Chapter Text
SAM
Friday. 4:00 PM.
Sam admired the neat stack of textbooks and binders he had stored in the corner of his modest, new room between the light blue walls and chipped hickory dresser. To other kids, enjoying school was a bit peculiar, but to the Winchester household, it was unheard of, so Sam would wait for his father to leave for the weekend before indulging in his schoolwork. He had received the books on Monday, his first day of school at Patterson High, the only high school in the underpopulated Alabama county.
Sam was excited ever since Saturday morning when they had arrived at the little one-story house that a hunter was allowing them to rent out and his father had announced the family would be staying in town for “a while”. Sam was unsure what constituted “a while” - it was the only time John had ever used the word to describe the duration of their visit anywhere, but he was ecstatic at the prospect. Sam even had his own room for the first time since he was a baby, which he was pretty sure Dean didn’t mind either.
Although Sam found himself unusually alone recently since Dean had received his GED and transitioned to full-time hunting, today he glowed at the prospect of enjoying his studies in his new house without John over his shoulder to reprimand him. He bounced to the kitchen where John and Dean were bustling about, preparing to leave for a hunt. The occasion was a number of children’s bodies missing in north Florida, leaving behind only paw prints and puddles of blood.
“Hey,” Dean grinned at Sam as he tossed his faded maroon backpack over his shoulder.
“Hey,” Sam returned his smile.
John sifted through his black duffel bag sitting on the kitchen table without acknowledging Sam.
“Be safe or whatever,” Sam said.
“Don’t miss me too much,” Dean replied.
Sam scoffed. “Right.”
Dean chuckled.
“Time to go,” John interrupted with no amusement in his voice.
“Bye, Dad. Bye, Dean,” Sam was careful to address John first. He was the type of man who would consider it disrespectful to be put after his inferior. He said that Sam was sensitive, but Sam thought that was hypocritical with the way he walked on eggshells around his dad.
“Get your PT* done and I’ll be checking you studied what I told you to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean flashed Sam one last wolfish grin and the pair were out the door. Sam released a deep breath and allowed the tension to seep out of him before returning to his room down the hall, grabbing his binder and biology text book from the corner, and plopping onto the bed.
*PT - physical training (Often a military term)
Friday. 8:45 PM
Sam didn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he woke and rolled onto his side, the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock displayed 8:45 PM. The sun had long since set and he had missed daylight for his run. Momentarily, he considered skipping it altogether, but, despite all logic, there was a childish, deep-seated fear instilled in him that John would automatically know, and he had enraged his dad enough in the past few weeks to last a year. It seemed that recently all he could do was screw up.
Sam threw on a sweatshirt and basketball shorts, pulled on his busted sneakers with frayed laces, and regarded himself in the mirror that hung above his dresser. He was thin and gangly and his crop of messy brown hair fell into his eyes. He pushed back his bangs and nodded seriously to himself. All he had to do was get through this run and take notes on Encyclopedia of Cryptozoology: S - V. He could do that.
Sam walked down the hall and out the front door, hopping down the three concrete steps that led up to the house. He jogged through the neighborhood and once he reached the outside road, he broke into a run. It was only a minute in that he realized he had forgotten his earbuds, but he had gone too far to turn back. He was stuck alone with his thoughts. Great.
He attempted to focus on the flash of headlights as they passed by, the sound of the cicadas in the trees, and the feeling of the crisp evening air on his face, but his mind began to drift. The past few weeks had been mayhem. His dad’s voice echoed in his head. You need to start acting like a man. Why can’t you be more like your brother?
John was furious with Sam for not taking training seriously enough. Showing an interest in anything outside of hunting always resulted in admonishment, but Sam had struck a nerve when he fell flat in combat training and then asked if he could attend an extracurricular activity. A vein had visibly popped out of John’s forehead as he tore into Sam about how he was miles behind Dean and never tried hard enough. John didn’t need to say it for Sam to know he was a failure and disappointment. I’m tired of your attitude. Dean was never like this.
Sam shook his head in an attempt to dismiss the thoughts. He sped up, listening to the whoosh of passing cars and his feet pounding on the pavement. A stitch dug into his side, begging him to stop, but he ignored the pain and continued. Maybe it could push away the dark thoughts clouding his mind. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of dirt and smog and ruminating in the bittersweet pain.
Sam’s foot caught on something — a protrusion of concrete from the decaying sidewalk. His eyes flew open to watch as he flew to the ground. He threw his hands out in front of him to cushion the fall, but his chin still hit the pavement and his head bounced back. He could feel the sting of skin scraped of his palms and the burn where his chin was dribbling blood, but neither injury compared to the electricity shooting through his ankle.
“Crap,” Sam pushed himself up, but pain flashed in his foot causing him to gasp and freeze.
Gently this time, he raised himself off the ground, taking care not to irritate the compromised ankle. He clutched to a chain-link fence bordering the sidewalk and pulled himself up without putting any pressure on his hurt left foot. He thought that maybe he had exaggerated the pain and would be able to walk on it as normal, but when he placed it on the concrete, it instantly spasmed. “Ah!” he yelped and yanked up his foot.
Another fuck up, another reason for his dad to be disappointed. It was fortunate that John wasn’t home for this, but just his luck that it happened at all. He surveyed the broken sidewalk that had tripped him. It was old, uncared for. Large fragments jutted dangerously up. If he had run when he was supposed to, he would have seen the mangled sidewalk. If he wasn’t pushing his thoughts away, he could have evaded the danger. “Stupid,” Sam cursed himself..
He looked at his surroundings. He was in a neighborhood he had never seen before and had no recollection of the turns he took to get here. Far from home and lost, he thought desperately of Dean. His brother was far away now, but even if he were home, Sam wasn’t sure he would call for help. Dean would realize what a loser he was and start to see him as the embarrassment he was.
Sam flopped onto the grass beside the sidewalk and rested his back on the fence. He decided he had earned a brief break before having to stumble home with no distractions.
Friday. 11:30 PM.
Sam was mildly surprised when he made it home in one piece. Twisted up, but nonetheless whole. It had taken him hours to stagger home alone in the dark.
He was so far behind schedule that panic was gripping his chest. John had assigned him an inordinate amount of work, most likely in an underhanded attempt to stop him from finishing his studies. Now that he was compromised physically, he would have to floor John with his research.
Sam sat on his neatly made bed with the encyclopedia and a pen pressed to paper, reading closely and taking studious notes on each creature. Research was where Sam excelled and he was glad to be able to grasp some part of hunting, but it always fell short to John who easily knew the things that Sam had to be taught. No matter what he did, he was never good enough.
The thoughts of failure began to cloud his brain and he found himself staring blankly at the page in front of him. “Ugh,” Sam groaned, shoving himself off the bed, and lurching to the bathroom. He desperately needed a shower, sick of the scent of sweat on him and the way his hair stuck to his forehead. He sat on the tile floor while he waited for the water to turn warm. After he tested the temperature on his fingers, he dragged himself into the tub. It felt childish to sit on the floor of the shower with the water raining down on his face so he decided to hoist himself up without putting any pressure on his limp foot. He stood awkwardly, holding closely to the shower bar. Once he was able to balance, he decided to test the injury. He focused on slowly placing weight on the weak ankle, but pain immediately flourished. It shot straight up his leg like a current making him cry out. But there was something strangely satisfying about the pain. It reminded him of when he was running, when his body ached and he nearly doubled over, but still continued, and the relief it had provided him.
He lifted his foot back up. This wasn’t good for the injury and the sooner it healed, the better. It was a pipe dream to hope it would heal by the time Dean and John returned, but the very least he could do was not exacerbate it.
A fascination resonated in him when he thought about the pain he had purposely caused himself and it created a knot in his stomach. He finished showering, doing his best to not slip and die, and dragged himself to his room. He had slept so long today, he couldn’t imagine that he would be able to sleep anytime soon, so he gathered one of the books his dad had ordered him to read and delved in. Still, it didn’t take long for him to start yawning and drifting off.
DEAN
Friday. 7:35 PM.
Dean was in good spirits. He had been looking forward to this trip; their travels took them all around the states, but he had an inclination towards Florida with its balmy weather and idiosyncratic citizens. Besides that, having a semi-permanent home wasn’t so bad and he could see it had cheered up Sam. It was unfortunate that the incident earlier this week had spoiled his dad’s mood, but John was so fickle nowadays that Dean didn’t let it bother him.
He chose to ignore John’s brooding in the seat beside him and instead looked out the window with an open mouth, watching the pastures of cows, sheep, and horses as they flew by.
It took an hour of silence for John to pull himself out of his self-made pool of pity. Dean swore he could put Sam to shame with his dramatics sometimes.
“You hungry, Son?”
“You bet,” Dean’s stomach growled on cue.
Dean lost track of time waiting to pass a restaurant. The road was endless, the fields were an ocean. He had grown sleepy by the time they pulled in front of a shabby diner.
Jimmy’s read a painted sign above the door, illuminated only by a lonesome, flickering light bulb.
They marched across the rickety wooden porch into a parlor much more welcoming than the outside. Gentle tunes played on a jukebox, the room was softly lit, and the scattered patrons spoke quietly amongst themselves. Two men sat on opposite ends of a bar and watched the TV perched over a wall of liquor bottles.
Dean liked the atmosphere. It was easy-going, but serious. Dean sensed that there was a line that could not be crossed here, but otherwise you were free to yourself. The perfect place to discuss murdering mythical creatures with his dad.
John sat across from Dean at a corner table. A waitress appeared despite having been nowhere in sight a moment ago, set down water and coffee, took their orders, and hurried away again.
Dean stretched his arms above his head and allowed himself a hearty yawn without bothering to cover his mouth.
“What am I going to do with your brother?” John rubbed his temples. Dean knew better than to answer. “He doesn’t seem to be getting it. I don’t know how to get through to him,” each thought came out with more venom than the last, “Doesn’t he understand what’s important? Doesn’t he ever think? He’s become a selfish teenager. I don’t even know him.”
Dean’s body tensed and he ground his teeth. “He’s just a kid. He’s not selfish,” the words came out harsher than Dean had intended. John’s eyes narrowed into slits and Dean squirmed at the words that hung in the air.
“He’s almost grown and he doesn’t think like a man. He can’t hunt for his life, doesn’t bother to think of anyone else except himself and his schoolwork.”
Dean clutched his fork. His father didn’t notice his tight muscles and white knuckles. He noticed few things for a man who thought himself a detective. It wasn’t often that Dean disagreed with his father, but hearing him talk about Sam like this made it hard to keep from passionately defending his little brother.
Dean cleared his throat. “So about this black dog,” it was their best guess as to what monster was causing these disappearances, “I was reading one of the reports and it said a victim went missing before dusk,” he carefully phrased the question as a fact. If his dad reached the conclusion on his own, then he would gladly accept it as his conception, but if he sensed that Dean was asserting he was wrong, he would dismiss the idea without a moment’s thought.
“Yes, I know. It’s possible there are different variations of the hound. Some creatures have breeds like natural animals. Certain breeds differ in ability. This one might be able to travel while there is still light out.”
Dean shifted. “What if it’s something else?”
John regarded Dean with a cold, impassive expression.
“I just mean,” Shit. Why did he say it so bluntly? “What if we don’t know something else about it?”
Anger flickered across John’s features. “We’ll talk to the families in the morning,” he said simply, indicating the end of the conversation.