A/N: Okay, and here we go, next chapter of POW. Sorry, another short one, but I actually need to sit down and re-watch this episode, just to fix some details in my mind so I can see just how Sam 2.0 can aim to misbehave, and I haven't got a chance to yet. But no worries. No hiatus here. Just stumbling through holiday season.

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As Always,

EverReader

PS- Any of you guys whovians? Because I have taken my Who story out of hiatus. It's called 'The Unwritten Line', it's hardcore Doctor/Rose Tyler love story, and if you guys think I obsess over details in my SPN stories, just wait until you see what I'm going to do the Moffat's sandbox...

Prisoner of War- Chapter Thirty Seven

"Opt Out Here"

Two weeks later...

Dean rubbed his eyes blearily as he stumbled into the kitchen. Sam, was already up, of course. It seemed like the kid barely slept anymore, not that he seemed the worse for it.

Nope. Sam was bright eyed and bushy-tailed, reminding Dean of the nine thousand times his childhood self had awoken to a spastic little brother jumping on their bed to wake him up.

"Mornin'" He mumbled.

Sam drained his cup of coffee, setting it back down. "Morning princess. Thought you'd sleep the day away."

Dean made an annoyed face. "Dude, seriously. We got in at like, what? Four in the morning. It's eight now. Why are we even upright?"

Sam arched a brow. "Found a case." He flipped his lap top around.

Dean grimaced again. "Sam, what the hell kind of website is this? If you're going to be surfing the damn web, it could at least be porn or something."

Sam arched both brows this time, but simply shrugged. "Everyone dismisses websites like this. Hunters get away with what we do because no one believes in the monsters."

"Monsters get away with what they do, until the hunters come and take them out." Dean corrected crossly. "So, what? What is this? A haunting?"

"Richardson, Colorado." Sam stated, sounding a little like a sadistic substitute teacher. "Two months ago, a group of kids went to check out this haunted house. Supposedly, it was owned by some man named Murdoch Marten. Marten went ballistic, killed his wife, strung up all seven of his daughters from the rafters."

Dean whistled. "Shit. How long ago?"

Sam should his head. "I can't get a clear fix on the date. That's why I waited so long to bring it up. I can't find any actual records on Murdoch Marten. Normally, that would make this a bust. But these kids claim that when they went to check it out, they saw the body of a girl, hanging from the rafters."

Dean scratched his forehead. "Like, a ghost body, or a body-body."

Sam shook his head. "Again, that's the problem. I can't tell. Their accounts vary too much. But their fear seems pretty real. I got a couple on the phone, they nearly pissed themselves just talking about it."

Dean frowned at Sam's easy use of the word 'pissed', it was unlike his younger brother, but he refrained from commenting.

"Still. No body, no historical records..." Dean trailed off, not wanting to make his brother angry by dismissing his lead, but unsure if any of Sam's information would actually pan out.

"No case. That's what I thought. I was going to put this to bed, but then, two days ago, two more people saw something. One ended up with a broken arm. Something's going on there, I just don't know what."

Dean shook his head. "Dude, just when have you had time to do all this research? You've got school, you've been training like a maniac..."

Sam just shrugged again. "I don't know. Feels good to be busy. Been chatting some of the other hunters up as they come through. Someone suggested a cursed object maybe. Something that only acts up on occasion."

Dean sighed. "What hunters? The guys working with Dad? Dad was pretty adamant they not talk to us, Sam."

Sam shrugged. "About Dad's super secret case, sure. But there are two things hunters like more than anything else, Dean. They like to drink, and they like to talk about their kills. I've been good old-boying some of these guys for weeks. When you've been working late, or at the bar."

Dean searched his brother's face. "Why?"

Sam smiled enigmatically. "I'm a hunter. I survive by being meaner than the things we hunt. If those guys made a mistake, I want to know what it was. If they got something right, I want to know that even more. Dad likes to keep his secrets close to the vest. Well, let him keep them. I'll find someone else to tell me what they know."

"But what do you want to know? Sam, if there's something Dad thinks we need to know, he'll tell us."

Sam snorted. "What can I say, Dean. I'm just not good little soldier material. I don't want to be helpless just because my commanding officer goes down."

Dean bristled. "Don't talk about it like that. That's our family you're talking about."

Sam stood. "It's not just our family, Dean. Like you said, it's our family business. And I intend to be an expert."

"Why?" Dean challenged. "What changed. Just a few weeks ago, you were screaming about how you hated everything about this life, about how hunters end bloody and badly."

Sam eyed him critically. "They do, Dean. But this is what we are. You know what they say. Be good, or be good at it. Come on, Dad's given us the go-ahead."

"On what?" Dean asked.

Sam grinned, a smile that never reached his eyes. "On Richardson."

Dean watched with a feeling of unease as his brother sailed easily out of the kitchen.

Sam's health had improved rapidly other the last few weeks, to look at him now, you'd hardly believe he'd been so ill, but it was more than that.

He walked different, acted different, and he sure as hell talked differently. Dean's little brother had always avoided the casual use of profanity, reserved his more colorful language for when he was hurt or very, very angry.

Nowadays, Sam was as likely to cuss as Dean was, and it frankly made Dean uncomfortable at times.

And that was just the surface. It was more than that, it wasn't just what he was saying, it was all the things he still wasn't saying. At least before, Dean had gotten the feeling that Sam had wanted to talk to Dean, he just hadn't seemed to know how.

Know, though Dean could practically see the wheels turning in his busy little brother's mind, Sam himself was as tight lipped as their father. He always had something going on. Dean was used to Sam being a class above just about every other person at the table with him, but until now, Sam had always let Dean in on the joke.

Now it was like...they weren't even brothers anymore. It was more like they were a unit in the military, and Sam was gunning for a promotion.

John seemed to like it, liked the focus Sam was putting on the hunt, but Dean knew in his heart that something was wrong.

Whatever it was that was wrong with Sam, it hadn't gotten better.

It had simply gone deeper.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam watched patiently as the scenery flew by outside the windows of the Impala. He knew his new and improved attitude had once again shaken his brother, but he was finding it hard to care.

Honestly, there were a lot of things he was finding it hard to care about these days. School, for one, and the thought of college. John and inability to be satisfied with his sons, for another.

It wasn't like the depression he'd been wallowing around in, though, that hazy numbness that had steeped into his bones and sapped his will power.

No, this was more like...liberation.

He could still remember caring about all that crap, he'd simply...opted out.

Yes. That was the perfect way to phrase it.

Sam had opted out.

Out of the drama, out of the bullshit.

He was sick of worrying about being evil, being a monster. He was sick of wondering if John hated him, or if Dean would if he ever found out about Sam's demon blood. He was sick of wanting something he couldn't have, like college or friends or a home.

He'd been leaning that way for weeks, even before his illness, if he were honest, but now it was like something inside him had clarified, had...crystallized.

And Sam had simply...opted out.

Things were so very simple now.

He went to school, to avoid the hassle of DFS.

He trained, so he would be a badder motherfucker than the monsters.

And he hunted, because that's what he was.

He hunted monsters.

And he let go of all the other whiny bullshit, the day dreams and the wishful thinking, and the stupid, never-ending shame and fear.

Even the anger.

He was sick of carrying it, it was heavy.

So he let it go.

Funnily enough, the less he cared, the better things seemed to be. Not just because he didn't care, but because things actually improved once he didn't need them too.

His health improved, and now he easily rivaled Dean in their trainings. John seemed more likely to approve, and Sam didn't bother feeling hurt when he didn't. Some was practically a lark now that Sam's next quarter had begun, and he'd switched to easier classes (something Dean didn't realize, but, oh well...).

His head was so much clear, and everything was so much better.

Now he could just be what he was.

The thing that monsters feared.