Come as You Are
Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Chapter Three
Sam seethes.
It's so unfair, being treated this way. He had gotten sick of being stuck behind salt lines way back when he was little and Dad was the one disappearing into the night, taking Dean with him and leaving Sam to wait and fret and conjure up an imaginary friend named Sully to help him through the loneliness.
Dean running off to hunt with Castiel only makes it worse. At least when it was Dad Sam could pretend that, given the chance, Dean would choose to stay at the motel and hang out with him. And Sam knew how much Dean craved Dad's approval, how badly Dean wanted to impress their father all the freaking time, so when Dean would return, muddy and sweaty and flushed with the thrill of a successful hunt, radiating pride because Dad had bestowed some rare drop of praise, Sam always managed, eventually, to forgive his brother for ditching him.
But Castiel isn't Dad. Castiel isn't even family. And here Dean is, choosing him over Sam. Okay, fine, looking at it objectively, an Angel of the Lord, with super-strength and magical healing powers would probably be a more useful hunting partner than a thirteen year old, even if that thirteen year old can hit a target nine times out of ten and knows at least three different forms of hand-to-hand combat. And all right, objectively, tempting fate by dangling a teenager in front of a deranged spirit maybe shouldn't be Plan A. Had it been Dad's suggestion, Sam would probably be complaining that normal teenagers get to do their homework rather than stay out all night playing bait to monsters.
Whatever. Sam is in no mood to look at things objectively.
He sulks in the bathroom until Dean and Cas head out for the hunt (only after Dean yells through the door until Sam gives up the silent treatment and grudgingly promises not to leave the motel and yes, he'll call immediately if he needs anything and of course he won't mess up the salt lines, he isn't stupid) and then he stomps around the empty motel room, hating dumb old Dean and dumb weird Cas, and wishing that it was the year 1996, back when he was actually supposed to be thirteen and Dean was seventeen and Castiel wasn't there, getting in the way.
Sam holds on to the anger for as long as he can but eventually it morphs into sadness and he crawls into his bed, feeling miserable and alone.
XXX
Sam tosses and turns under the scratchy sheets. He'd forgotten how terrible motel bedding could be, spoiled by the last few months of sleeping in the bunker, where the sheets are soft and clean and the mattress completely free of strange lumps and wayward springs. He starts to worry as the hours crawl on, a familiar knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
This has always been the worst part of hunting; not the long hours of research or the endless training or the creepy monsters hiding in the dark. It's the waiting, the not knowing, that gnaws at him. The wondering. What's happening? Is Dean okay? Sam even worries about Castiel, though he's not sure he needs to. What's a ghost going to do to an angel? In fact, what's a ghost going to do to Dean with an angel around? There's probably no reason to worry at all.
Sam tells himself this over and over again, but the tight feeling in his stomach doesn't loosen until finally he hears the throaty grumble of the Impala pulling up outside. He can't help but feel smug when Dean stomps in, tired and grumpy and obviously unsuccessful.
"Maybe she would have shown if I'd been there," Sam says into the darkness, as the shape of his brother drops down onto the bed nearest the door and starts tugging off his boots.
"Maybe you should shut up."
"Where's Cas?" Sam asks.
"Keeping an eye on the school." A boot thuds to the floor. "I don't think anything's going to happen but, I don't know if you've noticed, the dude doesn't sleep. And neither do I when he's sitting quietly in the dark like a damn weirdo."
A second boot joins the first and Dean shucks off his shirt.
"Are you going back tomorrow?"
"Guess so." Dean kicks off his jeans and slides into bed.
Sam chews on his lip. Should he push it? Probably not. He should just leave it alone.
"Tomorrow isn't a school night," Sam pushes. He can't help himself.
"Tonight is so go the hell to sleep." Dean tugs the blankets up over his head.
"I was waiting up for you," Sam says, because he still knows exactly how to play his big brother. He doesn't even need to lie; if Dean's out hunting, Sam's up worrying, and that's just a fact.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Dean moans, because Dean still knows that Sam still knows exactly how to play his big brother. He re-emerges from beneath the blankets. "Go to sleep and I'll think about it."
"Really?" Sam props himself up on an elbow to squint suspiciously at the dark lump that is Dean. "You're not just saying that to shut me up?"
"Does anything shut you up?" Dean wonders. "Thirty-three years and I'm still looking."
"Jerk." Sam tosses one of his lumpy motel pillows at his brother. "Promise?
Snatching the pillow from the air, Dean tosses it back in one smooth motion. Sam has to react quickly to avoid being hit in the face.
"Yes, bitch, I'll actually think about it. I promise, okay? Now go the hell to sleep."
Satisfied, Sam lies back down. He wriggles himself into a comfortable position and does as he's told.
XXX
School the next day is an exercise in patience. Sam swings between worrying that Dean will decide against bringing him along and being certain that his brother is regretting not just taking him last night. Dean let him pick breakfast, probably because he's feeling guilty, and on the way to school he mentioned seeing the spot under the bleachers Sam had told him about, where there's a slight depression, like maybe something buried there had rotted and displaced the earth, and stated generously that it seemed like it would be a good place to dig. Surely that implies that Sam will be there for the digging. Just in case, Sam spends most of the day composing outraged arguments in his head and being annoyed at Castiel, because for some reason he feels like it will be the angel's fault if Dean leaves Sam behind.
Any time left over is spent thinking about actually hunting for the first time in months. For the first time with his new old brother. His stomach is full of fluttering butterflies, a quiver of nerves warring with excitement. He wants to put his new skills to use in the field and prove to Dean that he can be a good hunting partner. And, maybe even more than he wants to prove himself, he wants to feel normal. As weird as it would be for most people, as much as he used to whine and butt heads with Dad over it, it turns out that hunting is his normal. There aren't many familiar things left in his world anymore but one thing Sam knows is monsters. Maybe if he can finally get back to fighting them he won't feel so out of place all the time. Maybe he can stop feeling like he doesn't really belong here.
Castiel is in the passenger seat again when Dean picks Sam up after school. Sam excuses himself from a mostly one-sided conversation with Yvonne, who has moved on from death omens to celestial beings, wondering aloud, at length, about whether Allison Reed could actually be an angel sent to collect souls and bring them to Heaven. Sam does a lot of nodding and internal eye-rolling. Dead girls don't turn into angels and angels don't collect souls, reapers do. Of course, Sam can't say this without sounding both rude and like a lunatic so it's a relief to escape the conversation and slide into the backseat of the Impala, even if the first thing Dean says is "How's your girlfriend?" with an infuriating grin.
"Wondering how your boyfriend is," Sam shoots back, maybe a little harsher than he should considering he's supposed to be buttering his brother up to make sure he ends up on the hunt tonight. It does have the desired effect of getting Dean to shut up, but Castiel turns to address him instead.
"Did your girlfriend have any new information?" the angel asks, seeming earnestly oblivious to the joke.
"She's not my girlfriend!" Sam snaps, exasperated.
"Oh," Castiel says, but he keeps staring until Sam breaks down and answers the question anyway, just to end the increasingly unbearable discomfort.
"She doesn't know anything. She was telling me that she thinks Allison Reed could be an angel."
"A human cannot become an angel," Castiel says gravely, like Sam is a moron and needs to be told this.
"I know that." Sam tries not to sound as annoyed as he feels.
Castiel sits back in his seat, staring thoughtfully out of the windscreen. "I suppose Allison Reed could have been taken as a vessel," he muses. "Though I cannot sense the presence of any of my siblings."
Sam blinks in surprise, intrigued in spite of his bad mood. He sits up straighter, leaning forward. "Wait, angels take vessels?" he blurts out. "Like demons? Angels possess people?"
Castiel is shaking his head. "No, not like demons. An angel needs permission in order to take a vessel. There is a choice."
Sam is dumbfounded. For some reason he had always assumed that Castiel's form was some sort of... celestial illusion.
"Who would choose that?" he asks, before it occurs to him that this is probably another one of those questions that might be considered rude and maybe not something he should be asking an Angel of the Lord. Cas looks uncomfortable, like when Sam asked him whether angel's could lie, and Dean clears his throat loudly.
"It's a spirit," he announces briskly. "Not an angel. And seeing as the local rumour mill agrees that the girl ended up under the bleachers, along with the fact that that's where people keep seeing her spooky ass, I say we try digging there tonight. What do you think, Sammy? You up for burning some bones?"
Sam is certain that his brother wants to steer the conversation far away from angels and their vessels, which makes Sam pause just a moment to wonder what the story is behind Castiel and his person-suit, but he's desperate enough to get out and prove himself on a hunt that he's willing to let the subject drop. He doesn't even hit Dean up about the infantile nickname, which Castiel tells him Dean had used frequently with the old Sam, too. Sam isn't sure if he finds this exasperating or endearing. Either way, he lets it slide and nods eagerly.
"Definitely."
"Good, 'cause" - Dean heaves an exaggerated sigh - "my back's acting up. You might need to do most of the digging."
"Liar!" Sam exclaims. Dean never admits weakness, ever, unless he's trying to get out of something. "There's nothing wrong with your back!"
"Maybe not," Dean admits. "But you have all that youthful energy."
The bickering continues to the motel, where it almost turns serious when Dean suggests that Sam take a nap.
"I'm not calling you a baby!" Dean says hurriedly, in response to whatever withering look Sam must have on his face. "Dude, I love naps. Naps are where it's at. I napped while you were at school. So, like, pretty please will you rest for a couple hours? I'll wake you for dinner, we'll eat, and we'll be all set to take down Casper."
Grudgingly, Sam backs down, even though he's sure that the anticipation will make falling asleep impossible. He must need the rest for than he realised though; he's surprised when he lies down and closes his eyes, only to open them what feels like mere moments later to the smell of takeaways and a freshly showered brother. He's starving but too wound up to swallow more than two bites of the burger Dean hands him. He chews robotically on some fries and tries not to look as nervous as he feels.
Finally, Dean finishes double-checking all the weapons and, after reminding Sam of a bunch of stupidly obvious things, like 'if anything happens to your shotgun, remember that your knife is made of iron' and 'if things get out of hand, make a salt circle and get in it' they pile into the Impala. Sam calls shotgun and tries not to look smug as he slides into the front seat while Castiel gets in the back. Dean offers up a few more helpful tips on the drive, all of which boil down to 'if you get yourself killed, you're grounded until the end of time', which leads Sam to argue that Dean is not Dad and therefore not allowed to ground him, and they end up reaching their destination before Sam has a chance to work up any serious anxiety over what's to come. Before he knows it, they're loaded up with weapons and shovels, salt and lighter fluid, and they're trudging across the football field, under the thin light of a crescent moon, with wary ears and watchful eyes.
Adrenaline hums through Sam's veins, keeping him alert and focused. Everything seems a little sharper, a little brighter, when your life is on the line. When your brother's life is on the line. Things you don't usually notice become obnoxiously loud, like the swish of clothes and the thud of boots against earth. Like the sound of your own breathing or the beat of your heart in your chest.
Like the digital click of a cellphone camera.
Flash-light beams dart towards the noise, shotguns rise like the noses of dogs scenting prey, and a small shape stumbles out from behind the bleachers, arms raised and eyes squinting against the sudden brightness.
"Yvonne?"
"Sam? Oh my God, you scared me! I thought you were Allison Reed!"
There's a rush of awkward fumbling as shovels and shotguns are secreted behind backs. Sam presses his weapon into Dean's hands, disappointment and irritation prickling his spine. He understands immediately that Yvonne's presence here means that he has just been demoted to babysitter.
Sam moves forward to close the gap between them before Yvonne gets close enough to notice their strange assortment of equipment. He hopes she doesn't catch a whiff of lighter fluid.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, working very hard to sound curious rather than annoyed. "It's almost midnight."
"I snuck out!" Yvonne announces happily. "I'm taking ghost photos!"
Sam keeps walking after he reaches her and Yvonne easily falls into step with him, showing off a series of photos of the empty field. They're all dark and shadowy, lit only by the slender moon and a weak camera flash, but Yvonne doesn't seem at all bothered. She points out a bit of fuzz that Sam is sure is actually the blur of a moth but he feigns interest anyway, steadily steering the girl away from Dean and Cas and the spot picked out as the most probable grave site. He doubts Yvonne would be as thrilled to meet a real ghost as she thinks. It's difficult not to roll his eyes. Civilians.
Sam swallows a sigh. Babysitting duty is the worst. He'd rather be digging, working up a sweat and blistering his palms. He'd rather be watching Dean's six, keeping him safe. So much for all those glorious daydreams of doing something badass and heroic and somehow managing to seriously impress his seriously impressive older brother. Instead, Sam sits in the empty parking lot and feels the minutes crawling by, impossibly slow. Yvonne chatters non-stop, of course, scrolling through her photos and inspecting each one with a satisfied smile, as if her blurry pictures of an empty field are irrefutable proof of the paranormal. Sam studies them, too, just in case Yvonne actually has managed to capture a shot of the spirit, and strains his ears for any sound of trouble in the distance. He hasn't heard any shotgun blasts. That's probably good.
"What are you doing here?" Yvonne finally gets around to asking, frowning slightly as she looks over her last photo. Sam is relieved to see that the camera mostly missed them; only half of Dean is caught in the flash, a hint of a shovel at his side, and not a shotgun in sight.
"Looking for ghosts." Sam decides on honesty because exactly how else is he supposed to explain turning up at the school in the middle of the night? "I told my brother about Allison and he wanted to come check things out."
Yvonne's eyes light up, glinting brightly in the glow of her phone screen. "Does he like ghost stories, too? Should we go find him? I could tell him about my death omen idea, or-"
She's already on her feet. Sam jumps up with a surge of panic, picturing Yvonne walking obliviously into the middle of a salt and burn.
"No, wait!" Sam snatches her wrist.
"Why?" Yvonne asks. She frowns down at his hand, her confusion quickly headed towards suspicion, and Sam needs to do something to distract her, fast, and there's no time to think so he does the first thing that pops into his head – closes the space between them and presses his lips to Yvonne's.
Yvonne stiffens in surprise. For a moment, Sam is sure she's going to push him away and slap him across the face. This is the kind of move Dean gets away with, not him. But then...
Then Yvonne sort of melts against him, all warm and soft and returning the kiss with eager enthusiasm. She smells nice, like fruity shampoo and freshly washed clothes, and she tastes nice, like bubblegum, and it's... nice. Really nice. Like, really really nice. Sam forgets that he's distracting her from the grave-digging going on beneath the bleachers. All he's thinking about are his hands in her hair and her hands on his back and her body pressing against his and suddenly Sam completely understands why Dean used to ditch him all the time to go make out with his girlfriend of the week. This is way better than re-runs on fuzzy motel televisions, fighting his brother for control of the remote, and it's definitely better than breaking his back and blistering his hands digging up a smelly old corpse. Maybe he isn't actually that mad about Yvonne interrupting the hunt.
Someone clears their throat.
Sam and Yvonne spring apart, quickly re-adjusting clothes and smoothing rumpled hair, and Sam has already begun to die inside from the embarrassment of being caught wrapped around a girl – the girl he's been insisting is not his girlfriend – by his brother and an angel, which adds a whole other level of weirdness to the experience, like he's sinning in front of a priest or something, when he realises that the sound came from the direction of the road, not the field that Dean and Cas would have had to cross.
Yvonne gasps. "It's her!"
The temperature hasn't dropped and the figure before them isn't transparent but Yvonne is right. It is Allison Reed.
And she isn't alone.
To Be Continued...
A/N: Thanks everyone for the kudos and comments! I love hearing what you think!