A/N-And chapter three is up and running. Not a lot of forward motion, but I needed to finish fleshing out my characters so the story could start moving faster.
Reviews are Love
Disclaimer: Not my Sandbox
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From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester
August 4th, 1994
I wish for Mary now more than ever. I studied my son over the dinner table tonight. My first meal with the kids in far too long. He looks the same as he always has. He is shy, a gentle child, but stubborn to his core. He is still to small for his age. I reminded myself again to get his vaccinations up to date. Mary always handled all that with Dean.
I can discern nothing unusual about him, beyond his almost frightening intelligence. Yet there must be something about him. When I learned of the other children whose mothers had died the way my Mary did, I went in search of them. I felt like a predator as I watched them, boys and girls walking to school and playing in the park.
They look normal, ordinary.
So why did the demon single them out? What is his purpose?
And is it too late to save Sammy?
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Dean strode into the kitchen of the farmhouse, the warped screen door banging noisily behind him.
"Dad!" He called out loudly, seeing no sign of his father in the living room. He went down the hall to master bedroom. It too was empty.
Why can I never find anyone in this goddamn house?
Heart sinking, he finally spied a note next the the old fashioned telephone on the small entry way table.
Dean- Pastor Jim called me about some suspicious drownings near Lake Manitoc. I'll call you if I need back up. Make sure your brother keeps up his training. Don't undo all my hard work.
Dad
Dean swore loudly. He paced back and forth for a moment, indecisive. His father didn't like being disturbed on a hunt. Whenever John was on the scent of a new hunt, he always insisted on only being called in case of emergencies. He'd called in sometime over the next few days, still using the long established code for landlines they'd used in Dean's childhood. He wouldn't be happy to be bothered over something he would view as trivial. Dean was determined to speak to him about Sam, however. His unease over the morning events had him needing to hear his father's voice. Something felt wrong, and Dean had learned to listen to his instincts years ago. Finally, he ripped out his cell and dialed the number by memory.
"Winchester." His father's impersonal greeting told Dean that John was still driving, answering the private line without checking the number, since only a handful of trusted people had it.
"Dad, it's me-" Dean started, only to be immediately interrupted.
"You should be in bed by now." John said, the ever present thread of command weaving through his words. Dean felt that same, immediate need to apologize, to obey, that he felt whenever John used that tone. He knew, however, that his tired mind would not allow him to sleep until he had dealt with his concerns regarding Sammy.
"Yeah, Dad, no, I will in just a few minutes sir. It's just..." He trailed off, uncertain how to approach the subject.
Hearing the worry in his older son's voice, John's voice sharpened in concern. "What is it Dean? Has something happened?"
Dean scrubbed his hand down his face tired. "It's Sam. What exactly happened while I was away? What kinda training were you doing Dad, cause the kid's acting all kinds of weird."
"Dean." His father sighed in exasperation. "You have to stop mother henning that boy. He'll be seventeen soon. You had already left school and were hunting full time at seventeen."
"Dad..." Dean pressed on, determined to get some concrete answers.
John sighed louder, irritation clear in his voice. "Nothing happened other than what you already knew about, Dean. I've increased Sam's physical training. It's good for him, gives him and outlet for all that teenage angst. And he'll need these skills to survive once he's hunting full time. Do you really want some rogue poltergeist to take him out just because I let him slack off on his training?"
Dean winced, visions of knives and broken glass and blood flashing through his mind at his father's words. "No, of course not, but Dad..."
John interrupted him again. "And it's working Dean. Sammy pushed back for the first couple of days, but then he got with the program. Eventually we might actually make a hunter out of him."
Dean frowned. "Just like that. Just...overnight? One minute, same old drama queen Sammy, and then suddenly the next day he's GI Sam?" He asked disbelievingly.
John snorted. "Dean, I think you seriously underestimated how much work went into this process. Now, enough chit-chat. Didn't you say you wished Sam would get his ass in line? Stop trying to pit you against me? Stop making everything that much harder?"
Dean was silent for a moment. He had said that, it was true. Sammy had a habit of making everything twice the process it should have been. If he didn't straighten up and start taking orders, he was gonna get killed. Dean knew first hand what could happen if you disobeyed an order.
"He just didn't seem like himself." His finished lamely. Christ, wasn't that the understatement of the year.
"Good." His father said decisively. "It was time he started growing up. You have to let him, Dean. Coddling just makes him weak, and being weak makes him a target. Monsters don't care about college and prom, Dean. You know that, that's why you left all that crap behind. Excess baggage just slows you down. Now, hit your rack solider. That's an order."
"Yes, sir." Dean answered instinctively, even as his mind raced with a hundred unfinished arguments.
With that his father disconnected, leaving Dean staring at his own reflection in the old, battered mirror hanging in the hall way.
He studied his face for a moment, taking note of the worry still evident on his features. He closed his eyes and swallowed, getting a grip on himself.
Dad was right. He knew Dad was right. Dean would hit the sack, and Sam would come home and have dinner with Dean, and everything would seem more normal. Change was good, it kept you on your toes, kept you alive.
This was in Sam's best interest.
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Sam headed out the door of his high school, glancing up into the late September sun. He had loved autumn as a child, the scent of the leaves, the pumpkins and the return to school.
That had been before, of course. Before he had learned the dark undercurrents to such seemingly harmless things as Halloween and Harvest-time.
Before he had been expected to be someone who hunted the monsters that roamed the night.
He sighed deeply, emotionally girding himself to return home. Dean's early return had thrown him though, in retrospect, he really shouldn't have been surprised. Dean wouldn't side against Dad for the sake of Sam, but Sam never doubted how deep Dean's love ran.
Dean just couldn't see how twisted love really was, at least in their family. He couldn't grasp that love could destroy just as much as it could protect. Some things couldn't be taught, though. Sam knew this instinctively.
He's read a saying somewhere- "Birds born in cages think flying is an illness". That was Dean, to the core of his being. Determined and stubborn and so, so scared.
Sam wasn't sure how to teach him to fly.
He sighed again, and started walking, preferring the quiet walk to the overcrowded bus. His mind lost in thought, his long legs quickly ate up the miles, though a persistent coughing fit, had his pushing to buy a bottle of water at the tiny gas station at the edge of town. He'd have to make sure Dean didn't pick up on the cough. He'd run a mild fever on and off the past few days, never higher than a degree or so, and he was determined that a cold wouldn't wayside him from his chosen course of action.
Things were so much easier when you just didn't make yourself care anymore.
It was almost like being free.
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Dean stirred, sleepily, rousing at the sounds of the shower running. He blinked blearily at his watch, sitting up quickly when he saw it was after six.
Shit.
He had meant to pick up Sam from school and run through training with him, then get started on dinner. He couldn't be sure, but this morning he'd thought Sam had looked a little thinner than before he'd left. As a young child, Sammy hadn't hesitated to let Dean know if he was hungry. Around eight, though (when he'd discovered just how precarious their money situation really was sometimes) he'd become forcibly silent on the issue, seemingly ambivalent to whether he even ate meals sometimes.
Added to his recent growth spurts over the past few years, Sam could swing from lean to downright skinny in a frighteningly short period of time. Dean grimaced, thinking of what Sam probably would have been eating if left to his own devices.
He stumbled out of the bedroom just as Sam emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Dean frowned again. Not only had Sammy lost some weight, but there were some pretty nasty bruises scattered over his brother's visible body.
"Dude!" Dean exclaimed, gripping his brother and turning him to face Dean. Dean leaned down to examine one of the worst, along Sam's right side.
"Obstacle course?" he asked finally, hoping that's all it was. Surely Dad and Sam didn't grab a hunt without him as back up, right?
"It fought back." Sam said easily, tensing for just a moment as his brother's hand traced the bruise lightly. Dean had never developed a sense of personal space when it came to Sam's body, having changed diapers, held hands crossing streets, and later on caring for injuries. He doubted Dean even realized how hands on he got with Sam now and then.
Oblivious to the look of mild amusement on Sam's face, Dean continues to turn Sam in a complete circle, not stopping until he was satisfied he had taken note every one. Sam both relished the attention and hated the invasion of personal space by turns.
"Dude." Dean said again, shaking his head as he straightened. "Did you even ice them?" He eyed Sam intently.
Sam shrugged that same half shrug he had favored that morning. "Just bruises." He replied.
Dad didn't let him.
Dean translated Sam's words easily, though nothing in Sam's face gave his thoughts away.
Dean scowled. There was toughening his brother up, and then there was just using common sense. Bruises were injuries, and needed to be treated responsibly, so they didn't hinder you on your next hunt. Dad had taught Dean that himself.
Besides, those must have hurt like a bitch.
Dean sighed. "Too late now. They're too old for ice to do any good. They still hurt?"
"Nah." Sam answered and Dean searched his features for a lie. Either the kid was telling the truth or Dean was seriously going to take him to the next poker game he found.
"Right. Well, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you should have waited to hit the shower until after your training from Dad. He's headed to someplace named Lake Manitoc, by the way. Wherever the hell that is."
"I know." Sam said, moving into the bedroom and pulling on clothes. "Saw the note. And I already did my training. Hence the second shower." His voice was muffled slightly as he pulled a worn t-shirt over his head, and Dean made a mental note to make sure they grabbed up some new ones. Sammy had grown yet again, and besides, with school back in session, they didn't need anyone at the school thinking they couldn't afford to clothe Sam.
"All of it?" Dean said suspiciously. He didn't think Sam would lie about it, complaining and bargaining with Dean had always been more his style.
Sammy looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "Yeah, Dean. All of it. I've been home a couple hours now."
Dean flushed guiltily. "Yeah, sorry about that. Meant to swing by and grab you up. I overslept."
"You needed the sleep. I didn't need the ride. No worries." Sam said, heading back out to the living room, a book of lore in one hand.
"Oh, okay. Um, homework then?" Dean asked, feeling off balance, like he hadn't been in charge of Sam's after school activities since the kid started Kindergarten.
"Study Hall." Sam supplied, settling gracefully into the worn arm chair, opening the book the the place-marked chapter. Leaning forward, Dean could see the book was written in Latin and he rolled his eyes.
"Okay, I'll start dinner then. How's spaghetti sound?" He asked, throwing out the first thing that came to mind. Spaghetti was quick, easy and filling. They both could use the carbs.
Sam looked up, surprised. "Oh, no, it's cool man. I'll just grab a sandwich or something later."
Back on more solid footing with picky-eating Sammy behavior, Dean snarked "Seriously, Sammy? I'm starving. I'm making spaghetti. You're eating spaghetti."
Sam watched him warily for a moment. "Sure Dean. Whatever you say." He said finally, as if the food he ate had no personal bearing on him whatsoever.
Dean's frustration with this pea-pod Sam started leaking through despite his best intentions.
Dean rolled his eyes as he went back into to kitchen.
Whatever you say Dean.
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Dinner was an easy affair, both boys tucking in, Dean making sure to keep Sam's plate full. Sam gave him a look that said he knew what his big brother was doing, but didn't say a word.
Dean found himself enjoying the quiet moment with his brother. Lately their meals had been full of tense silences and half arguments over orders and hunting and Dad-Dad-Dad.
Sam started washing the dishes without Dean having to pitch a bitch, and gee, wasn't that refreshing too. Maybe Sam's new attitude really was a blessing in disguise.
Just then the phone rang once and stopped. Dean saw his brother freeze at the sink for the barest second, before continuing on to dry to last of the dishes. When the phone rang again, Dean answered readily.
"Hello." He said, careful to say nothing personal, even though he knew it was his father.
"Dean, you boys get packed up. This hunt's more involved than I expected, and Bobby's already lined up another. Take down this address, this is the motel. I'll call Sam's school in the morning."
Dean wrote the address on default, already dreading telling his brother they would have to leave only a few weeks into the new school year.
He hung up reluctantly and turned to face his brother.
Sam was staring at him with an odd look in his eyes, a look Dean recognized but couldn't quite place. Then without a word he walked out of the kitchen. His movements were quick, but not jerky or sharp, indicating no anger. Dean followed his brother into their bedroom as they both quickly packed out the few things that had managed to spread out. Both boys could break down camp, as John called it, in only a matter of minutes if needed.
Dean waited patiently for his little brother's explosion. New attitide or not, Dean knew how import his Junior year was to Sam. Sam was still holding out hope of taking college classes after highschool, if only part time, and it was his junior year grades those colleges would be looking at.
The anticipated explosion never came however, and Dean found himself tensing up more and more every moment his brother betrayed his expectations. Finally, he spoke first.
"Hey, Sam, it'll be cool man. This was a crap school anyway. You said yourself, they didn't even have AP classes. Moving on is for the best.
Sam turned around then. "All packed." He said simply. "You want me to clean out the fridge before we book out of here?"
Dean wasn't buying it. "Sammy..."
Sam shrugged. "It's cool, man. It is what it is."
Unease swam through Dean's veins once again.