushing at his gauze without the sharp spike of pain, he reached out and pulled one of the books closer. He opened it at the table of contents and began browsing the chapter titles.
There! He was doing nothing strenuous. Just reading! He was sitting down, keeping his body relaxed and the strain off his injury. He was fine and able to gauge his limits in his current state. No one can have any complaints about it!
After a peaceful, silent while, a gruff, angry voice behind him proved he was wrong to think that.
"What the Hell are you doing out of bed?"
Sam startled from the booming tone and the hiss now managed to break free. He hunched over for a moment before he glanced back over his shoulder.
John Winchester, fury incarnated, has just rounded the couch and was marching towards him, eyes blazing.
Recognizing the fire he was about to play with, Sam widened his eyes innocently as he watched his father's approach. As the man stopped by his side, fists jabbed into his hips and brow furrowed in anger, Sam could just catch the softening of the blazing eyes.
"I-" the boy started but he was cut off.
"I never would've thought that you running around recklessly is "taking care of yourself", young man."
For a second, Sam thought he was having a fever-induced hallucination. Since when did John Winchester call anyone "young man" in such a mothering tone? He blinked the image of an apron-clad, wooden spoon-bearing John out of his imagination before he burst out laughing.
"I'm not running around" he replied instead, rolling his eyes. He ignored the stinging pain that poked at the back of his eyeballs. "I'm sitting down."
"Last time I checked" John said with renewed anger, "you were in bed, feet away from this table. Unless you learned to teleport in a blink of an eye, you were not resting in bed."
Sam glared up at John, feeling the bubbling of frustration and annoyance in his stomach, with a dash of guilt spicing the whole concoction of emotions up.
"I'm fine!" Sam snapped out, unable to rein in the heat of anger as he spoke. When will these two morons realize that he was alright?! That he was alive, goddammit?! "I'm doing nothing but reading. I'm not some delicate damsel in distress-"
"Your job is doing nothing but getting better!" John barked out, his fists slipping off his hips, shaking slightly by his sides. "That means lying down, staying still and sleeping! Not marching out of the room playing the damn hero!" Sam could see the shaking grow a tiny bit stronger. That usually meant John was passing the border of bridled fury.
Too bad Sam didn't give a damn.
"For God's sake, I'm just reading a freaking book, not running a marathon!" Sam shouted, slamming his own fist onto the table, causing a couple books to jump a couple millimeters into the air. His own blazing hazel-greens stabbed through his father's eyes.
"I don't care!" John shouted back, losing his temper. "You're going to sit your ass back onto your bed and stay put until I say so!"
"I'm not some snot-nosed kid anymore, I'm fifteen-"
"But I am your father and you'll do what you're told, understand me?!"
The chair under Sam screeched back then the books and papers shot off the table top with loud thuds and rustling.
They were followed by a pained cry as Sam collapsed onto the table, bent in half from the agony erupting its burning hot lava in his side.
The air grew stiff with tension, the arguing cut off abruptly by the past couple seconds. The only sound was the hissing of rapid inhales through gritting teeth, muffled by wood.
Sam's breath hitched as his body froze up. Before he knew it, he had jumped up and swiped his arms over the table, knocking everything down onto the floor. He's had a split-second decision: either throwing something - or punching his Dad. However, the sudden movements yanked on the invisible hook sewn into his abused flesh, paralyzing him with pain.
A footstep by his side made him remember John's presence.
And as tears spilled over his tightly squeezed eyes, he wished he could just disappear in his shame.
John's heart had been beating in his throat since Sam exploded in anger. Just a few seconds and his youngest had crumbled onto the table, face pressed into the wood, his arms the only pillars keeping him from collapsing onto the floor in a heap. He was already reaching out towards Sam to help him up and back into bed.
"Sam..." he spoke softly, ready to calm his son and explain to him why he needs to stay put once more.
"Dad?"
John jumped as Dean's voice piped up next to him. He snapped his eyes towards his eldest, surprised that he hadn't heard him enter the scene. He opened his mouth to... to explain or give an order...
The darkened, serious green eyes, resembling his sweet Mary's so much, took his words away.
"Dad, you should head out for those books" Dean said softly, his voice neutral, yet firm. He glanced at Sam briefly, the boy still folded over but even more tense now than during their argument. "If you leave now, you can get back before dark."
"I-" John started, but Dean turned his eyes back onto him. The green flashed with an icy intensity that Dean would never put into words, not ones addressed to his father.
"Go" the boy nodded encouragingly then stepped to Sam's side.
John, astounded by the rare occasion of his son taking charge, just turned around, put on his jacket and boots then left.
The drive helped him clear his head and think over those couple minutes.
And he realized how much Sam had taken after his father.
Dean let out a sigh as the door closed behind John's retreating form. He let his hand slide slowly onto his brother's back, announcing his presence. Sam's body jerked under his palm and his shoulder twitched very suspiciously as if the boy was trying to shrug him off.
Dean focused back onto his brother and crouched down next to him, keeping his arm around Sam's back. His free hand slid onto Sam's upper arm, squeezing it reassuringly.
This time, he only got a wet sniff as a reply.
"Come on" Dean whispered. He straightened up and grabbed his brother gently. Slowly but surely, Sam was pulled upright. Dean gulped back the chokehold that captured his throat at the wheezes and gasping sobs rushing out of his suffering little brother's mouth and lungs. He hated to see Sam hurt, either physical or emotional.
He just wished the stubborn moron would spare him the extra worry and heartache.
"You good?" he asked, knowing brisk and soft is the way to go concerning a distressed little brother. Sam leaned heavily into him as the mask slipped out of his weakened willpower's grasp. One set of spasming fingers gripped Dean's shirt collar as Sam curled into him, resting his weight on Dean's steady figure.
The next gasp, muffled by Dean's shoulder, was the most hated one of all.
Dean tightened his hold around Sam, mindful of his side. His hand slid around his brother and buried itself into Sam's damp, growing tresses. He closed his eyes as he held the boy upright - and together.
"You're first, got it?" he whispered right into Sam's ear, harsh and non-negotiable. "No matter what, you come first, the hunt second. If you don't beat this into your thick skull, I will, you hear me?"
He didn't wait for a reply: leaning down, he scooped his brother bridal-style into his arms carefully and carried him back to bed. He tucked Sam in and sat onto the edge of the bed.
He remained in his seat, just wiping the escaping tears off the flushed, feverish cheeks - even after Sam fell asleep.
By the time John returned to the motel room, it was dark, stars glittering on the night sky. He took a deep breath before getting out of the car, bracing himself for the disaster waiting for him inside. He was feeling partly guilty and partly ashamed. He couldn't deny, not even to himself, that he had escaped the room that morning, hoping to avoid the consequences of the argument.
Which was why he had a hand in the time of his return.
He rounded the car and lifted the small column of books out from the backseat. Locking the Impala, he marched up to the room door, but as he grabbed the knob, he paused. His throat tightened around his breaths as the picture of his crumpled boy flashed across his mind's eye, followed by the glare of Dean's green gaze. His fingers unintentionally squeezed the cool metal of the knob.
John shook his head quickly, dismissing the pictures from his thoughts - and the blur beginning to take over his vision. He slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open, keeping the movement careful to prevent a creak interrupting the peaceful chirps of the crickets.
He snuck in soundlessly, quickly closing and locking the door behind him. The room inside was dark, the lights were off. No sign of life or invitation around...
John stepped to the kitchen table, the books and papers set neatly back on top of it. He put the new additions beside them, making sure to keep the order. He slowly shed his jacket and toed off his boots, purposely moving without haste even though his instincts and gut were telling him to hurry up.
He couldn't ignore them for long, though.
He turned around and stepped forward, leaning to the side to peek around the partition. A strong sense of deja vu washed over him: it seemed like two minutes ago since he last did this...
The sight greeting him on the beds was relieving. His boys were sprawled out, sleeping soundly. Now that his brain registered the - admittedly, adorable - sight, John could hear the soft exhales and snores. Dean was hugging his pillow, head turned towards his little brother as always, the blanket half-off his body and the bed. His eldest was usually restless when Sam was injured or needed extra looking after. John stepped to the bed and lifted the blanket up, draping it over Dean's back. Dean shifted in his sleep, lips smacking a couple of times before he sank back into his dreams. John smiled, the muscles feeling rusty all of a sudden. He almost instinctively reached out and stroked Dean's hair the same way he had done when the boy was three years old.
Dean let out a sigh at the touch, responding even in sleep.
John straightened up, his heart aching from the paternal emotions flooding him. Dean had always been easier to deal with. He had his mother's kindness but he also learned to listen to his father's orders. It was as if Dean was giving him an out with everything on his shoulders now - what with the demon, the hunting, Mary...
John's eyes slid to the other bed, his heart growing heavier.
Any time Dean caused problems for him... was always for Sam.
His youngest was resting on his back, one hand on his injured side, while the other was lying by his head, which was turned towards his brother. The obvious connection between his boys floored John every time he witnessed it - and hurt him at the same time.
Sam... More like John with every passing day... Stubborn, impatient, proud - bull-headed... John shook his head, although he couldn't decide if it was from exasperation or fondness. John wished he had the patience like his eldest to deal with Sam's tantrums. Dean's teenage rebellion was so much easier - mostly because it focused on girls and alcohol and, on one occasion, weed - but Sam... Sam was worse. More intense - and cutting right into John's soul.
But now, sleeping with soft snores, the boy looked like the angel he had been when he was a baby. He was tucked in thoroughly and had a folded cloth on his temple. John leaned closer and worry began boiling in his stomach when he caught the damp tresses peeking out from under the cloth. Sam must have had a small fever while he was away...
He reached out and carefully lifted the cloth. It was still damp to the touch, so the fever must have been recent. He gently pressed the back of his fingers to Sam's forehead to check. The skin was still a bit too warm for his liking so he waved the cloth to cool it down some before replacing it on Sam's temple. The boy let out a tiny whimper as the different temperatures clashed for a second and a frown of discomfort creased his brow. However, as soon as John let his instincts take over once again and caressed the boy's mop of hair soothingly, Sam settled down.
John heard Dean shifting around on the other bed, but he ignored it in favor of focusing on his youngest. Leaning down like this, he could now catch the flush of Sam's nostrils and cheeks, crowned by the darkened bags under his eyes. John let out a sigh, wishing with all his might he could've spared Sam this agony - not just the injury, but the painstaking slowness of recovery. And this was another trait Sam had seemed to inherit from his old man: feeling useless when knocked out of the action.
At least, Sam was now resting again. Hopefully, he'll stay put a bit more, allowing himself time to fully recover from his injury. Until then, John will have to keep the waters as calm and smooth as possible - especially when the underwater volcano of Sam's ire prepares to erupt.
With his paternal instincts returning full-blown, John tucked Sam in just a bit more, as well, then leaned down and pressed a fatherly kiss onto the top of his son's stubborn head. With a sigh, he leaned back, mind already on the relaxing shower waiting for him.
"Hey."
The whisper from the side startled John. His gaze snapped to the other bed, where he could just see the knowing smirk disappear from Dean's sleepy features. John felt his face heat up slightly as he glared at his son.
"Did you find the books?" Dean asked, side-stepping the scene he had obviously witnessed. John nodded as he stepped away from Sam's bed, lowering the chance of disturbing his youngest's sleep even more.
"We can dig into them tomorrow" he said as Dean lifted a hand to knuckle at his eyes. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah" Dean answered, lying back down once he realized he didn't need to get into action yet. "At least for the next few hours."
John winced as the morning's events revisited his mind.
"That bad, huh?" he asked softly, glancing briefly at his peaceful son.
"You know how it is" Dean mumbled, snuggling into his pillow, his half-lidded gaze resting on his brother with an owlish blink. John just sighed in reply then, before he knew it, he ruffled Dean's hair gently as he turned towards the bathroom.
He thought he felt Dean's gaze on his back as he walked away.
Somehow, he didn't want to know what was held in those green eyes...
Sam stared at the crack on the light blue wall next to the chest of drawers. He had been awake for a few hours now, just listening to the murmurs behind him, only interrupted by the rustle of papers or the scratching of pens. He felt the other two's gaze on him a few times, but he kept his head turned away, ignoring the imploring looks. He had a suspicion that he would look like he's sulking, but that was far from the truth.
He felt ashamed.
The gentle throb in his side was a constant reminder of his weakened body - and his stupidity. He knew he wasn't up for exertion right now and he thought he could keep it under control. However, his temper had gotten the better of him.
And the two mother hens didn't chew him out because of it.
Which was probably even worse.
Sam closed his eyes for a second as his tightened throat gave a throb. When he had woken up, Dean had been the one to greet him before he was joined by their Dad. John looked so relieved to see his son alright... alive...
Sam couldn't look them in the face since then.
And he couldn't risk speaking as his voice would betray him further.
Since then, he was left alone, undisturbed, with his rest, with his thoughts... with his guilt...
Even the soft hum of chatter from the TV couldn't distract him. Not that he was paying any attention to it.
His ears were trained only on Dean and John doing their research in the possible hunt. The infamous Winchester pride was rebelling inside him for being left on the sidelines, useless to his family, a burden on a hunt... He hated himself for being caught by that freaking monster! If he had been a bit quicker...
But he hadn't been. And now he was laid up, lazing about instead of helping in the research... protecting his family... protecting Dean...
"Hey."
The familiar hand on his shoulder was accompanied by the soft, soothing tone of his brother. Sam tensed up and averted his eyes even more, knowing Dean was leaning forwards and maybe a bit to the side to catch his gaze. The hand stroked his hair gently before Dean sighed and pulled back.
"I wish you could be adult about this" the older boy grumbled and Sam could see in his mind's eye as his brother looked in the other direction, shaking his head slightly in frustration. A pause settled in between them, Sam trying hard not to shake as the hurt flashed over his heart at those words.
"I'm sorry" Dean said suddenly, his gaze practically drilling through Sam's skull. "That was completely uncalled for."
Sam frowned a bit at the sudden change. Although, why was he surprised? Dean knew him more than he knew himself sometimes. It was pretty annoying.
"Dad went out for dinner" Dean continued a bit louder. "But I can make you some soup if you want to?"
Sam didn't respond, but his stomach did it for him: it gave a low gurgle. He thought he heard a snicker from his brother but before he could decide if he had imagined it, Dean's fingers wrapped around Sam's for a squeeze before the bed creaked from the rising weight.
Sam realized then how Dean knew what he was feeling.
He forced his fingers to stop twirling and twiddling with the blanket.
As the domestic noise of a kitchen filled up the motel room, Sam dared a peek at the source. Dean was by the sink filling a pot with hot water, humming distractedly as he waited. Sam sank into the pillow as his body relaxed. He wished he could stop this... The guilt, the defiance, the anger... To just enjoy being with his family... But something always has to ruin it, either outside or inside of him.
Sam let out a sigh as he tried to force his mind away from the troubling thoughts. He searched around with his eyes for a distraction, even if it was just by its sight, and wasn't there ever anything decent on TV nowadays-?
He froze up, the rush of adrenaline bringing him back to life in a second.
He found his distraction - as a book on the nightstand.
Dean must have held onto it when he had decided to check on Sam and now it was forgotten - just in his reach.
Sam glanced into the kitchen where Dean began stirring the soup, the noises replaced by the delicious smell of chicken soup. The older boy was still humming, so Sam carefully reached out. His fingertips just managed to grab onto the book and he slowly shifted it closer. As soon as he got a grip on it, he pulled it off the nightstand and into his lap.
It was a tome, a usual accessory in a hunter's arsenal - but Sam had never seen this particular one before.
It also had a bookmark inserted into the center, which Sam quickly opened up.
Harpies... So his Dad is still going for harpies. Good to know.
Sam began perusing the text, concentrating on drinking in the knowledge it provided. The supposed origins of these creatures was already fascinating for him. He shifted a bit so he was reclining more, carefully propping the tome up on his sternum so he could read comfortably. The buzz of the TV show around him and the peace of the motel room lulled him into the blissful zone of reading, relaxing his mind, at last.
"What the hell?"
The book was ripped out of his hands so suddenly, Sam jolted then hissed with a grimace of pain. He grabbed at his injured side, breathing deeply against the pain.
He needed a minute to look up at his brother, an indignant retort on his lips.
It was halted by the thunderous glare aimed at him from the green eyes of Dean "Mother Hen Extraordinaire" Winchester.
The rumble of the Impala slid into the parking space in front of the motel. John grinned as he listened to her purr, feeling the vibrations of his girl under his seat. It was getting rarer each day that he had a chance to drive the Impala, as Dean slowly began taking over that privilege. His eldest was in love with the car, had been ever since he was a little boy, cruising around in the back seat with toddler Sammy tucked into his side curled up in sleep. John still remembered the glittering of joy in his boy's eyes, a childlike innocence and mischievousness present in them that was lost now - well, maybe not the latter.
John shook his head then reached to the passenger seat for the bags of food and got out of the car, marching towards their room. He made sure to order Dean's favorite to avoid the snapping of the tension currently in the room. Ever since Sam had woken up, John was walking on eggshells around his youngest. Sam had been in a mood, ignoring them completely, despite Dean's best efforts to pick on him or annoy the hell out of him. John had an idea for the reason of his son's behavior, knowing where the boy learned/inherited it from. And because of that, John felt helpless on how to distract or dissuade the undeserved feelings from Sam's mind. Nothing he could think of right now gave the answer to the situation.
Maybe he should just wait and see if an opportunity rears its head soon.
Just as John slid his key into the lock, balancing dinner on his free arm, he heard his eldest's voice through the door, words muffled enough by the wood to not be clearly audible, but voice raised enough to indicate Dean was losing his temper. John took a deep, steadying breath, getting ready for another clash in the war.
With some reluctance, he turned the key and pushed the door open.
"-can't you understand?" Dean was saying as John stepped in, closed the door then locked it. He placed the bags quickly onto the table as a frustrated growl erupted out of his youngest. John hurried towards the beds, sensing trouble.
"Oh my God, Dean, it's just fucking READING!"
John just caught the flinch jolt Dean's body at Sam's scream as he stopped.
"Sam!" he barked out, bringing his boys' wide-eyed attention to him. "Watch your mouth, boy!"
Sam, reclining in his bed, shrunk into his pillow, his hand curling into a fist, trapping the blanket under his fingers, while the other rested protectively over his left side. Dean audibly gulped, his hold on the thick tome of folklore tightening nervously. John was aware of the instinctive nature of that reaction, and the usual stab of guilt flashed through his mind, but there was no time for that now.
"Dean" he finally spoke. His eldest tensed up, straightening his back to show his full attention. "Go and continue researching. I'll be with you shortly."
"Y-Yes, sir" Dean stuttered out and hurried away, brushing past John when the man stepped further in and walked up to Sam's bed. His youngest glared at him, even as he shied away from his father's looming form.
John sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. He eyed his boy, trying to stay calm, his protective instincts towards each of his boys warring inside him. He wanted to avoid aggravating his son, injured by John's miscalculations, but he also couldn't stomach the hurt his eldest suffered for his loving efforts to take care of Sam - receiving no gratitude for it.
He finally settled on a steady approach, although he kinda wanted to just scold Sam and be done with it. But he knew this outburst has been brewing for days now, if his own attitude towards being bedridden was anything to go by. A quick reprimand would not make the problem disappear. He knew that from years of headbutting with Sam.
So he said only one thing:
"You wanna explain to me what's gotten into you?"
Sam flinched as his father started talking, but his tension soon eased up into a confused frown. He was expecting the usual reaction to his outburst: shouting, putting a foot down and barking out an order to shut up and do as he was told. Whenever he had tried to speak his mind in the past, he had always pissed off John for being a "stubborn know-it-all brat" and "nitpicking and questioning every goddamn decision anyone else made!" That was what Sam was used to before-
Oh...
Still, it was a bit jarring to not have to face another unjustified wrath.
"Sam?"
Sam's eyes snapped towards his father, widening at the sharp tone, but, once again, he was unsure how to feel about the softer, almost caring look on the hardened hunter's face. He almost wished John would just start screaming angrily at him... He knew how to handle that.
Well, "more familiar with that" would be more precise.
"So?" John prodded once again, his sharp eyes never leaving Sam's face. No sign of the strict drill sergeant, only the stern gaze of a father... Where has this father been this whole time?
"I was just reading-"
"What's gotten into you, Sam?"
John's question was sharper than before, interrupting clean through the boy's words. Sam frowned in confusion. If this wasn't the answer the man was looking for, then what was it?
"I don't-"
"I'm asking what has gotten into you that would make you so obsessed with hunting, when most of the time you would scratch my eyes out with blunt nails for the mere suggestion of tagging along instead of letting you study" John's eyes narrowed as he tried to scrutinize his boy even more than usual. "Clear enough for ya?"
Sam glared as the condescending tone of his father raked over him with invisible nails. What right does the man have to reprimand him this way?
"I could ask you the same thing" Sam spat back angrily. "How come you don't just shove me into the next case like you usually do? Like I wasn't tired or injured?"
The tension of the room thickened up in seconds after those harsh words. Two hazel-green eyes drilled into each other, unrelenting and defiant to the very end, a true Winchester glare...
"Fair enough" John shrugged at last, uncharacteristically fast. Sam's eyes widened and he thought he heard a choked cough from the other side of the motel room. "However" the older man returned to his fatherly sternness in practically a snap of fingers, "I'm pretty sure you are well-aware of the answer to that. Might be even bored to tears with it. So what's your excuse?"
The swift rebuttal to Sam's angry outburst rendered the boy speechless. He could see the truth and reality of the words, no hidden meanings, no sidetracking, just straight and honest.
John was keeping him on bedrest, because Sam's injuries scared him into submission.
Scared him into realizing that his son was close to death.
Scared him into fatherly love and worry...
Sam recognized all of that. Even if it was learned from Dean's actions throughout his childhood. The signs were the same.
The pressure around his chest and throat was the same.
The fullness of his heart was the same...
A huff next to him revealed John smiling with a small shake of his head.
"Remember that time I had Bobby stitch me up?" he asked with amusement in his voice. "The werewolf?"
Sam nodded, confused by the subject change.
"Every time Dean or you get hurt enough to need some rest, I get reminded of those few days after that night." John let out a chuckle. "Pretty sure we would've killed each other back then if we hadn't been family."
Sam couldn't fully suppress a smile at the memory. Dean mother-henning over their Dad and Sam sitting by his side, reading aloud to stop his boredom...
Sam yelling at John, his voice cracking with puberty, for his father to stop being a stubborn idiot and just let himself heal...
The one time Sam managed to render the old marine speechless.
"And all that time" John continued, "while I was staring at the piss-coloured ceiling ready to shoot someone, I was thinking..." Sam heard the emotion clogging up his father's voice and he felt it in his own throat. Because he knew what John had been thinking back then. "I was thinking if that thing broke into the motel room, it would slaughter my boys..." John's eyes drifted away as he sank into his mind, his voice softening up, so unlike anything Sam had heard from the tough hunter before. "That no matter how much I train you and how much you prove to me you're good and capable hunters, that thing is much stronger... And me sitting on the sidelines will leave you out in the open, vulnerable... victims..."
Sam wanted to reach out, to reassure his Dad that they were fine, that he was alright, he was alive! Because he was, he wasn't gone, leaving only regrets, but here, breathing and whining and making sure these two morons got that fact through their thick skulls!
"However" John's voice snapped back to stern father tone in a flash, his eyes turning to steel as they landed back on Sam, "you of all people should know how frustrating it is to see you overexert yourself with serious injuries despite my orders, because you damn well know that I'm right in this case."
Despite his voice never rising in anger, Sam felt the sting of those words.
And the anger returning.
"For God's sake" he burst out without thinking, "I was just reading some books. Lying in bed and resting while my eyes were the only things doing the overexertion. I'm bored out of my mind here."
"Then ask one of us to fetch one of your books you always lug around" John said, not matching the exasperated tone Sam had fallen into. "Read those if you don't care for TV."
"I already read those at least ten times" the boy snapped back, unsatisfied by the lack of anger to his backtalk. He needed a second to ask himself why he wanted to draw out that response... Maybe to let off some steam?
"Then study for the next year of high school" John shrugged as if the suggestion was obvious. "You always throw a hissy fit for not having enough time for studying because of the hunts. Here's your chance."
"You always lose it when I want to study."
"Yes, when we're on a hunt. But you're not hunting right now."
Sam glared at John for being so sensible about this. What's gotten into the man? By this time, the two would be at each other's throats with Dean trying to separate them and being the voice of reason.
Sam felt weird for not liking this... since this was what he always wanted from his Dad.
"Sammy, I'm not leavin' ya until you tell me what's gotten into you" John leaned his head down a bit, forcing eye contact when Sam tried to break it. "So talk."
The flinch of grimace was Sam's left side giving a throb. His fingers pushed against the sensitive area a bit too hard as he worried at the blanket absentmindedly. The boy wanted to turn away from the scrutinizing gaze, so much like the one he hated in the mirror...
But he knew he lost this one.
"... feel useless..." he mumbled, the thought running rampant in his mind finally getting the chance to get out in the open. John kept staring at him, seemingly waiting, but after a minute of stubborn silence, he let out a deep sigh.
"I know" the man finally replied. "That's how Dean and I feel when we're in your place. It's like... we're just lazing around while everyone else is busy covering for our sorry asses. That's how I feel when I watch my boys doing the hard, dirty work I was supposed to be doing." Sam swallowed against the pressure tightening around his throat as he listened to his emotions being poured out into words.
"So tell me" John leaned an elbow onto his thigh as he shifted closer to his son, lowering his voice to just between them. "What does it feel like when you order me or Dean to stay put in bed and rest and let ourselves heal... and we do the exact opposite? When despite you knowing better, we overexert ourselves, aggravate our injuries and destroy any progress in healing because of it?"
Sam's hand began shaking as those emotions resurfaced from his memories, bruised knuckles slamming into concrete walls when the anger overflowed... Foot flying out, sending a chair tumbling into the corner of the kitchen... Fist hitting the tabletop hard enough to make objects jump...
"Pisses me off..." he answered in a whisper, knowing his Dad would hear him.
"Exactly" John's voice held no triumph, just sympathy. "'Cause instead of getting back in the game in... say, a couple of weeks, we stretch that into three weeks, maybe a month. And the amount of time you spend angry at us and worrying your ass off because of us should've been spent on focusing on the hunt, the research. Instead, we're just a distraction. Right?"
'So much like Dad...'
That thought made him realize that he had never felt closer to his father than right at this moment...
"But I'm not doing that" Sam said, his own voice getting shaky. The moment he spoke, John's head lowered with another sigh, as if he was searching for patience. "I'm not distracting you by reading a book. I'm just trying to help in research and I can do that lying down."
When John lifted his head back, he had his lips pursed in thought.
"Let me tell you something" he began, returning to the staring match between father and son. "Something that you don't wanna hear, kiddo... Hadn't wanted to hear for the last couple of years, okay?"
Sam almost jumped, his eyes widening to saucers when his father's calloused fingers closed around his hand, squeezing it gently.
"You are a hunter."
The well-articulated words sent Sam reeling and he had to blink a couple times, unable to understand what his father was doing.
"I've seen you when it comes to doing the job" John continued, using Sam's stunned silence to finally speak to him. Honestly and clearly. "You pick up a tome, delightfully peruse it for the information you need, because you're the type of person who thrives when it comes to learning new things. You start feeling the adrenaline pumping through your veins when you discover the cause, the monster of the case. You read about it thoroughly, memorizing as much as you can for not just the hunt, but for later, for future cases. Then you start digging around for a way to kill it. Your heartbeat picks up, determination and even excitement begins boiling inside you as you get closer and closer to solving this problem, to ridding the world of another evil, to saving innocents from death. You are pumped and ready to throw yourself into danger for them and these reasons." John raised an eyebrow curiously. "Am I correct so far?"
Sam stared at the man he had thought he knew. He was once more - or still - speechless by what he had taken in from that monologue. That the father he thought was dismissive towards him had seen so much out of his actions, and described them so accurately...
He could do nothing... but nod.
John smiled at that, a mixture of pride and sadness warring in his eyes.
"You are a hunter" he concluded with his own nod, "just like your old man." He nodded his head towards the kitchen table past the partition. "Just like your brother."
Sam felt another squeeze on his fingers.
"And you're just as good at the job as us" the man's voice turned earnest and insistent with those words, "whether you like it or not. When you're armed with knowledge, you're like a soldier on a mission. You make sure to get the job done and get the job done right. So, tell me, Sammy" John's eyes hardened back up, "would you be able to stop and let others handle things after you got the information needed to kill the monster? Would you be able to sit aside and let others finish up the job for you, when you know for a fact that you can do it yourself on a good day?"
Those words hurt worse than the monster clawing him to shreds. By this time, Sam had no strength to force his voice, his vocal chords, his squeezing throat to work. He couldn't look into those too familiar hazel-green eyes, staring at him, judging him... loving him... being proud of him...
He stared at his hand, engulfed by the darkened fingers of the man who would die for family and his children and help the world despite doing it to avenge a wife he should've never lost... The weight of the truth settled onto his body as his rational mind started a level-headed, logical inner search. He recognized all of the traits John had spoken of inside himself as he examined his actions in his memories. Everything described was exact and to the point of how he had always been feeling when he got swept up in a case, finding himself in the midst of a job he hated with a passion...
"If I know you as well as you don't think I do" John chimed in through Sam's thoughts and realizations, "then the answer is: no. You're like a dog with a bone, just like your old man. You're stubborn, idiotically so, you're quick-tempered, exploding when roused, quick to mouth off with words never meant to be said..."
Sam dared a blurry glance up at his "old man" as his voice trailed off. John looked somewhat troubled... or guilty... regretful...
It confirmed: the man was speaking from experience.
"When there's a job, you want to finish it. When there's danger, you want to protect the ones you love. And when you're injured and see the danger in the job you can't take part in, you can't protect your family during, it eats you up inside. Makes you feel useless, a weak burden, underestimated, when only you overestimate yourself and your own condition."
"It's just research-"
"You risk your own life to protect two capable hunters with more experience under their belts because you love them and worry about them. Even though you are fully aware how frustrating it is when we play the hero, the macho when we are down and ordered on bedrest."
Sam wished he could turn his head away to hide the teardrop finally rolling down his cheek. He never thought John, frickin' drill sergeant John Winchester, Hunter Extraordinaire, could reduce his stubborn moron of a son into a blubbering mess... with the truth.
"And all of this" the man kept on going, his voice passionate but low, not angry but determined, "all the frustration, all the necessary energy spent on unnecessary worrying and anger instead of researching the case and killing the monster... starts with you, the injured team member, doing research for us."
John let his words leave the impact and for that impact to sink in with a pause. Sam wanted to break it, to shout, to defy...
But how can you speak against the truth?
"So why start down this road instead of letting you rest and heal so you can get back in the game faster?" John asked, his thumb brushing at the back of Sam's trembling hand. Sam sniffed softly to gather his composure back, hoping his father wouldn't think bad of him, although he knew the man was aware of his emotional state... A rare occasion but well-missed...
"Then why do you do it?" he finally asked, something he was angry about when it came to his brother and father refusing to rest with a serious injury. "Or Dean?"
John let out another huff of laughter, his smile this time wider than ever.
"Well" the man replied shaking his head, a disbelieving expression slipping onto his aged face, "Winchester stubbornness is a family trait... You were always the smartest out of all of us. I comprehend all the things I just hammered into your thick skull, but when there's a job at hand, I tend to forget logic and common sense. Or when my boys are on the front line instead of me."
Fingers grabbed Sam's chin gently then lifted his face up until his eyes snapped up to his father's. The smile on John's face went from self-deprecating to affectionate.
"You don't. Never did."
Sam felt the last of his anger seep away at those words, the look on his father's face open and honest once more... and filled with pride. Reminding him of the other occasions he had seen that look, not on Dean's face - he had seen it there plenty of times - but on the estranged drill sergeant's: his first win over Dean, his first target hit by a bullet dead-center, his first ghost salted and burned, his quick-thinking to save his family out of a sticky official situation... his fifteenth birthday...
Why does his brain keep filtering those moments out when it's necessary to remember them?
"Now" John let his boy go and stood up from the edge of the bed. "With enough thinking to last you for a while and to dispel boredom - and keep you on your butt in bed, young man - you are gonna stay put and rest." One hand reached down and ruffled Sam's growing locks, making the boy grumble displeased. "I'll be back to check your side in a couple hours."
With that, the older hunter disappeared behind the partition, leaving Sam watching him with a new light - and a new understanding.
Until their next blow-up, that is.
"Look who's not on bedrest when they should be!"
John's head snapped up at the half-teasing, half-annoyed drawl of his eldest. He followed Dean's gaze towards the beds.
It's been a week since the big talk between John and his youngest, and it did wonders: it made Sam see sense, however begrudgingly. It certainly helped that the harpy had disappeared, leaving no sign of its nest or the way to it. The two upright Winchesters had spent their time relearning how to kill one of these sons of bitches and taking care of their fallen third member. Or just unite in boredom in the motel room.
The downtime did well for the youngest Winchester: now Sam was standing leaning against the partition, dressed in sweats and a new shirt. His body was wavering and John found the boy balancing on his good leg, the bad one only gently resting on the floor. He also caught the tail end of the eye-roll that Sam sent to Dean in reply. John shook his head and stood up to help his stubborn son. The boy's leg still wasn't up to active work, but he only grimaced and paled compared to the torturous whimpers and yelps from a few days ago for the tiniest of movements. Sam at first narrowed his eyes at John's approach, but just held out a hand, wordlessly accepting his offer – so unlike him that John almost hesitated.
"Careful" he murmured as he helped Sam hobble to the couch.
"I was bored of the bed" the boy said to his big brother nonchalantly, his voice only shaking when he had to reserve his efforts to restrain the pained winces escaping him. "A change of scenery would do me good, wouldn't it?"
Dean's huff was more amused than frustrated this time, which eased John's mind away from peacekeeping strategies. He helped Sam sit and slowly lifted the boy's injured leg up onto the couch so it was stretched out and resting. Sam this time couldn't keep in the painful yelp and his hand reflexively flew onto his thigh.
"Deep breaths, kiddo."
"I-" Sam was cut off by a pained hiss as his leg twitched against his will. "I know."
John smirked at the defiant tone, but he just rubbed at Sam's arm reassuringly.
Once Sam managed to settle down and leaned back against the arm of the couch, John returned to his duffel bag.
"So how's the hunt?" Sam asked curiously.
"Sammy-" Dean began but John interrupted.
"Good. We're gonna go and kill this thing in no time."
"Harpy finally showed up?" Sam asked. John nodded but when he glanced fleetingly at his son, he found him biting his lip hesitantly.
"Ready, Dean?" John called out, zipping up the bag and swinging it onto his shoulder.
"Yes, sir" the older boy replied quickly, joining his father with his own bag.
"If there's any trouble-" John started.
"I know" Sam nodded with a reassuring smile. "Grab a gun and out the window."
"Good boy" John smirked again, recognizing the slight teasing in his son's voice. He reached out instinctively and ruffled Sam's too long tresses, chuckling at the indignant yelp that erupted behind him as he turned to leave.
"Take care, Sammy" Dean called back as he followed his father.
"It's Sam, you jerk" they heard right before the door closed.
"Love ya too, bitch!" Dean shouted, not one to let anyone else have the last word.
John just shook his head exasperated, although inside he was happy that his sons were getting along again.
Sam let out a sigh after the door closed and his brother's parting words. He let his body relax and his head fell against the back of the couch. His side was still throbbing, but even he had to admit – although pretty grudgingly – that the rest made wonders for his healing. He was even able to dress without going through immense torture!
As the throbbing eased up into small thrums, the silence of the motel room began getting on Sam's nerves. He hated not being on a hunt! His father and brother were out there, risking their lives for people who will never know what they were protected from, and Sam was here sitting ducks, because he was an idiot.
He hated not being with his family to help protect each other in the face of danger!
He hated that as much as he hated hunting…
Startling back from that train of thought, he quickly looked around for a distraction. This is not the time for that- Ah! He carefully leaned towards the coffee table and grabbed the remote. He switched on the TV, the laughter of a sitcom immediately filling up the empty room. He determinedly pinned his eyes onto the screen and forced his brain to register the words and scenes shown.
His father was right: he was hopeless when it came to hunting. He loathed the constant travelling, the lack of stability, the risk of death at every corner… But once his teeth had sunk into a case hard enough, he was worse than a dog with a bone.
"When there's a job, you want to finish it. When there's danger, you want to protect the ones you love. And when you're injured and see the danger in the job you can't take part in, you can't protect your family during, it eats you up inside."
'Whatever,' Sam thought as he shook himself out of his once-again gloomy thoughts. He wasn't needed right now. John had Dean and Dean had John. Whether Sam thought his father was an ass or not, he had to admit that he was a good hunter – and would die to protect his sons in a flash.
And it was just a harpy! John had worse monsters to hunt than those…
Yet, the pit in his stomach just got deeper at that.
Hoping to drown out his brain's constant chugging, he raised the volume on the sitcom. He tried to keep his focus on it and he must have succeeded, because the next time he looked up, it was dark outside. As the streetlamp's light fell into the dark room, not drowned out by the glare of the TV, Sam found himself worrying his lower lip again. He glanced at the clock under the TV. It's been two hours since Dean and John left. They are probably in the middle of searching the forest. Which forest was it? Sam seemed to remember it being only a couple miles from the motel.
He shifted a bit so he could look over the back of the couch. The books on the table were back in their neat piles and the papers were haphazardly straightened out. It was a pretty thick stack of papers, so it must be the research and the copies of reports. It didn't seem big enough, but John must have been satisfied with it.
Although, it was pretty dark now, maybe Sam wasn't seeing it right.
He carefully lifted his injured leg off the couch and hobbled over to the wall. With a click, the room was bathing in the light of the ceiling lamp, chasing the darkness – and the sense of danger – out of the room.
But it was still not enough to untie the knot on Sam's stomach.
The teen hobbled back to the couch and let himself drop onto it with a sigh. He wiped his hands over his features, trying to silence the nagging in the back of his mind. He was on bedrest! No hunts or John will skin him alive, especially if he injures himself unnecessarily.
And yet…
Sam glanced over the back of the couch again, his good leg bouncing nervously. The stack was thick but not thick enough… Maybe John collected the details in his notebook. He wouldn't leave that behind… would it?
Or maybe it was in his journal! That thing was the man's life. He wouldn't leave something that essential behind!
And yet…
"Dammit…" Sam whispered, just swallowing back a growl of frustration.
His father was definitely right.
Ignoring the instinct inside him screaming to obey John's order, Sam pushed himself to his feet again and hobbled over to the table. Not leaving his brain enough time to hesitate, he grabbed the stack of papers and began leafing through them.
Pretty standard… People disappearing over multiple years, one or two at the same time… All of them between twenty-five and thirty years old… Those who were found were clawed and were missing their hearts… Sam couldn't remember if that was usual for a harpy.
Most of the victims were male… A bit more females than Sam was used to but it must not be that significant… Various hair colors, eye colors, nothing strange…
Claw marks on limbs and torsos… Chests with holes in them… Ribs broken… If someone takes your heart with brute force, there are bound to be broken ribs as a result…
"Wait…" Sam mumbled as he lifted a paper closer to his eyes. He frowned as he re-read the paragraph in front of him. He checked another paper and another. Different coroners, same observation.
Total exsanguination…
Complete loss of blood…
Drained all the blood…
Not sufficient bleeding from chest wound…
Sam lowered the papers as he sank into his thoughts.
The victims were drained of blood and it wasn't caused by the heart being ripped out… That's not right…
He returned to the papers. One of them had a couple photos attached to it: a young woman. The face was unharmed and she looked like she was sleeping.
Suddenly, with a jolt of his guts, Sam's eyes widened.
There!
Two tiny dark dots on the neck – almost hidden by the purple bruising around them.
That's definitely not right! Harpies were more like animals, just tearing into their victims to eat them. Why would this one drain its victims of all blood then claw them to ribbons and take their hearts? Sam might not have much experience with harpies but that seemed strange to him.
Could it be… something else?
Not a vampire. They have mouths full of fangs, not the stereotypical two incisors like in the movies. And they have no use for the hearts…
Something was still nagging in the back of his mind. That pattern… The style of feeding… Sam was sure he had read about it before…
The hazy image of a study floated into his brain, tomes scattered all over the place, as if thrown after various quick perusals. Even the desk was cluttered and the fireplace behind it was empty and dark…
Bobby's! He had read something similar at Bobby's! An old case and a peculiar monster. Sam had remembered having a couple nightmares about what he had imagined it looked like. He had only caught a few words of it: a big bat, larger than a human, with fangs and ugly features…
Sam couldn't remember the name of the creature and he thought the case report mentioned that it was extinct.
So there's no need to worry. John and Dean are fine and it's just a quirky harpy, surely…
Sam swallowed against the tight knot on his throat.
Then why was he so anxious all of a sudden?
Throwing the papers back onto the table, Sam hurried back to the couch, wincing and whimpering from pain as the movements jolted his injured leg. His hand slammed onto the coffee table with a bit more force than he intended as he grabbed his phone. Falling back onto the couch, he called John's number. As the dial tone droned on peacefully, Sam's heart began beating faster and faster. It's probably on mute, or in the depth of John's bag…
As soon as the voicemail kicked in, Sam disconnected and called Dean.
The phone gave a loud beep, bringing the familiar automated voice that the number was unavailable. Sam ended the call before the voice finished and almost threw the phone away.
They must be fine… They are together and dealing with a harpy, nothing more… or different…
Sam snatched up the remote and shut the TV off. The constant jingles and speech were getting on his nerves. The silence settling over the room was only broken by the hum of the lamp above him. Crappy, cheap neon lamp, just like any other motel room…
No, there was a rhythmic thrum, as well, growing quicker with every passing second… A thrum that was beating against his eardrums…
With a grimace and tightening lips, Sam shoved himself upright for a third time. He hobbled his way over to his bed and yanked his duffel bag out from under it. There must be… There must be one here…
His heart jumped as his fingers curled around a slender metal handle. He pulled it out, the golden glint flashing down the blade, reflected on the wall.
With a deep breath, he pocketed his phone and made his way to the entrance door. He pulled his jacket on, slid the blade into the inner pocket, grabbed the spare motel key then stepped outside, not bothering to waste time with struggling to pull on his shoes.
The chirps of the crickets outside were now deafening. As the door closed and the lock was turned, Sam leaned his back against the old wood. He took a couple deep breaths, the throbbing in his side finally registering in his brain.
A couple miles… Some of the trees on the border were visible from here…
A couple miles…
He tightened his lips once more.
Then broke out into a full run.
The drone of crickets was broken by hurried steps crackling twigs and rustling fallen leaves. The fast pace was accompanied by the frenzied gasps, faltering in audible fatigue. The steps were breaking their rhythm, as well, as stamina was drained from the sudden effort of movement.
Then one root sticking a bit farther above the ground halted the runner, one foot getting caught in it, tripping up the escaping figure.
John Winchester let out a grunt as he fell into a tree in front of him, his ankle aching from the hit, his knees shaking from age and the unexpected workout. He gasped for air for a minute, trying to ease the pain in his lungs and regulate his heartrate and breathing.
He squeezed his eyes shut as guilt and worry tightened around his throat.
"DAD!"
The warning cry of Dean was the last thing he heard from his son before the creature they were hunting had them separate. Since then, although he pushed it down, John was worried sick, fearing for his eldest's life. He could feel the claw wound on his left arm, so he could imagine what that thing could do to-
But he can't let himself fall apart! Dean was a smart kid, trained and able since he was a teen. He will be fine! He's a resourceful kid John was so proud of…
With a gulp, John straightened up, shoving any distracting thoughts into the concrete bunker in the back of his mind. He had to focus. Two agendas to help both of them survive: find Dean and kill monster.
Now with some strength replenished, he shoved himself away from the tree and resumed running. From the dissipating darkness he recognized a clearing coming up his way. His stomach dropped as moonlight hit him after he ran through between two trunks. This was what he needed: exposure!
Just as that thought entered his mind, a screech erupted behind him a second before a heavy body slammed into his back. The moonlight was now obstructed above him by the tall body of the thing they were hunting.
And it wasn't a harpy.
The thing yanked John around onto his back, slamming him onto the hardened ground. The man found himself under the hungry yellow gaze of a large, human-like bat, its wrinkly nostrils and mouth opened, drooling in ravenous hunger. The two incisors were thin and sharp, ready to sink into any flesh like a hot knife into butter.
A gunshot rang through the air and the creature reared back in pain.
"Hey, fugly!" John's heart leapt into his throat as Dean's shout echoed over the clearing. He was alive!
And just earned the attention of a monster they weren't ready for.
John quickly yanked a knife out of his belt and slammed it into the vulnerable torso in front of him. The thing shrieked in pain, but it didn't seem to faze it otherwise. No bullet, no silver knife could do any major harm in it.
They were screwed.
John could hear the unsteady shuffling to the side, but still too far away for Dean to get the creature off John. The man felt his insides sink as he faced his own demise, his quest unfulfilled… His sons alone in a cruel world without his protection-
His mournful thoughts were interrupted by a too familiar grunt.
Then the creature reared up once more, its back bending backwards as it screamed in torturous pain, the first time it actually was hurt badly.
John could see a golden glint in the moonlight, before the blade was struck once more into the creature's neck. The thing began writhing with another screech, trying to move away from the source of the pain.
Which is when John found a peculiar sight.
"Sam?!" he shouted confused and shocked. The younger boy was clinging onto the creature's back, effectively piggy-backing it, his hand gripping the handle of the golden blade tightly.
In the end, before John or Dean could interfere, the creature slammed its wings open, sending Sam flying backwards with a cry. John leapt to his feet, now his mind solely focused on killing the son of a bitch that hurt his children.
As he jumped on it, trying to grab the golden dagger, he faintly realized that the thing was over 6 feet tall, maybe even 7. As he got a hold of the dagger, his weight pulled on the blade, slicing more into the creature's chest, drawing another screech. The wings flapped once, lifting it up, dragging John with him, but every struggling flap upwards pulled on the blade more, since John would rather die than let go now.
The pair after a couple seconds sank back onto the ground, but the creature was lifting one leg up, claws at the ready to shove John away, hoping to tear his stomach open in the process. John yanked on the blade, but it seemed to be stuck, probably caught on a bone. The thing swayed as blood loss finally broke through the adrenaline rush, but its mouth was still dangerously close to John's head and neck: one quick movement and the man would be gurgling on his own blood, his throat ripped out.
Then a gunshot rang through the air.
The creature's chest jerked as a bullet exploded through it.
Through its heart.
Silence froze the scene on the clearing.
Then the creature began leaning forward, right on top of John.
Dead before it hit the ground.
John let out a groan as the weight landed on him, but luckily nothing sharp pierced him. He could live with some bruises. He shoved at the deadweight – literally – then kicked it back, pushing himself away at the same time.
"Sammy?" he heard Dean's shaky voice as the boy joined him by his side. John got to his feet with a pained grunt and turned to his youngest worriedly.
Sam was standing a few feet from them, gun still held up and aiming forward, shaking more and more with every passing second. The boy's skin was growing whiter under the moonlight and John thought he could see sweat pouring down Sam's face.
The gun wavered almost spastically before the nozzle sank.
Then it fell onto the ground from slackening fingers.
Just as John jerked into motion, into a run, a sharp, pained, wheezing gasp rushed into Sam's lungs.
John was just in time to catch him when his body just folded.
He fell onto his knees, cradling his son tenderly, cupping the deathly white cheek. Sam's eyes were glazed over and rolled upwards, his irises still visible, but not far from disappearing into the back of his head. More gasps erupted out of Sam, jerking his weakened body into convulsions.
"Hold on, Sammy" he ordered harshly, his voice shaking slightly still as he held his son, body growing cool and stiff in the cold night air. Under his palm, he could feel the thundering pulse and he knew the kid overexerted himself to get to them. He didn't dare to imagine what Sam did to get here fast enough.
"Dad" Dean's fearful tone snapped John's attention off of Sam's slackening features and onto his eldest.
His eldest's hands.
His eldest's bloody hands.
"Dammit…" he growled out, angry that his boy was hurt once again.
"H-His stitches…" Dean stammered out, always reduced to a tearful young boy when his brother was seriously injured.
"He must've run" John concluded, tightening his hold on Sam. The boy was losing consciousness slowly, his lungs almost breaking his ribs in the effort to drag any oxygen in. "Stupid boy" John whispered, but his harsh words were contrasted by the tender stroke through his son's sweat-damp tresses. "What were you thinking…?"
"Dad, we have to get him out of here" Dean spoke hurriedly. Now John saw him putting pressure onto Sam's injured side – where his shirt and sweats were soaked through. And dark.
"Go ahead to the car" John ordered, nodding his head towards the general direction of the Impala. "I've got him." Dean nodded and jumped up, wavering only slightly in his haste, fueled by the need to help his ailing brother.
John looked back at Sam. He saw the flush on his cheeks and felt the heat rolling off of him in waves. Fever, again… But his lips were getting a bit discolored… He refused to accept the blueness of the tint.
"Come on" he breathed out, snaking his arm under Sam's knees. He was careful in lifting the boy up, shifting him so his head wouldn't bend backwards so painfully. Once Sam was curled up against his chest, head on John's shoulder, John turned around and hurried towards the car. He tried to keep his hold as steady as possible, not wishing to cause his son more pain with jostles and bumps even if he was unaware at the moment.
A couple minutes later, he broke through the treeline. Dean was fidgeting anxiously next to the open back door, his wide green eyes wildly surveying the forest to catch them emerging.
"Keys?" John barked out as he jogged to the car.
"Got 'em" Dean replied, quickly reaching into John's coat pocket and yanking them out. The motion was fluid, not interrupting John lowering himself down into the backseat.
"Drive!" he ordered right before the door was shut.
The Impala rocked as Dean jumped in then the engine revved up full of life, no sign of the sulky coughs she gave nowadays before letting herself be driven.
The couple miles flew by them in an instant.
Yet they felt like hours.
John closed his eyes in pain even as he tightened his grip on the flailing arms, just strong enough to keep them still. The terrified whine of his youngest tore into his soul more than any demon or creature would be able to.
"Almost done" Dean's voice was strained and shaky, the needle in his bloodied, slippery fingers steadier by his little brother's side than when he pulled it away. His oldest was a trooper and would rather die than hurt Sam more than necessary.
But the stitches needed to be replaced.
A jolt under his legs made John squeeze his knees towards each other, keeping Sam's lower body in a vice to prevent more stitches popping.
"Shh, kiddo, almost over" he whispered as he leaned over his youngest, pressing the shaking arms to the hitching chest. Sam's head snapped to the sides, his eyes glazed over and half-rolled up into his head, glittering with high fever once more. A look John had never wanted to witness again in this lifetime after...
"Okay, I'll just wrap him up" Dean jumped to his feet, practically slamming the needle and scissors onto the nightstand in disgust.
"Wash your hands first" John ordered, tilting his head for a fraction towards the bathroom. "I've got him."
With a nod, Dean dashed into the bathroom and the harsh rush of water started up immediately. John just hoped the kid won't burn his flesh off.
"N-N-Nnnno... Nnnn... Nn-no..."
The slurred sound drew the man's attention to Sam, who was once again shivering wildly, his head writhing on the pillow as he tried to shake off unknown assailants in his mind. Grasping onto the thin wrists with one hand, John reached up and stroked the sweat-soaked tresses soothingly.
"K-Kiiill... Nnno k-kill th-thhhemmm... Ssss-save-ve... I ssssave..."
"You did, kiddo" John whispered, hoping his words will reach the muddled mind of his youngest through the feverish nightmares. "You saved us. Just as idiotically and heroically as a Winchester."
"Nnno ss-seeeee... P-Punc... unctu-ure... D-Dead-d-d..."
"Yeah, we missed it" John nodded even though no one could see it. "I remember that thing from Bobby's tomes. But you found it. You saved us, kiddo. You can rest now."
Sam let out an agonized whine, his head writhing some more on the pillow, his arms tensing under John's grip, words slowing into incomprehensible slurs. John kept up the soothing strokes, his palm following the erratic snaps to the sides as much as possible.
"I'm here" Dean exclaimed gently as he appeared by their side, his leather jacket now thrown aside and his sleeves rolled up above his elbows. John nodded at him and shifted out of the way just enough to let him work, but still keeping Sam as still as possible.
The hunt was over.
The creature was dead.
Time for them to recuperate.
"-when that old lady saw you, she emptied the whole bowl into your bag. I told you to dress up as a puppy and you just pouted all the way, but then when you got that haul, your eyes lit up like a kid's at Christmas... We ate ourselves full of candy that night until we barfed rainbows."
"Dean" John grunted as he grimaced at what he was hearing. Dean snickered from his place next to the bed, leaning onto the mattress and keeping up soothing strokes on brown tresses while his soft tone retold happy memories from a less than desirable childhood.
Making John wish he could do more for his boys.
Sam had finally settled somewhat this morning, his muscles spasming every once in a while from the high fever he had developed. From where John was occupying the armchair, he couldn't see his son's face, but he was sure the boy was staring dazed at his big brother, his hero, hanging onto his every word he could register with his muddled mind. Small whimpers were the only things providing background noise for the constant stream of chattering coming from Dean.
"How is he?" John asked, leaning onto his knees, worried gaze sweeping over the ailing boy. Dean stroked Sam's hair gently, making sure his palm settled for a few seconds on the boy's forehead.
"Still high" the older boy replied, his frown deepening. "But he has some color and he's sweating a lot. He's fighting."
"I know" John nodded, gulping down his anxiety. After two days of constant terror and worry this was great news, but... "I just-"
"Yeah, I know" Dean glanced up at him, his green eyes, Mary's eyes, filled with sympathy and hurt. "Me, too."
Sam at that moment let out a whine and his limbs went flying through the air, kicking off the blanket and almost smacking them in the face when they jumped to his side. John didn't need a reminder of the throbbing in his jaw from the first night and Dean was still sporting a by-now green bruise where a fist smacked into him with full force.
"K-Killl... Nnno k-kill De'... D-D-Dadd-d-dyyy..."
"Shh, baby bro" Dean whispered as they both restrained the agitated Winchester. "We're alright. You saved our asses. It's okay."
"That bitch is dead, kiddo" John chimed in, cupping his youngest's cheek before Sam's head snapped away. "You did great."
It took them less time to get the young Winchester to settle.
"If you scratched her-"
"I would never."
Sam felt his muscles twitch as everything began hurting at the same time. Something soft brushed at his cheek, before the hardened surface registered in his mind.
"It's not my fault you forgot that the car keys were in your pocket."
"Still, lockpicking the car?"
"Be glad it wasn't a broken window."
The voices, soft, whispering, soothing, family... Sam shifted around slightly, whimpering as his side gave a painful throb. The warmth behind him settled tighter around his weak body, pressure on his side taking the edge off the agony.
"Easy, Sammy" the deeper voice above his head, bringing more warmth onto the back of his neck and his throat, breathed into his ear. Whiskey... gunpowder... "You're safe."
Warmth on his forehead... Sending a chill down his spine... and a flash of pain through his skin...
"Still high... but much better."
Dean... His brother, alive and well, and not drained of blood...
Dad... Behind him, around him, not disappointed or angry...
"Heat up some soup" John grumbled in an almost whisper above him. "Let's see if he can get it down.
Rustling... Soft footsteps... Strike of a match...
"Just rest, kiddo" John whispered again into his ear. "We're alright. You'll be just fine."
Sam concentrated on colors, hoping to dispel the darkness swallowing him whole.
A blur... Blue and brown and grey...
He blinked but the blur stayed.
"Welcome back, kiddo" John whispered with a huff before the softness brushed at his mouth and chin tenderly. The flashes of pain through his skin weren't as bad now.
Hunt... Run... Gold... Dead...
"Sammy?"
"D-do... 'g-gainn..."
The warmth behind him shook momentarily.
"I know, Sammy" John grumbled with happiness in his voice. "You're a goddamn Winchester, alright."
With pride...
Sam felt his lips twitch upwards before his eyes slipped closed once again.
Warmth for his insides... Soup sounds good...
Because Winchesters finish the job.
And they finish them right.
The End
Hope you liked it!
I wanted a father-son talk between Sam and John forever, but the 300th episode made me realize how much.
I'm pretty sure this story counts as "wholesome" considering what we have been through with this show. :D :P
Anyway, see you at the next prompt! I'll try to be faster. :(
