Blood.
There was always so much blood.
Clinging to his hands, as he desperately tried to wash it all away, layers of his own skin being sloughed off down the drain from the harsh scraping of nail brushes and steel wool pads. Steady streams of dark pink water swirling in the basin of whatever sink he had access to.
Dark, accusing, copper smelling stains painting every article of clothing he possessed. Never truly coming clean even after soaking and scrubbing, again and again, until the fabric eventually gave out and tore.
Permanently discoloring the threads making up the seams of his boots, his bags, the upholstery in his truck. The cheap motel bedspreads where he would collapse, exhausted and spent, unable to move even an inch further to clean up after a hunt.
On a good day, the blood came from the monster he hunted. Arterial spray from a ghoul's neck after a decapitation. Blowback in his face after shooting a werewolf in the heart with his ever present rounds of silver.
An acceptable day saw the fugly's blood mingled in with John's own. And that was okay, too, because injuries were the price he paid for the job he needed to get done. His scars were a badge of honor as they crisscrossed over his body, making a jagged patchwork quilt of his skin. As long as he managed to put the evil down to the ground and walk away under his own steam, that was all in a good day's work.
The aftermath was harder. Usually involving stitching up his own injuries with nothing but an embroidery needle and some fishing line when his kit was down to the dregs. His head swimming with just enough whiskey to manage the pain and still stem the flow of his life spilling out on an already suspiciously stained carpet.
A bad day meant a hospital, if he hadn't been able to crawl his way to the friendly refuge of another hunter's living space. The antiseptic cleanliness of a place where the lights were too bright, the questions too invasive and unanswerable. The drugs too potent, sapping him of his will and cohesive thought to be on his guard, able to assess the vulnerability of his environment. The risks to his anonymity and freedom too real under the bureaucratic scrutiny of fake insurance cards.
On the worse days, the blood was that of one of his sons.
The first time John had seen one of his kids injured, Dean was ten months old. Sturdy, stubborn and curious, traits that had followed him to manhood, John's firstborn was already up on his feet and tearing up the floor as fast as his wobbling chubby little bow legs could take him. All it took was a split second, a minuscule bump in the area rug and a sharp corner of a coffee table. One minute his boy was zooming across the living room floor, and the next he was crumpled in a heap next to the table, screaming his little lungs out, while a ribbon of blood streamed down his beautiful face.
Head wounds bleed so much more than they should be able to. They can be deceiving and cruel, creating heart stopping lumps in the throats of parents everywhere. John froze, his legs going weak underneath him at the sight of the trail of red streaking down the side of his baby's head. A feeling of helplessness consuming him, immobilizing him in place as still as a statue, even as his child wailed his inarticulate despair in John's direction.
Daddy, help me.
Daddy, I'm hurt.
Comfort me.
Fix me.
Daddy, I'm scared.
Make it stop.
Hold me.
Love me.
Mary had rushed out from the kitchen, scooping the baby up in her arms and crooning soothing whispers in his ear. It had taken all of five minutes to get Dean cleaned up, bandaged and happy again. Toddling out of the kitchen and clutching a cookie in his tiny hand, previous distress already forgotten. The smallest of Band-Aids covering the nearly invisible pink injury on his hairline even as he flopped down on his diapered butt to play with his firetruck.
John hadn't been able to move an inch the entire time.
Two tours in Vietnam had hardened Corporal Winchester to atrocities that no man should ever experience. There, spilled blood was as commonplace as the sweltering heat and malaria laden mosquito bites. John had spilled plenty himself. Both his and that of his prey, because John was talented, and a sneaky fucker. His movements silent and invisible, his aim straight and true. Hell, he was the best. Perched behind the barrel of his weapon, target in his sight, an implacable calm developed out of necessity, the enemy never stood a chance.
He had seen his friends and enemies blown to bits, severed arms and legs as meaty, ragged projectiles flung over the endless expanse of swamp grasses. He had stood rock steady as he triaged explosive chest wounds, his own red drenched hands firmly keeping pressure on ruined guts while waiting for the low thrum of evac choppers, knowing that it was already too late for salvation from the wreckage. Held the cold, clammy, slippery fingers of his blood soaked brothers in arms as they cried heart wrenching pleas for a deliverance that never came.
It had just been much easier to deal with the gross horrors of war in a clinical fashion.
To mentally detach himself from the life force ebbing away in his hands, instead of pondering on the desperate, familiar faces of the young men like himself. Kids whose lives were already over before they had ever really begun. Detachment was the only way to be able to sleep at night under a deceptively calm sky, a world away from everything and everyone he had ever known. Wrapped in khaki, Kevlar and plastic, feet perpetually soaked and half rotting away from fungus, in a wilderness of pain, ears constantly ringing with the echoing shock waves of gunfire and explosions.
It simply hurt too much to allow himself to feel there.
To function, to help those around him in distress, to do his fucking job, he had needed to check his sympathy and compassion at the door. A full scale mental freak out wasn't going to help him be a better solider, a better friend.
Not having your head in the game got you dead quick. Emotional breakdowns got your buddies dead quicker.
He had learned that the hard way during his second month in country. Dizzy with the anxiety that came from being dropped into the meat grinder that was Vietnam, a young kid who thought he knew everything, but actually didn't know jack. John had been a hair's breadth away from becoming a name on a wall before having his ass pulled out of a firefight by a fellow marine on his third tour. Deacon Kaylor had shoved him to the ground and ruthlessly laid down the brutal truth to survival. John owed him his life, and remained in contact with the now prison warden to this day, determined to pay him back.
When he had returned stateside, it had been his beautiful Mary that brought him back from the edge. Reminded him what love and compassion were like. Helped him feel again.
It never got any easier to see one of his own boys hurt or bleeding.
As children, rambunctious and energetic, they had their fair share of minor cuts and scrapes from rough housing and brotherly fistfights. Motherless boys who had to make do with the gruff ministrations of a distracted father's calloused hands, instead of the warm softness of Mary's gentle touch. John would patch them up, hug them or punish them, or both, whichever the situation called for, and then send them off on their way again, but keeping a closer eye afterwards.
The first time Dean got hurt on a hunt, he was thirteen years old. Capable with firearms, he was standing guard while John dug up the floorboards of a house to find the remains of a murdered child who had been killing the mothers of the new families moving in. Caught off guard, the spirit had launched Dean into a set of French doors, the broken shards of glass slicing open a long line in his right arm.
Dean never even flinched. Already a true soldier, he got back on his feet, held his position and kept watch, even as his tattered shirt sleeve blossomed crimson, while his father finished the job. John had warily appraised him through the rear view mirror as they sped back to the motel. Dean quiet, using his good arm to comfort Sammy as his little brother cried bitter tears over the blood soaking the Impala's back seat. Dean didn't utter a sound as he held his father's gaze in the mirror, his expressive green eyes giving away his own young terror.
Daddy, help me.
Daddy, I'm hurt.
Comfort me.
Fix me.
Daddy, I'm scared.
Make it stop.
Hold me.
Love me.
This time John didn't freeze. This time his mind returned to a place when he had checked his emotions for the good of his fellow soldiers. He couldn't afford to think of the boys as his babies on the hunt, for the simple reason that he had already forced them to become soldiers.
Because not having your head in the game got you dead quick, and emotional breakdowns got your family dead quicker.
So that is how he managed to sew up his son's shredded arm that night without his legs collapsing underneath him. How he managed to triage them and tend to them through every injury the hunts gave them. With the dispassionate and clinical care of a fellow soldier, and not the overwhelming fear and anxiety of a scared shitless father. His boys were made tough. Were told to suck it up, and take it like a man, because that was how he would keep them alive in a world where they needed to grow up too fast and face nightmares too grotesque to comprehend.
Later, when the crisis had passed, he could fret over them, and comfort them and, sometimes, in the dark of night, cry over them while they slept, banged up and bruised from the war he had dragged them into. And as the years dragged on, his mind began to process new glimpses in their kaleidoscope of greens and hazel eyes as their never ending campaign dragged on.
Daddy, help us.
Daddy, we're hurt.
Comfort us.
Finish this.
Daddy, we're scared.
Make it stop.
Hold us.
Love us.
Protect us.
Blood.
There was always so much blood.
Clinging to his hands, as he desperately tried to wash it all away, layers of his own skin being sloughed off down the drain from the harsh scraping of nail brushes and steel wool pads. Steady streams of dark pink water swirling in the basin of whatever sink he had access to.
Dripping from the deep gashes his holy water drenched knife cut into the face of the dead meat suit the demon was riding. Staining the cement floor of Caleb's basement, turned into a room of torture to extract the information John needed to keep his children safe.
Spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes as he glared hatefully at himself in the mirror, afraid of just how far he was willing to go to protect them.
/
It was a beautiful autumn day in South Dakota.
The melodic strains of Turn The Page eminated from the Impala's tape deck and floated in the air around the salvage yard as Dean lay prone on Bobby's old wooden creeper seat under the Camaro. A small pile of phone handsets lay nearby, the worn peeling tape identifying each fake agency that Dean would have to plausibly represent in case of a hunter's emergency. Bobby was away for a few hours, meeting up with a buyer for a talisman that he had come across in his travels.
Dean had always known that Bobby's small but lucrative side business of dealing in occult objects made up for the financial shortfalls of the salvage yard. Sometimes he idly wondered exactly how much the amulet he himself wore would bring from the right buyer.
Not that it really mattered. He'd kill any bastard that tried to take it from him first.
The day his little brother gave it to him, Dean had felt the extra weight it brought to his chest. Not just from the heavy chunk of metal itself, which thumped hard as he moved and occasionally caught him in the teeth with a painful whack. But from the knowledge that, with the gift, came Sam's faith in trusting in Dean over their father. A bond of brotherhood so strong that Dean felt it as much a part of him as his own DNA. Not that he actively encouraged or desired to come first in his brother's life over John, but the responsibility still found itself laying heavily around his own neck just the same.
Working with now practiced moves, he steadfastly pounded out the mangled sections of the undercarriage, dislodging the various small pieces that were crushed beyond help in the crash that had defined the car as totaled.
He loved the work he was doing at the salvage yard. A peace had settled over him for the first time in his young life as he took these twisted and broken machines and finessed and crafted them back into something beautiful, gleaming with sleek lines and polished chrome in the sunlight. Something to be appreciated and loved, in a world where there never seemed to be enough of either sentiment.
Against Dean's initial hesitation, Bobby's faith in his skill had paid off. He had already done enough profitable work in the past month and a half to more than earn his salary. With word getting around that Singer Salvage had a talented young mechanic working full time, Bobby's place was seeing a steady stream of new customers. From the men who grudgingly appreciated the quality his craftsmanship, to the ladies that welcomed the opportunity to ogle at the gorgeous young man working under their hoods. His rakish smile and flirtatious manner bringing a little extra bounce in their steps as they went about their day.
Working on the cars gave him a passably similar feeling of satisfaction to hunting. Not that he was deluded into thinking that they could possibly compare on the scale of importance. He knew better than that. Sure, someone's life might be saved because Dean had done a good job on installing new brakes, but there were a million mechanics in the world.
Under a rack, Dean wasn't any more important or vital than any of the others. Hunters, however, were few and far between, and they tended to have an exceptionally short life expectancy, which made them even more rare. It was in that world that his polished skills were far more important to the greater good.
It didn't mean that he couldn't feel a sense of pride and accomplishment watching his handiwork roll out of the yard, knowing that he had made someone's life a little easier, a little prettier, a little more safe.
A million times over the years his thoughts had drifted back to the conversation he had with Robin on Sonny's couch in Hurleyville, when she had asked him what he wanted to do with his life. His words to her about cars still haunted him, even as they still rang with a semblance of truth.
Fixing them is like a puzzle, and the best part is when you're done, they leave, and you're not responsible for them anymore
It didn't take a Freudian genius to know that he had been partially alluding to his little brother. A subconscious slip of the tongue by a scared kid who had carried the burden of half raising a younger sibling under strenuous circumstances, while keeping their emotional train wreck of a father on the rails at the same time. It had been a gargantuan weight on the shoulders of a boy who had so little faith in his own self worth he often felt himself drowning with panic that he would just screw everything up.
Now that he had felt the real icy tendrils of fear that his brother's absence would bring, he regretted ever saying those words in the first place. Back then it hadn't even occurred to him that Sam would even consider walking away from their family. It was laughable, a concept so abstract that it didn't compute at all.
They were Winchesters. They were family. Their family hunted. End of.
Dean no longer had any illusions that his little brother would have bolted if not given the chance to spend this time in the normal world. Sometimes, in the dark shadows of the night, his head swirling with booze and feeling melancholy, he wondered if his father and brother even found it even remotely amusing that Dad had been born in a town actually called Normal. Talk about irony, considering the current trajectory of their fucked up little family.
The experiment was working.
The radical shift in attitude between his father and brother more than welcome to both Dean and their father, and maybe Sam too. At least, Dean hoped so.
Now that Sammy was getting in some normal time in his life, he didn't seem to glaringly resent the time spent with their father hunting on the weekends they met up. He still wasn't happy about it, but at least he was keeping his usual stream of pissy comments to himself. Between the hours spent in research and the actual time on the hunt, Dad and Sam had actually talked for a change instead of just Dad barking orders and Sammy giving him lip.
It was a fragile truce, to be sure, but Dean was taking the win.
When he was feeling a bit more charitable about his brother's feelings for their dad, Dean recognized that it couldn't have always been easy for the kid. Sammy might bitch and posture over every little crack in Dad's fault line of parenting failures, but Dean knew the kid better than to not know that, underneath the sulky exterior, Sam often felt cast aside.
Dean felt bad about that, but he sure as hell wasn't going to apologize for it.
Well, most of it, anyway.
The biggest thing Dean and Dad had in common was their unwavering desire to keep their youngest safe. It was stone number one in the Winchester family. Sometimes that meant hovering over Sam or leaving him behind, and it was just too damn bad if that hurt his precious feelings, because he was still just a snot nosed kid that needed to be kept on the straight and narrow, and he didn't get a say in the matter.
But that didn't mean that Dean was blind to the damage that might have been the result of years of their actions. For one, Dean was older, and had been John's son longer and also under different circumstances for a while as well. Because they spent so much time together without Sam, of course Dean and Dad were going to have an easier time communicating.
He knew that sometimes the kid felt left out, could see it in the hurt expression on his little brother's face when his father and big brother shared thoughts and memories of things that hadn't included him. Sam tried to hide it, truly he did, and that tore at Dean a little because he couldn't change that.
So Sam would lash out, anger being easier to express than the pain of admitting that he was jealous. Sam had so much anger in him, all the time, burning in his belly like a lava pool, building up to frequent eruptions that laid waste to his other family members at times.
On one level, Dean suspected that a lot of Sam's rebellion to the hunting life was fueled by what he might have perceived to be a rejection by their father, or John's preference for spending time with Dean over time with Sam.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
While Dean knew that their father loved them both, John had always placed Sammy's safety over Dean's, and that was fine with the older brother, because he wanted that too. It didn't mean that once in a while Dean didn't feel some jealousy of his own. Where Dad would give orders, and sharp, firm looks demanding obedience, and ego crushing reprimands to Dean, Sam would get the softer smiles and more patient indulgence that he disregarded, too mired in his own petulance to see them for the gifts that they were.
A short time after he had been collected from Sonny's, Dad had given Dean his beloved leather jacket. Well worn and familiar from the earliest days of their childhood, the boys had often found themselves sleeping in the Impala's backseat during long night drives, with the jacket thrown over them to keep them warm. It was soft and cozy, infused with the comforting familiar scents of their Dad that, even while they slumbered, evoked a calming sense of safety. Like a protective shield that wouldn't let anything past its heavy exterior to hurt them.
Dean suspected that it was a peace offering. A way for his father, without words, to acknowledge that Dean was growing up. Had made a catastrophic mistake and took his licks, and was ready to rejoin the fold. A symbolic gesture that told Dean that he was becoming old enough to walk in John's shoes, but would always remain under the blanket of his dad's protection.
At twelve, Sammy had still enjoyed the security of riding in the car under his father's coat, and there was a painful sadness in his hazel eyes when it was passed on to his brother.
On several occasions after that, Dean had been more than happy to drape it over his little brother while they were on the road, but Sam just stubbornly pushed it aside, unconvincingly claiming to not need it. After a while, Dean had stopped trying, knowing that whatever small comfort it had always brought his little brother had been ruined by the transfer of ownership.
It had been hard to not take that one personally.
Then, on Dean's last birthday, John had pressed the main keys to the Impala into his firstborn's hand, and the hurt had pinched Sam's eyes again, even as he struggled to muster up a half smile over his brother's enthusiasm. Another symbolic passing of the torch, of one of their family's few main possessions, once again going to Dean without a thought of how Sam might feel about the car that had also more or less been his most stable home throughout childhood going to his brother.
Dean was trying. Really he was, because his brother's happiness mattered to him, usually more than his own did. The simple truth was that Dean was, in fact, the first son, and with that title he took on all of the responsibilities and burdens that came with it. He took it all on stoically, as his most important job, and he was sorry. Damn it, he was, that there weren't more family heirlooms to pass on to his little brother, but a fire that had taken their mother had taken most of them too.
That's why, when Dad had sat with him on Bobby's porch that fateful August morning and pointed out the damaged Camaro, startling him with the story of how it was the right year and model of one that their mother had once cherished, Dean knew that he actually could do this one thing for Sam.
Bobby had wanted to just give him the wreck outright, but Dean was his father's son, and he didn't need charity. They came to a reasonable financial agreement for the body and replacement parts, and Dean was using free time to slowly rebuild the car that he was planning on gifting to his little brother just as soon as he could.
Having learned his lesson from the last time he had a big idea, Dean had consulted his father while they worked side by side to carve the sigils in the kitchen of the little house a couple of days after they rented it. Once again, Dad had surprised him with his agreement, and Dean knew in that moment that John also understood how important it was to give Sam additional tethers to their family. John had quietly offered to add his hands and skills to bringing the car back to life and giving it to Sam from the both of them.
The wrecked car in Bobby's yard had never belonged to Mary Winchester, it was true, but she had loved it's twin, and John and Dean would pour their love for their youngest into the restoration of it, so that he too could own a piece of the family history that wasn't covered in ash, sulfur and blood.
/
Sam knew the minute he woke up that morning that he was getting sick.
His entire body hurt. The kind of achy, weakened muscles and generally crappy kind of hurt. He also knew it wasn't all because of the soccer game he had played in the night before. Pitted against Holy Rosary's main rivals, with the opposing team having the home advantage, Sam and his teammates had run flat out up and down the field with their fierce competitiveness on overdrive the entire time.
Rewarded with a win of only one more goal on their side of the scoreboard, they hadn't even minded spending the better part of the game soaked to the skin from the cold, steady autumn drizzle. Mid October in South Dakota was a fickle mistress, fluctuating between Indian summer days and the early heralding of approaching winter.
By the time Dean got him home, Sam was still damp and covered in mud and starting to sneeze. Suddenly, it seemed that having half of the team already battling the flu before the game, actually was a big deal after all. That his brother had been able to take him directly home instead of Sam having to ride the team bus back to school lessened the low grade resentment he harbored over House Rules #18 requiring his brother to attend any activity that was held away from Holy Rosary itself.
Not that Sam wouldn't have been pleased to have his big brother cheering him on in the first place, but he would have preferred that it be Dean's decision and not an order from their father. Dean at least seemed genuinely enthusiastic as he rooted from the stands with the other students and family members. He would sit, yelling and screaming encouragements from the sidelines, catching popcorn in his mouth, chatting with the parents of Sam's teammates, and clapping wildly when Sam made a goal.
Sam was also fairly sure that some of the girls came to the games just to stare lustfully at his pretty faced, bad boy brother, and not out of a passion for the sport.
He would have been embarrassed by the overt attention from an older sibling in front of his friends, if only he wasn't secretly so pleased by it. Especially since Dean attended the home games too, and that hadn't been a requirement of Dad's mandates.
Unfortunately, Dean could read him like a well loved and dog eared book. So when Sam barely made it through their morning run, when his longer legs and soccer drill toned muscles usually had him edging out Dean's strides, Dean had been frowning with concern.
When Sam took an extra fifteen minutes in the shower, standing listlessly under the hot pounding water, praying for a miraculous healing of the general overall weariness he was feeling, Dean went from sitting cross armed in the kitchen to pacing the upstairs hallway until the shower was turned off.
Sam had pushed past his big brother, stumbled into his room and slammed the door shut. Completely ignoring the concerned and searching glares that his brother had leveled at him with the laser intensity of a thousand suns. He barely summoned the energy to drag on his uniform, pulled the seemingly lead weight of backpack with one limp noodled arm, and practically fell out of his bedroom door.
Face flushed and aware of the crackling noise building up in his lungs, he was shocked to find the hallway empty, knowing better than to think his pitbull sibling was backing off. Not surprisingly, Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, menacingly holding a thermometer in his hand and daring Sam to protest.
"You look like shit, Dude."
Sam had slumped into his chair, already feeling a wave of dizziness pass over him.
"Bite me."
Dean had shook his head disbelievingly, crossing over to the table and holding the thermometer threateningly near Sam's mouth.
"Forget it. The way you look? I'd get rabies if I bit you right now. Open."
Sam was feeling too shitty to deal with his brother's oppressive mother henning. He turned his head away, ignoring the little digital stick, causing Dean to growl and reach out a hand to feel Sam's forehead. Sam had thrown up his own hand to block the gesture, ducking away and getting back to his feet.
"Get off me, man. I'm fine. And I'm going to be late."
Dean had thrown the thermometer onto the counter with an agitated flick of his wrist, followed by the Impala's keys, clearly signaling that they were not going anywhere at the moment.
"You won't be late, because you're not going. Get back into bed. I'll call the school."
Sam didn't like being bossed around at the best of times, and he really didn't like it when it was taking every ounce of strength he had in him to stand at the moment.
"Yes, I am. Stop being such a jerk. We have to go or I'll get in trouble."
Dean just sat down at the table and resolutely scowled at him with the same kind of unflappable commitment that Dad had when he was proving who was boss. Normally, it would bring out the inner asshole in Sam's demeanor, but he simply didn't have the will for a heated knock down dragged out brawl.
Besides, a sad puppy face worked so much better on his brother.
"Dean, please. I have to go to class or I'll miss Quiz Bowl practice after school, and then I can't compete next week."
Sam had put just the right amount of hopeful, soulful whine in his voice, knowing that Dean had never been able to refuse that particular tone. He even had the stamina to pull off the coup de grace.
"Just...please?"
And just like Sam knew he would, Dean had shaken his head in reluctant agreement, rolled his eyes and driven him to school under protest, eliciting a promise from little brother that he would call for a ride home if it got too bad.
Now that Sam actually was in school, however, he was regretting his decision to make himself attend. He spent the first three periods slogging through the hall, feeling like he was underwater with a baby elephant taking up residence on his chest. The lectures he usually enjoyed so much unable to penetrate the balls of cotton that seemed to be clogging his ears. The buzzing of words making his head spin as he tried to keep up.
He was leaning against his open locker door, listlessly sorting through his books to collect the ones for his next class and wondering if he would be able to walk the fifty feet to the classroom door without passing out. In the distance, he saw the blonde wavy hair of Kristin Sullivan sashaying down the hall with some of the other cheerleaders, the short pleated skirts of their cheer uniforms giving tantalizing views of their shapely toned legs.
God he loved Fridays.
Fridays were Spirit days at school during football season, and the cheerleaders were allowed to ditch the already short school uniforms for the even shorter cheer skirts. For some inexplicable reason, the beautiful Kristin had been shamelessly flirting with Sam for the past few weeks, and was more than hinting for an invitation to be Sam's date for the Homecoming Dance next weekend.
Sam knew there were plenty of guys who would happily kill each other for the chance to take Kristin to the dance, so he wasn't quite sure why she was pressing him so hard. He also knew that she was very recently broken up from her long term boyfriend, Trenton, one of Holy Rosary's linebackers and an absolute monster of a guy in size and temperament. Sam wasn't scared of Trenton, knowing perfectly well that he could take the bully if the situation required it. It was all the overblown drama surrounding the high school politics of relationships, dating rules and bro codes that Sam didn't want to mess with.
Still, she was hot. Blindingly hot, and he was a guy, so...
But Dad's commandments were clear, and it was unlikely that Sam would even be allowed to go to the dance in the first place. Since their move to Sioux Falls, there had only been two weekends that his father hadn't required them to meet up with him, and Sam didn't want to ask a girl out, only to have to disappoint her when Dad said no, as he probably would. Especially for something as big as Homecoming, where everyone, including the guys seemed to be overly enthused for the weekend festivities.
Sam had never been to a homecoming dance at any of his schools, and he wasn't terribly social either, but he was damn curious now that he had a chance to fit in.
Through meet ups at the lockers, or a quick closerthanthis sit down in the lunch room, Kristin had assured him on more than one occasion that she had her dress and was ready to go. If only there was someone to escort her, she pouted prettily, running a well manicured hand down the length of Sam's polo covered bicep.
He and Dean were supposed to be meeting Dad in Lincoln tonight at Caleb's place, and Sam was determined to be very polite and very respectful and, yes, plead, for his father to give him next weekend off from hunting so he could go out with a gorgeous girl on his arm. Because Sam was not above begging for the chance to be something other than the school freak for once. He wanted to be that guy that got to take the hot cheerleader to a school dance.
Dean had taken one look at Kristin at the last soccer game and was impressed enough to jump on board, so at least Sam knew he would have his brother in his corner when the showdown happened.
Kristin caught his eye and waved to him as she headed to class, and Sam felt a wave of his own, one of dizziness, pass over him that wasn't entirely related to the obvious flu bug he was incubating. He wasn't a freak at Holy Rosary. Not this time. With his taller, more muscular physique and his shortened, but still adorably messy brown curls and shy smiles. Sam Winchester was a riddle, wrapped inside an enigma, wrapped inside a taco, and if he was honest with himself, he liked being a bit of a mystery.
He was also currently walking a fine line between the worlds of athlete popularity and nerdy brainiacs.
He played soccer, not football, which kept him just outside the full circle of the jock and cheerleader clique. Although his schoolmates saw enough of his talents and physical superiority in Phys. Ed. to be impressed just the same. He strolled the halls laden like a pack mule under the bulk of AP textbooks, rising to the top of the class rankings and earning the grudging admiration of the smart kids clique who saw their own standings endangered. He lived with a male model looking older brother who drove him to and from school every day in a bad ass black car, only adding to his aura of undiscovered charm.
Sam was quiet and shy, but always had a smile or helping hand for everyone. People liked him, for as little as they had gotten to know him. He had made a few friendly acquaintances, but no really close friends just yet. His personal schedule didn't allow him much time for social activities because he worked hard and was demanding of himself in all things.
In his fervent desire to pad his applications, he had filled each extracurricular period after school with a variety of clubs, throwing his enthusiasm completely at every one in their turn. Home at five every day, he only had five hours each evening to do the mandatory training Dad demanded, eat whatever crazy concoction his brother put on the table, and get his studies done before lights out. Gone on the weekends to parts unknown, it didn't leave a lot of opportunity for hanging out.
Sam's entire being felt sluggish as he swayed precariously on his feet at his locker. Rubbing his glazed eyes with one hand, he could feel the unnatural warmth of his face and knew that he should have just stayed home. He did want to go to Quiz Bowl practice though. Team rules mandated that a missed practice made you ineligible for the next match, which happened to be scheduled for Tuesday next week. Sam had worked hard to prepare, and he wanted to compete. Another asset to his name for a scholarship.
Knowing that a trip to the school nurse would result in an undesirable phone call to his brother or, worse, his father, he hefted his books in his arms and stumbled to the boy's restroom a few doors down the hall. Dumping his books on the wall length sink counter, he fumbled for a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, running them under cold water and pressing them against his face to soothe the sweaty heat of his skin.
Leaning his hips into the counter for balance, he kept the cold water faucet running steadily, swallowing the two ibuprofen tablets he stuffed into the front pocket of his khakis before he left the house this morning and washing them down with a handful of the stale tap water. The trickle of liquid agitated his slightly swollen throat, and he found himself suddenly gagging and coughing up a small blob of mucus.
In the mirror he caught a reflection of his bedraggled and flushed face, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and he humorlessly admitted that he really did look like something you could catch a nasty disease from. No wonder his brother had been so grumpy about driving him in this morning. Reaching out to the faucet, he cupped his hands and splashed his face with a few scoops of the blissfully cold water. The relief dissipated as quickly as it had found him, leaving him breathless, heaving and blisteringly warm.
He could get through this. He was a Winchester, goddamn it. He'd sat through his father putting twelve stitches into his leg once after being clawed by a black shuck. Hunting far out of its normal grounds, the nasty beast had surprised their family before John put it down. With nothing to dull the pain except a few swallows of his father's whiskey, Sam had held still and managed not to scream, encircled by his brother's strong arms and soothing whispers, while Dad cleansed the wound with holy water, bubbling painfully in the torn folds of Sam's skin, as he sewed.
Gritting his teeth in determination, Sam forced himself upright, ignoring the muffled, distorted sounds in his ears as he got his bearings. Too late realizing that the sudden absence of the usual cacophony of hallway noises meant that he had missed the bell for the start of his next period.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit
Two now equally unattractive options lay before him.
Behind door number one, he could go to the nurse who would almost assuredly summon his brother to drag Sam's fevered ass home. Sam would miss his practice and the meet, because sickness didn't change the team's rules, and he would spend the rest of the evening under a barrage of his big brother's continuous rounds of I told you so's, while Dean repeatedly shoved liquids and thermometers in his mouth.
Behind door number two was the pompous, unforgiving face of his asshole of a Latin teacher, Mr. Northam. A spindly, prematurely gray and bitter man who harbored a resentment against the new kid who had the audacity to point out a mistake in a verb conjugation at the beginning of the semester. He often went out of his way to try and trip Sam up in front of the class, not knowing that this particular student had an unusually firm grasp of the ancient language.
Either way, Sam was now out of class without a hall pass. A big no-no in the very orderly, manicured world of Holy Rosary Academy, regardless of which direction he took.
Determined to deal with the inevitable consequences, Sam racked his shoulders back and headed towards his Latin classroom. Either choice was going to suck, but at least this one left his eligibility for Quiz Bowl intact. Class had already begun, the steady, dull repetitions faintly echoing behind the closed door, as his classmates droned on and on with today's conjugations. He huffed, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and pushed forward. His arrival bringing the lesson to an immediate halt, a late attendance pretty rare in a school where tardiness was frowned upon, even by fellow students.
"Mr. Winchester. Thank you for joining us."
Northam's voice was laced with impatient hostility, clearly broadcasting the sentiment that the interruption was as unwelcome as it was unacceptable. He stood implacable, a sanctimonious sneer wrinkling his face as he peered over the rim of his glasses.
"Do you have a pass?"
Sam pursed his lips, refusing to either beg sympathy for his illness, or be baited into a less than respectful response that would dig the hole he was in even deeper. It was a lot like dealing with Dad, he noted wearily, and just as frustrating.
"No, sir. I'm sorry, Mr. Northam."
The way the surly teacher's little pig eyes lit up, you would have thought that Christmas had come early. Holy Rosary was full of wonderful teachers, all friendly, helpful and bursting with concern for the advancement of their students. Sam had carefully cultivated a great relationship with all of them, and looked forward to his schedule every day. Unfortunately, every place had its bad apples, and Northam was at the bottom of that very rotten barrel.
"Journal please, Mr. Winchester."
Northam held out a thin, pasty white hand, a predatory smile sneaking around his lips. Sam sighed, but he pulled a spiral bound book from the pile he held in his arms and passed it over. With far too much enthusiasm, the journal was snatched from his hand and almost triumphantly slapped onto the ornately carved teacher desk.
This was a show now.
A moment of triumph for a sad little man whose ego had been bruised and had been biding his time to get his payback. Making a big production out of something so trivial, Northam pulled an embossed silver stamp from the center drawer, cracked open Sam's journal to the appropriate page and slammed the stamp against the pristine white paper with a flourish. A bloody red circular mark now marred the page, and Northam grinned wickedly as he passed the book back.
"We've lost enough time today, Mr. Winchester. Take your seat."
If it had been Dean standing there, nothing would have kept his big brother from making some spectacularly smart assed remark that would leave the jackass educator fuming and humiliated for the rest of the semester. Dean wouldn't have cared that it would have gotten him thrown out of class and possibly the school itself. Northam was the kind of guy that had most likely been bullied as a child, and now found himself in a position where he could wield intimidation of his own with lead pipe cruelty, and Dean would have relished in the idea of taking the guy down a couple of pegs.
But Sam was not his brother. Not willing to risk all he had worked for so far, and hoped to accomplish with the unexpected gift of this school year, on getting the upper hand with someone so clearly unhappy with his own life that he lashed out at innocent kids. Instead he ducked his head in submission, wanting the whole incident to just end, while he semi-stumbled to his seat, the pounding noise in his ears and throbbing headache sapping the last of his strength.
His journal stared at him accusingly as the class resumed.
The pale blue covered book sported the school crest and Sam's personal ID number embossed on the front. Every student had one, and they were carried throughout the day without exception. They served a variety of purposes for the teachers and students of the academy. Each page of the first section was a daily calendar, with the space to make notes of assignment due dates and testing schedules.
There was a section dedicated to teachers' notes, where instructions and permissions like hall passes could be written. To be produced upon request by any faculty member to ensure that students were always where they were assigned to be. Holy Rosary had exceptionally high standards, was a thoroughly organized institution and, to be honest, Sam enjoyed the stability that the order brought. Too many times over the years, his schools had been places of unmanageable chaos that weren't conducive to productivity or learning.
The last section contained a three page document outlining Holy Rosary's Student Code of Conduct. The Code, and the fairly unwavering adherence to it, was what made the school as high ranked as it was. The school frowned on poor behavior in general, whether it was a lack of dedication to assignments, disrespect to faculty members or other students, littering, loitering, fighting or overall poor sportsmanship. Not to mention tardiness.
The Code was provided at a student's initial interview with the principal and their parents, and the contents were gone over in excruciating detail so that there were no misunderstandings if Little Johnny decided that he was being treated unfairly. Parents and students had to agree to each condition before admittance was given, and during Sam's interview, the document had required a signature from him as the incoming student, and from Dad and Dean as his guardians.
Sam pressed the heel of his right hand to his burning eyes and forced himself to concentrate, even as his mind drifted in a feverish haze. Twice since he took his seat, Northam had tried to embarrass him again, calling on him to answer questions that were too hard for the particular lesson they were having. His overt attention just made Sam more tired, because he wasn't going to be caught on the spot. He prepared well for his classes, and already knew Latin close to fluency. If it wasn't for Dad's insistence that he keep in practice, he wouldn't have bothered to take the class at all when he could be spending the time learning something new. After the second correct answer, he was hoping just to be left alone to suffer in silence.
His student interview had been the first time that Sam really thought about the implications of the guardianship documents. As he watched Dean pour over the Code of Conduct, with a v of concentration indented in his brow line, Sam had mused over the concept that technically his brother now had as much legal claim to Sam as their father did. The fact that John Winchester wasn't the kind of guy to give up even a fraction of an inch of control over anything, especially when it involved one of his kids, was the thing that troubled Sam the most.
Maybe because it was Dean, and not anybody else, that had Dad relaxing his usual guard, Sam didn't know. What he did know was that their father had been subtly changed by that one hunt, and where he had been mysterious and non-informative over just about everything during Sam's entire childhood, he was slipping into previously unseen levels of secrecy now.
He could tell that Dean was just as troubled, although his big brother would never admit doubting their father over anything. Dean also didn't make a big deal of the guardianship when Sam brought it up, casually discarding it as a topic of conversation when Sam had wanted to talk about it and see if they couldn't put their heads together and come up with some plausible and rational explanation for Dad's actions.
In true form, his big brother had dismissed the documents entirely, considering them just another one of Dad's orders, nothing more, and reminding Sam that a piece of paper did not change anything between them. Dean's matter-of-fact attitude towards the whole thing had made Sam smile, because it had never taken a legal mandate to prompt his brother's concern and care for him.
As he sat listless and bone weary in his seat, his too warm fingers restlessly rubbed against the outside seam of his student journal. Holy Rosary's Code of Conduct was enforced by the distribution of conduct marks. Penalties given to students breaking any section of the code, assigned by any faculty member at their discretion. Each teacher had their own specialized red ink stamp that could mark a student's journal for disciplinary action, and because the academy was a modernized and well funded institution, each faculty member also had individual access to the school's computer system.
By next period, Sam's conduct mark would be entered into the system under his personal ID number, generating an automatic assignment of punishment and a corresponding letter home outlining the infraction and the measures taken in response. Sam knew the Code, knew that his first mark would earn him a lunchtime detention in the Resource Room on Monday. He also knew that he was required to bring his journal home and have either Dean or Dad sign the stamp beforehand, because the Code stipulated that no action be taken without parental consent.
He could easily forge both his father's and brother's signatures. Just like they could both forge his and each other's. That kind of thing was sort of a requirement in their unusual little family for one reason or another. Although Dad tended to get volatile if something that could get them noticed by CPS was forged without him being informed first.
Dad was funny like that.
Sam wasn't even going to bother this time. With the letter automatically being sent home, one or both of them would find out eventually, and the fallout of hiding it from them wasn't worth the hassle. Neither one of them would even care that he had been a few minutes late to class, especially once they found out that he had been sick in the bathroom beforehand.
The downside to the whole thing was the fact that the Code had been integrated in the House Rules as well. Apparently because Sam's father had suddenly taken a new and unusual interest in his youngest son's schooling, and felt the need to exert his Alpha Male dominance over everything school related during Sam's interview.
Students accumulated conduct marks in sets of three. If the third one wasn't earned during the current semester, the first two were erased. Only a third one would be entered as a behavioral problem on the student's permanent record, and it was this particular threat that had Sam determined to never earn three. Teachers couldn't give him a clean letter of recommendation if he had a behavioral mark on file. The first mark imposed a lunchtime detention. The second mark, two days of after school detention, and because Holy Rosary was a strict and traditional Catholic school, the third mark bought you a ticket to the principal's office and a date with his paddle.
Not that the last was a new development in the Winchester's world. It was still legal in half the states in the country to paddle students, and given how many schools the boys had attended over the years, it was simple math that occasionally they would be enrolled in one where it was in use. Sam had so far been spared because he barely opened his mouth in school, let alone got into enough of a scrape to actually cause trouble.
Dean had managed to get his butt busted twice, because, well, Dean was just that kind of kid.
Sitting in the principal's office with Father Williams, Dad had turned in his chair and pointedly reminded his youngest that earning a paddling at school automatically bought him a whipping at home, and Sam had blushed nine shades of crimson. Not because that little pronouncement was breaking news to him, because it had always been the policy in their family, long before the implementation of the House Rules. Sam's ass was in a state of perpetual peril with his father anyway, especially if it was something that could get him noticed by the authorities.
But having his dad come out and say it in front of a stranger? Absolutely mortifying.
Unfortunately that meeting must have given Dad some divine inspiration, because as soon as they got home he added repercussions for all conduct marks to the House Rules, and Sam knew his first mark just earned him a corresponding extra session of PT tonight, like he knew a second mark would get him grounded for a week. He didn't have much of a social life in the first place, so a theoretical grounding in the future wasn't a big deal to a kid that never went out anyway.
The extra PT? Was just going to suck in his current condition.
That unpleasant fact caused him to groan as another wave of dizziness passed over him. As if he wasn't feeling crappy enough. His body pains had body pains, for crying out loud. Already he was formulating a plea to be excused from their regular workout without admitting that his brother had been right to worry this morning. Dean would fuss and hover over him, worse than any helicopter parent, because he took his responsibility for Sam's overall well being very seriously.
Sam was pretty sure that his big brother was already fretting over which permissive action on his part was directly responsible for whatever had been ailing the younger Winchester this morning. That also was just who Dean was. Running hot and cold. One minute ready to kick Sam's ass, and then the next stressing himself into a frenzy over Sam's tiniest little sniffle. On the flip side, Dean could also be the typical big brother, happily teasing and tormenting Sam, up to and including putting Nair in his shampoo bottle, leaving Sam in tears and looking like a miniature Uncle Fester until his hair grew back.
Dad had been so pissed over that one.
Dean would get the letter from school, and he would sign the stamp, maybe even without gloating too much over his little brother's first foray as a school miscreant, although probably not. He would probably be bursting with pride in some off balanced, perverted sense of amusement kind of way.
Sam loved his brother, but sometimes he was just a great big bag of dicks.
If Sam was convincing enough or, worse case scenario, pathetic enough, Dean would probably let him push back the PT to another day, or maybe even cancel it out altogether. His brother could be sympathetic like that too. But that was dependent on how well Sam could keep his shit together and not let on just exactly how truly awful he felt.
Which was growing more and more doubtful by the second.
Telling Dean just how bad it was would propel his brother into canceling their planned meet up with Dad, because it was just a research weekend a few hours away at Caleb's place, and that was something that his big brother would turn down in favor of Sam's health and wellbeing.
Sam simply didn't want him to.
Dean rarely got any time for himself or, even worse, time to actually have fun without having to drag Sam with. Dean and Caleb were closer in age than Dad and Caleb were, and the young arms dealer, like the brothers, had been raised in The Life. He and Dean had a lot in common, and on the rare occasion, were able to get together and cut loose, away from Dad's heavy handed observation and Sam's overall neediness. Sam knew how much Dean had been looking forward to this weekend, and he wasn't willing to spoil one of his big brother's few, all too infrequent chances, to have a good time.
That's why, when Dean picked Sam up out in front of the school at five, and Sam had miraculously made it through the rest of the day without face planting on the waxed and buffed floors of the hallowed halls, Sam had stubbornly dug in and rebelled against Dean's worried insistence that they head straight to Urgent Care. All Sam had to do was put on his most pathetic face, not too hard under the circumstances, and say the words he knew his brother wouldn't ignore.
"I miss Dad."
/
Caleb had inherited his house in Lincoln from his grandparents. A simple Cape style wooden structure. Weather beaten and nondescript, with three small bedrooms and a fold out couch. It was a refuge for the hurt and the bleeding of the hunting community when they needed a place to rest when everything went absolutely pear shaped. It also had a uniquely designed basement, for when the hunt needed just a little something extra in gathering intel.
The last in a long line of hunters, Caleb also inherited his father's gun dealership. With a storefront that sold legitimately registered pieces to the regular public, and a significantly larger underground vault that catered strictly to trusted hunters. John owed the majority of the current Winchester arsenal to Caleb and his family.
The young man was also a talented hunter in his own right. John had made sure of that himself after Caleb's father was brutally killed by a family of rugarus. John had known Caleb's father well, and had been the one with the undesirable task of telling the boy what exactly the filthy creatures had done to his dad. Only six years older than his Dean, John had taken an immediately liking to the boy during his time frequenting Harvelle's Roadhouse, and had eventually taken him under his wing, like Bobby and Daniel Elkins had once done for John.
Hunters have their own special skill sets, and there just weren't enough of them around to shirk the responsibility of passing the knowledge down to the next generation. Caleb had been energetic and quick thinking, a passion for hunting that mirrored John's own. Like most other hunters, he stayed in The Life, first out of revenge, and then out of a sense of responsibility, to spare others the pain and suffering he had experienced himself. He and John had taken their first joint hunt when they took down the rugaru family that destroyed Caleb's life, and the older man knew in that instant that Caleb was in it for good.
Payback was a necessity, but it didn't take away the pain, or the drive to keep others from feeling it.
Caleb was friendly and easy going. A wicked sense of humor that could even get John laughing on occasion. The boys loved him, Dean especially, and it didn't escape John's notice that his firstborn often looked up to Caleb like an older brother. Dean was such a good big brother, in every way that John could have ever hoped him to be for Sammy. It was only right that his oldest get a chance to enjoy even the tiniest bit of the comfort and guidance of a big brother himself.
Because John trusted Caleb.
Trusted him with his secrets and his boys. It was with Caleb that John had allowed Dean to take his first road trip away from the family, and Caleb that John trusted to take Dean on his first hunt away from John himself. Not that he hadn't been trailing them, covering their every move, an overwhelming feeling of paternal affection for not just his son, but the fatherless boy he was so fond of. Of course they both knew that he was ghosting them, because John had drilled that skill into them. And he had smiled in pride over how well trained and accomplished they both were.
Caleb knew about the demon in Minneapolis, and John trusted him with that too. Because it was all just too big, too much and too scary. As desperately as he wanted to do everything in secret and protect his boys as much as he could, he just couldn't do it all alone.
When the boys arrived in Lincoln Friday night, John was wiped out. Mentally and physically drained to the point of dropping from the activities of the past few weeks, with the body of the secretary the demon had been riding freshly buried and weighing heavily on John's mind.
Dean was distracted, his eyes flitting over to his brother's flushed face every few seconds in undisguised concern. Sammy was clearly ill. His long limbs limp and uncoordinated as he stumbled into the house. What John had been hoping to be a relaxing weekend with his kids was already going south before the Impala's engine even stopped ticking.
He felt a wave of frustration and annoyance pass over him, a rebuke on the tip of his tongue to chastise his eldest as to why he would drag his sick little brother three and a half hours in the car when they weren't on an active hunt.
And then he had felt like a bastard for even thinking that.
Reminding himself of all of the endless hours in the Impala with the boys. Crisscrossing the countryside while they coughed and sneezed in the backseat, listless one minute and twisting in the throes of fever dreams the next. What kind of example had he set for his kids when he himself had not hesitated to take them from whatever comfort might be had from a dark and quiet motel room, as seedy as it may have been, and forced them on the road.
Looking like a recalcitrant child waiting to be scolded, Dean had hovered for a moment, head bowed and fidgeting. Turning in an instant from cocky creature hunter to John's sorry little boy. Surprised when the rebuke never came as John drew his boys in for a hug, feeling Dean's body relax in his arms and the shockingly high warmth of Sam's.
Dean had immediately taken Sam upstairs and got him settled in one of the guest beds, returning a few minutes later, anxiety plastered all over his face. John knew what this weekend had meant for his oldest, and he desperately wanted it for him. Because Dean never asked for anything. Had always given two hundred percent of himself for anyone that needed it, and never taken a thing for himself.
And John couldn't shake that thought. Didn't want to admit how much of that taking he himself was responsible.
In the end, he actually had to make it an order for his firstborn to go out and have a little fun for a change, and the fact that it had taken something that extreme crushed John even further. That his boy would be so duty bound and faithful, he wouldn't even take an evening out on the town if he had a little sick brother at home, and only the unreliable hands of an absent father to leave Sam in.
Eventually, long after the two young men made their escape, John had collapsed on the sofa. A bottle of Jack in one hand and his journal in the other, and nothing but darkness on his mind. He barely heard the uncoordinated footfalls of his younger son jaggedly find their way down the stairs.
When Sammy appeared in the doorway of the living room, his sweat soaked hair stuck up in every direction, his hazel eyes glassy and bloodshot, he looked seven years old again. The fevered, aching look he shot his father searching.
Daddy, help me.
Daddy, I'm hurt.
Comfort me.
Fix me.
Daddy, I'm scared.
Make it stop.
Hold me.
Love me
John had lifted his weary body to guide Sammy first to the kitchen for water and more fever reducers, and a cool washcloth for his burning forehead. Then to the sofa, helping his son lay down with his mess of brown locks pillowed on John's lap. He reached over to the chair nearby and snagged his own coat, tucking it around Sam's upper body. Watching his boy curl into it with a deep sigh of contentment as his sleep heavy eyes closed again, gingerly breathing through the increasingly loud rattle in his chest.
John was helpless where his son was concerned in a lot of ways right now. He was fighting. Would fight to the very last to protect his boys. He was learning too. More and more every day. But he was still helpless, and the reality of that was killing him. He didn't know where the road he was heading down was going to take him. To his salvation or to his damnation, maybe.
But this? This he could still do.