warning: teenspeak is to be expected. innocents, avert ye eyes and walk thyself away.
A/N: phew. chapter two, as you can see, is significantly longer than the intro chapter, and hopefully to your liking.
thanks: all of those who reviewed are amazing. alert notifications are swell, but please, if you take the time to come back and complete the story or add it to your favorites, I would really appreciate it if you could drop me a line and give me an opinion. thanks again, you guys.
personal vendetta: totally resolved, because you guys rock.
recap: after failing to convince Dean to of his ability to assist hunting one measly shapeshifter, Sam is left alone to his own devises in an empty motel room while Dean worries over the possibilities Sam's first 'real' hunt will have the fateful day it arrives.

Chapter Two:

Sam drummed his fingers against the countertop, incapable of holding in his restlessness. He glared at the sorry excuse for an alarm clock that sat precariously on the edge of the nightstand, just waiting to topple off. Red numbers illuminated the surrounding area ever so slightly as they blinked in sync. 11:36 and they had been gone for just under three hours. He waited until the six blinked into a seven before tearing his eyes from the sight. Staring down time won't make it go any faster.

He stood on achy knees, stiff from sitting in the same position since the door shut behind his dad and brother. The image of Dean pacing brazenly back and forth, utterly helpless to stay put for longer than five minutes, shouting about how ludicrous staying seated for three hours straight without so much as a fly to distract himself was invaded his mind. He absentmindedly stretched a bit as his eyes scanned the room for the remote. Dean had a nasty habit of hiding them. Better to enforce martial law of cable he had said with that comical, classy smile of his. Sam smirked as he spotted the end of the crusty remote sticking between their bed's mattress and frame. Too obvious, Dean, way too obvious. He tugged it free, raising a corner of his upper lip in disgust. Were past residents brutal to this piece of plastic or what? He resisted the urge to rinse the thing, sat squarely on the edge of the bed, and switched the dusty television on with the push of a button.

Ah, the simplicity that was cable.

With a bad connection.

Sam scowled as channel after channel refused to last longer than fifteen seconds before giving way to the never ending battle of black and white specks of static. He wondered dimly whether or not it was normal for people to envision such a battle when static came to mind. Probably not. More than half an hour later, about ten minutes of one soap after another, give or take fifteen commercials and single clip of news and Sam had exhausted his patience with the thing. He left the television on static, utilizing mute, and tossed the remote in disgust. Cable be damned.

He leaned into the bed, stomach up to the water-marked ceiling. Maybe this was nice compared to those other rat holes they had stayed at, but now that he thought about it, it wasn't really all the nice after all. He picked cracks and stains out of the ceiling, the wall, the rugged carpet. He didn't even want to think about the origin of half of those and just shut his eyes and tried doubly hard not to imagine the countless body fluids each bedspread had seen in its day.

Sam was bored. No denying it.

He glanced behind him, tilting the world upside down to get a view of the alarm clock still blinking blocky, red numbers. 12:42 and it was officially into the AM. It was about a minute past four hours now. He sighed, returning his gaze back to the ceiling. Sometimes hunts were quick, so easy his dad made it look, well, easy. Other times, most times, it took a while and involved getting banged the hell up. Dad sporting a shiner and Dean licking the blood off a split lip found its way into Sam's head, reminding him of the way even 'easy' hunts went awry. He shook his head, unconsciously sinking farther into the comforter for some means of comfort as memories of countless nights of waiting up only to be relieved and broken all at once kept his palms glued to his eyelids as if they could somehow shut them out.

Dean limping, actually allowing Dad to support his weight, a coat of crimson drenching his pants leg and staining the carpet with every inching step forced Sam to roll to his side and hold tight to his stomach. It hurt to remember some things. Dad came next, barely conscious, draped over Dean shoulders as he shouted orders to treat the gaping gash across their father's temple. Sam's hands almost shook as bad as they had that night just by thinking about how hard it had been to locate antiseptic, let alone slow down enough to stitch the thing. No, Dean had done that. Dean took care of things like that, somehow always kept his head. Dean must keep a level head because he had been there, had it happen once or four times. And he had. Dean took more hits than Dad most times, not because he was slow, and not because he wasn't ready, but because of the stupid hero mentality of his. Sam curled his legs in to his stomach, suddenly cold. Sam couldn't stand Dean but couldn't really stand no Dean at all either. Hell, he couldn't handle no Dean if he tried. Not for long anyway.

It almost hurt to imagine a life with just his dad and him. Sam furrowed his brow at the way that came out. It wasn't that he hated Dad, was it? No, it was only sometimes that he hated him. It was just the way things were. Sam and Dad didn't mix too well and couldn't bear too many hours without crossing a line and throwing some verbal punches. Sam actually rolled his eyes as he corrected verbal with physical. That's when Dean would step in, always at the sidelines only to step right between them, back to Sam, ready to stare down, fight if it came down to it, the monster that was their father. He could remember the first time, maybe four years ago, when Dean had needed to go there. Sam almost smiled a little at that memory.

"Dad," Dean warned, taking a completely confident step between the towering man and his fuming, now trembling, little brother. He even spread his hand behind his back, beckoning a hand he received immediately, long fingers intertwining with Sam's, squeezing reassuringly. It had said 'it's okay' and 'he doesn't mean it' all at once.

"Get out of the way," Dad growled, attempting a futile glare in the direction of Sam who now stood huddled behind Dean, face full of shirt as he hid deep in Dean's protective back.

"He didn't mean it," was all he said.

"He knew what he was saying." Sam thought his throat would spill out from his mouth before he could stop it.

"He's ten," Dean has retorted, a bit of anger piercing his assertive but always calm voice before breaking into full blown sarcasm, "and you're what? Sixteen?"

Sam could have laughed at what came next, though at the time it certainly wasn't a laughing matter. Dean earned himself a bruised jaw for that one. If he remembered correctly he spent half the night too afraid to leave his room and face his dad, torn between kicking Dean for laughing at him and never letting go for taking a punch for him. He knew it was his own fault for beginning his long and never ending life of unreasonableness that made him who he was. Dad was a complete mule, and if possible, Sam was a bigger one. Dean was equally stubborn and more than capable of standing his own ground, probably better than Dad and Sam combined, but kept it silent, always hidden. Sam didn't blame his father for wanting to take a swing from time to time. He considered physical action himself, but with no such luck. Dean would pull him away with a sharp reprimand or occasional thump to the head before he had the chance to throw a punch. Or maybe he pulled him back to keep him from being such an easy target. Sam was, as Dean pointed out as frequently as possible, pigheaded, smart, and immeasurably stupid when it came to arguments. Thus creating their dad's one and only equal.

Sam grinned, enjoying the memories distracting him from the worries of the present and took a peek at the clock. Five and a half hours and counting. His smile faded. Where were they? Was something wrong? How long did Dad say they'd be this time anyway?

And before he could stop himself, Dean's first hunt came back to mind.

A thud against the door and the unmistakable sound of ragged breathing pulled Sam's attention from his cartoon to the rotted door. He knew that sound; the sound of someone choking on their own blood. It wasn't something a lot of eight year olds knew about, but something Sam had heard on an occasion or two from his Dad. He stared hard at the door, unsure of who was there, uncertain about grabbing the gun. Before he had to think too hard the buzz of a keycard and the whoosh of the door swinging inward brought forth his Dad and a bundle of blue, brown, and a startling amount of crimson in his arms.

"Door." His voice was soft, different. He scrambled past his dad to the open door and hot summer air. He fisted the knob and stuck his head out, completely baffled by the missing presence of Dean, and pulled it to with an added click of a lock. He turned to face his Dad, full on congratulatory speech bubbling in his mouth when he saw the bundle, now spread carefully over the closest bed, move and wondered if he'd ever be able to speak again. He swayed on spot, meeting the door with his back to keep from toppling over.

"Dean?"

Dean, however, did not respond. He was fighting for any means of consciousness and failing miserably, oblivious to the sounds around him. He moaned, unable to hold back the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. Sam's round eyes darted from Dean to Dad, Dad to Dean, finally settling on staring down the crimson stains splotching his brother in mismatched patterns and random areas. Dad said something, a hand in Dean's hair before rising and making his way towards Sam. He paused, only briefly, hoisted Sam to his feet and sat him on the bed. "Watch him," he said in that strange, soft voice, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the night.

Sam managed to take his eyes off the door and absorb the mess that was his older brother. But it couldn't be his older brother. Dean was bigger than this, wasn't this pale, didn't have this much white tinge to his lips. Sam shifted his weight, sliding closer to the heavy-breathing form, and settled Indian style by his stomach. "Dean?" Sam's hand ghosted over his forehead, uncertain of whether touching him would hurt him all that much. "Dean?"

"Mm –" was all that he could manage. He didn't open his eyes which had long since shut, clamped tight for fear of added pain, but twitched his fingers.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam gulped, trying desperately to fight back the bit of dinner threatening a hasty exist through the mouth, "it's Sam."

Dean's eyes blinked, quickly, before clamping shut again. His body twitched, eager to curl in on itself but somehow incapable. He howled, biting his tongue to hold back the end of the cry. Sam sat poised, ready for action but uncertain of the kind. He didn't know what to do, or how to help. He gripped Dean's still twitching fingers, tugging his arm into his lap as gently as he could. His eyes blinked again, unfocused before shutting, opening again, and shutting. Finally managing to keep them open long enough to take in his surroundings, Dean's heavy eyes traveled slowly, far too slowly to be normal, to Sam's and he didn't think he could take it. Sam was crying before he could stop himself, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and plastering hair to his neck. Dean just looked, no expression, blinking slow but thinking hard.

"S'OK," Dean choked, half garbled as a thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Sam wanted to cry harder, wanted to throw himself on Dean and not let go, but knew the way his shirt was torn and how the red spot kept growing that it would be a bad idea. He just shook his head. No, Dean, it's not okay.

Dean blinked, slowly, a suddenly shudder racking through his body and disturbing his wounds. He cried out, unable to defeat the pain, and shut his eyes again. His hand tightened on impulse, squeezing Sam's back. Sam just waited, wondering where the hell Dad had gone to, and kept his eyes locked on Dean's eyelids. Eventually his body calmed and his grip loosened enough to put feeling back in Sam's tiny fingers. Dean was breathing different now, barely at all.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was cracking and he couldn't stop it. "Dean, please don't go to sleep." He squeezed gently on his callused fingers. "What if you don't wake up?"

And Dean's eyes were on his, a sad sense of acceptance about him. Sam just scooted closer, pulling on Dean's limp arm to rest his hand against his cheek, wet with tears, and begged with his eyes. Dean blinked again, closing his eyes slowly like they hurt too much to close, hurt more to open, and didn't raise them again. His chest rose and fell rose and fell, paused for a moment, rose and fell. Sam just cried, Dean's unmoving hand still held firmly to his face as if it would somehow make everything better. Dean's hand was too cold and he knew it wasn't supposed to get that icy.

"Please wake up." Sam begged over and over again, unaware of his dad now tearing Dean's clothes, quickly peeling the sticky material from the wounds, wincing in turn, thankful of his son's blessed unconsciousness. He was mopping up the blood, pressing down with a warm towel, spooked by how quickly it turned red with blood. Sam just sat there transfixed and silent with Dean's hand back in his lap, fingers wrapped around them softly. He wasn't watching Dad, wasn't even sure he was really there. One minute Dean was quiet, too still to still be breathing, the next he was screaming, back arched, clear liquid draining to either side of his chest, pooling beneath him. He took his eyes off Dean, writhing in misery, just long enough to see his dad screw the top back on the bottle of clear liquid. "Had to," was all he offered, placing a hand on Dean's chest, mindful of his injury and pressed him back to the bed. Sam swore he saw tears in his eyes.

Sam hugged his knees, glaring at the stupid red door across the room, opposite of his bed. He didn't want to remember that night. He didn't want to acknowledge the way his throat tightened every time he even thought about mentioning it. He had spent fifteen minutes in that motel room, watching his dad clean wounds, make temporary adjustments, and then haul him to an emergency room. It had been one of the longest car rides Sam could ever remember taking. It was by far the longest wait he'd ever spent in a hospital. He recalled falling asleep against his dad's shoulder after the first three hours passed with no news.

Sam rolled to a more comfortable position against the bed, checking the clock in desperation. He needed something to distract him, to take his mind of the state his dad or Dean could be in. The red numbers shone three in the morning. He sat, panic sinking in before he could control it. Seven hours wasn't normal. He stood, too anxious to stay seated. He threw an accusing glare toward the door. Why hadn't it opened to a drowsy Dad and cocky Dean?

He stood against the wall, hands in his hair, too tired to pace, too scared to sleep, and sank to the floor. "Where are you?"

And as if by some bizarre twist of fate, a cosmic hiccup of luck, maybe even god, there was the familiar sound of a motel keycard being inserted into the door and answering his question.

---

No one ever really talks about how it feels to wake up from being unconscious with a lump on the back of your head. Everyone always focuses on the fact that people woke up at all and had the will power to wake up long enough to fall back down. They should be talking about how loud the ringing was and how muffled it left everything else. They should talk about the pain, because honestly, that shit hurts.

Dean groaned, unsure of what was up and what was down. It was dark, pitch black, without a sliver of light to guide him from wherever he was. He blinked and saw a tiny spark of yellow glow, and then it was dark again. What the hell was that? He blinked a second time, trying to ignore the way the light stung his eyes. So there was light. Then why was it still dark? He opened his eyes, suddenly aware that it was always dark when you had them shut. He was also uncomfortably aware of that fact that he wasn't semiconscious in a heap on the ground, but semiconscious, knees bent beneath him, strapped to a wooden support beam by scratchy rope knotting his hands together behind his back. Great.

"Good, you're up." And wasn't that rough, short tempered, familiar sound better than anything he'd ever heard?

"Dad?" He didn't like the way he barely managed to rasp an audible call but couldn't exactly do anything about it.

"In a sense," John droned as he came into view. He paused a few feet in front of Dean but didn't make an effort to release his eldest son, just locked his hands behind his back and smiled. Dean's mouth was suddenly dry as he gaped at the tall figure that was, but somehow wasn't, his dad. He had to think, had to get the image of his real dad bleeding on the floor somewhere in this godforsaken house out of his head. He swallowed, keeping it as normal as he could despite the growing knot residing in his gut.

"In a sense?" Dean echoed. He failed to keep his voice from hitching. He didn't want to admit what it was that he was seeing anymore than he didn't want it admitted for him. Play along. Don't give it away, Winchester. Play along.

"In every way I guess you could say," he thought aloud. "As of now anyway." There was suddenly a knife in his hand that Dean had never seen before and the ropes holding him against the beam felt tighter than ever. This guy wasn't even pretending to be his dad. He was telling Dean exactly who and what he was. That was a bad sign if he'd ever seen one.

"Hunters," the shapeshifter muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

Dean opened his mouth, thought better of the verbal assault, and shut it. If this thing wanted to talk, he'd let it talk. It gave him time to fiddle with the ropes, and Dean knew he would seriously need that time. Getting out of jams was a certain specialty of the Winchesters, but when it was the only knot Dean had never been able to escape, it was like the world had already ended. He bit his tongue to avoid screaming in anger. This thing had tied him up with one of his dad's specials.

"He expected more of you, Dean," he shook his head again, brandishing the knife as if it were an accusing finger, "much more."

Dean stopped twisting the rope. His eyes wandered to his father's. How did this thing know his name?

"Getting yourself in a nasty spot like this won't exactly make the cut, kiddo."

Dean was tugging on the ropes now. It wouldn't work, he knew it wouldn't do anything more than blister his wrists and cut his skin, but he didn't care. It felt better than pretending he didn't want to tear him apart.

John but not John just nodded at his effort, twiddling the knife between his fingers. The bastard was toying with him. Dean knew it; couldn't stand it. He resigned himself to silence, teeth bared.

"No comeback?" The shapeshifter was closer than Dean liked, leaning down to eyesight and narrowing his eyes. He might have looked like his dad and he might have sounded like his dad, he even smelled like whiskey and ammo with a hint of leather, but it wasn't his dad.

"Come on, Dean," he prodded, knife swaying dangerously close to his chest, "where's that classic put down?" he was an inch away from Dean's face, a twisted grin his dad was incapable of making spread across his features. He fisted the knife, bringing it against Dean's chin and raking it slowly down his jaw line. Dean couldn't help but flinch and pull back, head against the splintering wood. He could feel the sticky substance of blood roll down his throat.

Maybe it was just his time. Maybe his dad had really gotten away, or wasn't hurt bad enough to be in any real trouble. He could take Sam and they could forget about Dean and that would be fine. Maybe he was just being weak by admitting defeat, but when a knife was pressed to your jugular and you couldn't so much as lift a finger in defense, you were pretty much screwed.

Then the knife was gone and the shapeshifter was back to standing.

"Hunters," he murmured again, throwing a glare in Dean's direction. "Do you know how many hunters have come after me?"

Dean didn't know. Dean didn't care. "Not enough?" He had said it without really thinking.

He laughed and Dean cringed. His dad didn't laugh like that. "I guess not," he agreed. "But your dad," he grinned a little and pointed to himself, "made it a little more interesting. Who brings his kid on a hunt anyway? I guess it doesn't matter. He shouldn't have brought anyone. It makes it much more fun when they do though."

Dean was back to working on his ropes, keeping eye contact and not really liking the direction the one sided conversation was going.

"It's so easy, you know?" He didn't really expect Dean to answer, did he? Dean bit back the comment. Concentrate on the ropes. He must not have expected an answer because after a short pause he was talking again, more to himself than Dean. "Turning people against each other I mean," he continued. "Making the last thing they see the last thing they thought possible. Take you for example, kiddo. Imagine your surprise when you just happen to see me, your dad, take this knife and run it through. The faces are always the same, words the same. Begs, pleas, fucking cries for mercy..." His expression became a little darker. "As if I ever got a chance at that."

Dean was trying not to listen. The thought of dying with his dad's face inches in front of his, ignoring everything he said, made his stomach churn. It wasn't Dad, it was some psycho shapeshifter with one too many mental breaks pretending to be his dad. He wasn't even doing a good job. He just wished he'd quit saying kiddo. How did he even know about that? Dad only called him kiddo to mess with him, make fun of the way he called Sammy that. Dean's heart rate picked up. Did he know about Sam too?

"So I figure this time we can make it special, mix things up a bit," John's face was back to hovering an inch from Dean's, "make it personal. I always liked family reunions. I can tell your dad's not so fond of the meaning though. Maybe he'll catch the importance this time." He smiled again. "Then again, three's a crowd, right?"

Dean just stared. He didn't know about Sam. Why would Dad have talked about him? Why would he have talked about any of this? They had to have missed something, had to have made a mistake. There was no way a crazy ass like this could know this much and not know about Sam. But he couldn't know about Sam. Dean begged that god in the sky to take a break from answering little old ladies and make divine intervention more than fairytale. This thing could not know about his baby brother, he couldn't know about Sam.

"I'm sure Sammy's miserable with worry though," he hissed, "and we can't have that, can we?"

This wasn't happening. He wasn't saying what Dean thought he was saying. That meant too many fucked up things that all came back to the same fucked up answer. He couldn't breathe. It was time stopping and his heart breaking. He couldn't breathe. Dean's eyes went from his father's smile to his stern, unfailing eyes. But it wasn't Dad. Dad was dead. What made him think Dad was dead? He didn't know; didn't want to know was a better answer. Then there was Sammy's stupid smile swimming inside his head and it brought tears to his stupid eyes. He blinked them back. He had to focus. Sam's smile faded to a frown. He had to concentrate. How was he supposed to concentrate when he couldn't breathe? Find a way, Winchester, find a goddamn way. Except now Sam wasn't even moving, just lying there, cold as ice.

"Stay away from him," Dean managed to find his breath long enough to rasp. It was almost a plea. He wanted to say more, wanted to let this thing know how bad he was going to hurt him, how slow he was going to kill him, but he couldn't move his lips because he couldn't fucking breathe. If Dad was dead and Sam was dead, where did that leave him?

Shapshifter John sighed in impatience, stretching to full height, unfazed by Dean's breathtaking glare. "But it would be such a load off," he frowned. "It's all right here, you know," and he pointed to his head. "Quite the complainer, isn't he? Nowhere near as loyal as you. All he does is slow us down. Especially you, kiddo. When it comes to Sammy you're as blind as a bat. The kid's not cut out for this, not like you and me."

"Shut up," Dean growled, fighting the ropes to no avail.

"He just gets in the way, doesn't he?" he scowled, ignoring Dean's outburst. "Never listens to a thing I say, just gets in the way. He's always in the way." He took a final look at Dean and flashed him a smile. "Was in the way," he muttered and turned to leave.

"NO!" Dean screamed, cursed, threatened his life, begged him to listen, but could do nothing but struggle as he disappeared behind his back and left the basement with a thud of the door. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even lift his head. Sam was thirteen. Almost fourteen, he corrected himself, wanting to laugh and cry all at once. He choked back a sob. Sammy didn't deserve to die. He was only thirteen. He blinked desperately at the tears that formed in his eyes. He had to focus, even if he didn't know why. What point was there? He glared at the wall ahead of him as he worked at the ropes. He needed to focus. Why should he focus when there was no point to getting out in the first place? Maybe he needed a distraction. Sam's unmoving form locked itself into his mind. He needed to focus, even if he didn't know why.

Twenty minutes later and Dean toppled forward, out of breath and free of his bonds. Damned be the day he ever saw another line of rope. He rested his shaking arms on either side of his head, fighting the incessant pain in his wrists and shoulders, and heaved himself to his knees. He stared at his hands, bleeding at the knuckles, nails, and wrists. The inside of his palms were completely raw and he didn't care. Where was his gun? He stood on quaky legs, stumbled once, twice, and had a solid footing. Without realizing it, he had made his way out of the basement and into the rotted excuse for a house. It was still dark out, steely black sky making its way through cracks in the boarded up windows. A blinking streetlight illuminated the home just enough to make a sketchy impression of the interior. He felt the sole of his shoe slide a little and peered beneath his feet. Saliva was building in his mouth before he could control it as he forced a fist to his mouth to prevent the bile from rising in his throat. He was standing in skin.

A quiet moan disturbed his losing battle to control his gag reflexes. Dean's eyes shifted from the mass of skin to the boarded windows. He let them travel around the room, adjusting to the darkness. Broken chairs, a moth eaten sofa, and countless stains of he didn't want to know what filled the tiny expanse of living space, and in the corner, slumped against the wall, was his barely conscious father.

---

last word: chapter three is nearly done and should be up around a week from now, maybe a little after. I'm quite busy lately but will definitely make time for this story. reviews always appreciated.
ps: the altercations between John and Sam cannot be labeled abuse, because it is not. Sam just knows how to hit where it HURTS. has anyone noticed that? its like hes begging to be slugged without knowing it. so no, John is not a total cow who doesnt care about his kids in this, he just gets worked up, as does Sam(who acts a little too old with his mouth for his own good sometimes), from time to time.
LISTEN TO ME: thanks for doing so :)