Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of windchimes is what awoke him.
He would’ve just gone back to bed. The gentle dinging melody of windchimes wasn’t anything that would cause anyone of sound mind to think twice, so perhaps he wasn’t of sound mind when he rose from his sheets, grasping his dry hands around the grip of a metal bat propped in the corner.

His roommates were gone for the weekend- said something or other about road trips and naked women. He for one couldn’t imagine wasting his time on such things. He had a paper do. Somehow he had to find something worth writing his thesis in investigative journalism on. Honestly, he didn’t care too much for journalism. If he had it his way he would’ve been an author. But fiction doesn’t pay the bills, and that’s what mattered. All he needed was money to be happy.

The floorboards squeaked as they bent slightly under his weight, he was a tall man, and if there were something in his dorm to be concerned about it would be more likely for the intruder to be worried about him.

Pacing his way to the glass doors of his balcony he stopped, looked around for a moment, and turned back to go to his room. That is until he felt warm breath on the back of his neck.

White-knuckling the grip of the bat, he spun around at breakneck speed with the intention to do just that to whoever stood behind him. With eyes clenched tight, he brought the bat down with a loud clattering thud.

“Ouch! Hey, man chill out!” a scratchy, but high-pitched voice called out. He opened his eyes and before he stood a scrappy-looking young man with tousled strawberry-blonde hair and a two-sizes-too-big leather jacket, that only was holding onto his small frame by the will of god and way too many layered shirts. It was probably the damn shirts that protected him from getting his arm broken.

“Dean??!” he hissed, bat still tightly gripped in hand.

“Sammy??!” Dean jokingly mimicked back in a way that was far too light-hearted for the setting.

Sam stared at him with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing here? And why didn't you just knock or ring the bell like a normal person?!!”

The scrappy man smirked and gestured to the windchimes perched on the balcony, “I did ring!”

“The doorbell, you ass-hat!” he threw the bat down in frustration.

Dean’s casual attitude didn't waver, even while he strode into the kitchen and helped himself to an apple. “I just wanted to see if your senses were still sharp.” He teased, shining the apple on one of his many shirts.

No matter how badly he wanted to be angry at this dipshit, he could help but feel a slight wave of happiness to see him.

“What are you doing here? And don’t tell me it was for the damn apple.”

“Whatttt? Can’t a big brother stop by to see his favorite brother every now and then?

“Dean. I’m your only brother”

“So?” he replied through a mouthful of apple.

Sam groaned that familiar groan only someone with siblings could understand. Still, through the annoyance at his brother’s impromptu visit, he couldn’t help but feel unnerved by his presence.

After all, it had been nearly a year and a half since they last spoke. Why now? Did something happen? Did someone die? Was he on the lamb from the cops again? He swallowed back his nerves and asked point blank: “What happened?”

For the first time in his intrusion, Dean’s clownish attitude dropped, as he rocked on his feet.

“Dad went on a hunting trip. And he’s not been home in a while.”

The mention of his father made his stomach knot up. “So what?”

Dean’s eyes glistened with an emotion Sam couldn’t place, but he knew it couldn’t be good.”

“Come on Sam. It’s been a month. No contact. Maybe something went wrong and-”

“And what, Dean? He finally got caught by the fucking cops? I hope so.”

Once again Dean's eyes flashed, this time the emotion was more apparent, frustration, but more than that- fear.

“Sammy-”

“Sam.”

“....I know what you think dad is, but you’ve got it all wrong, he’s-”

“What Dean? A Monster hunter? No. He’s a fucking serial killer. I know you want to believe you’re doing the right thing helping him and all, but Dean, there’s no such thing as monsters. Dad’s a sick bastard and I’m not gonna let him take me down with him. And neither should you.”

Dean stood there quietly. What could he say? After all, he didn’t exactly have proof. His dad was always thorough not to leave evidence or take trophies from a hunt.

“Sam, please. I know you guys didn’t see eye to eye, but I need to know he’s okay. Please come with me, at least for a week. And after that, I won't contact you again if that’s what you want.”

He didn’t want to see that bastard again. Not after the neglect, the long days spent in musty motel rooms alone with Dean, who was basically the only parent he knew. His dad was hardly ever around and when he was he was a dick. He’d always disappear for days, sometimes weeks on “hunting trips” Sam didn’t think much of it. He thought that maybe that’s what his dad did for work. Maybe he was a fur trader? Or he sold meat.

He hadn’t really ever thought about it. It’d been his dad's job for as long as he could remember. And even though the constant moving and shitty motels were far from steller, it was all he ever knew. It was his normal.

The first time he ever really thought about his dad’s work was after the first time his dad had taken Dean on a hunt on his 13th birthday. Dean had always known more about his dad’s work than him, even getting to learn to use a gun when he was only five.

The hunt must’ve gone wrong. When they came back their father's arm was wrapped in bloody gauze and in a sling, while Dean had a nasty black eye and split lip. Both were soaked in blood.

No one spoke of what happened, but after that, their dad wouldn’t look Dean in the eyes. And Dean wasn’t ever quite the same. He continued to go on hunts with their dad, and each time they would come back bruised battered, and bloody.

As he grew up, Sam’s disdain for his father grew. He demanded so much perfection but wasn’t ever around. And with the growth of this anger came doubts. Sam was a smart boy. And no amount of half-assed excuses couldn’t explain all the blood, quick moves, mysterious income, and the shell-shocked look in Dean’s young eyes every time he came home.

It didn’t take long for Sam to put the pieces together, His dad was a serial killer. There was no other explanation. And he had roped Dean into too. His only real family.

He had to make that bastard pay. “One day I’ll get that motherfucker locked up for good.”, he would think to himself as he studied tirelessly.

This was his chance. If he found that son of a bitch he could turn him in all by himself. He could write a book about it, go on talk shows, and become rich and famous.

“Fine. I’ll help you find him.”

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen when they left. Sam didn't have much in the way of personal belongings. He much like the rest of his family, was so used to the constant shuffle of moving from town to town that he found material things to be more of an annoyance than anything.

He hated that.

He hated all of the things that his childhood shaped in him. How he couldn’t sleep on a mattress that wasn’t stiff and lumpy, how food always tasted better when it was made of whatever scraps were around, and he hated most of all that here, in his dad’s shitty old Chevy he felt the most at home.
Sam shifted on the old leather seats impatiently. “So do we have any idea where we’re even going?”

Dean let out a breath and thought for a moment. “He didn’t tell me where the hunt was, but he did leave me his journal.”

Sam furrowed his brow, “Wait, he left it? Why?”

“That’s what’s been bugging me about this, he’s disappeared before, but he never leaves that thing anywhere, not even with me.” Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road. He always seemed off when their dad wasn’t around. Like his anchor got cut loose and he was trying not to drift off.

“So what’s the plan? Do you think he left it as a clue to where he went? And why?”

“I’m not sure. Knowing him though, that’s probably it. Whatever case he’s working on, it’s a big one.”

Sam didn’t reply but it was clear what he was thinking. He had never believed in monsters or the paranormal. He was always so rational, and the fact that Dean had so meticulously kept Sam away from hunts when he was young didn’t help with his skepticism.

“Sammy,”

“Sam.” Sam corrected, frustration rising in his stomach.

“...Sam, I know you think I’m nuts for believing in all this, but you’ve gotta understand, I’ve seen things. Things I can’t explain. There are things out there that aren’t… human.”

Dean paused a moment, searching for the words that would get through Sam’s impenetrable walls of skepticism. The only sounds were the grumble of the old car’s engine and the radio singing out faintly “Don’t fear the reaper”.

“Sam. I know dad wasn’t always… there, but he does love us. And that’s why he does what he does, to make the world a better place for us.”

The frustration and anger bubbled higher in Sam as he turned around to face Dean. “Love?! You think that’s why he does all this? Dean. If he loved us he would’ve actually been a dad instead of doing whatever crusade he’s pulling.”

Sam had always had a short temper. He had taken that after his father. That and his stubbornness. But maybe he got that from his mom too. He wouldn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her. Their dad would always be more frightening than normal if anyone tried to ask about her.

“Sam, he does love us, he just shows it differently.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Let me see that stupid journal,” He said, reaching to the visor on the driver's side, pulling a worn leatherbound book from it.

It was old, that was for sure. From the looks of it, it was nearly as old as he was, which granted, wasn’t all that long in the grand scheme of things, but even then nineteen years was still a long time to hold onto something.

The binding was cracked and the cover bowed out from years of being opened and read through with extreme vigor. On the first page scrawled in all too familiar handwriting was his father’s name: John Winchester.

Just the sight of his father’s name was enough to cause Sam to recoil with a sneer, which his brother noticed but didn’t have the energy to address, knowing that when it came to their dad, talking to Sam was like talking to a wall.

Sam thumbed through the pages, skimming handwritten passages on a number of strange creatures, with step-by-step extermination tips for each. It was… intricate. Sam had to admit that, but it didn’t really mean anything.

His dad was a fucked up man. Maybe this was some kind of trophy for him? A manifesto? It didn’t matter, this would be a perfect source for the book Sam would write upon catching his father.

He could see the headlines now: “Son of the Rapture Ripper single-handedly brings down his father’s nineteen-year-old reign of terror on the United States”. It was the perfect payback for all those shitty years together.

The only issue was Dean… after all, he was an accomplice, but he was so young when he started. Maybe Sam could argue that he was mentally incompetent? It didn’t matter though, Sam knew that if he could capitalize on this enough he’d be rich and he could buy Dean’s way out of prison if need be.

As he flipped through the beaten old book, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to scribbled notes in the margins of the pages. Scattered throughout were notes, mostly relating to whatever “creature” the page was on, but every now and then he’d stumble on little messages, almost like diary entries.

“September 13, 2005. Today at target practice Dean hit every can. He’s a chip off the old block.”

“August 17, 2007, Happy anniversary, Mary.”

“December 25, 2020. Sam’s gotten it in his head that school is more important than family. I expected better from my own boy.”
He felt his fists tighten around the soft binding. That son of a bitch.

He harshly flipped the page. Why is it that he got punished and labeled the family's disappointment for doing the things every parent wants their kids to do? He got straight A’s, even though he was changing schools constantly, he didn’t drink, smoke, or even go to parties. He was perfect. But not in the right ways.

John always wanted a macho son, who would shoot guns, drink hard liquor, and sleep with tons of women, and that’s why Dean was such an obnoxious bastard all of the time because he was the perfect son for John. Even then, it didn’t ever seem to be enough. Maybe their dad could see through Dean’s shity performance of masculinity? Or maybe he simply couldn’t love. That seemed like the most likely reason to Sam.

Sam continued reading through the journal, not really paying much attention to what he was consuming, that is until he happened to cast his eyes down to the bottom corner of one of the pages. It was labeled “page 5”, which wouldn’t have been strange if it had not been for the fact that said page was at the center of the book.

He flipped to the next page, that one being labeled page 24. Which once again, was not true. As he checked the numbers on each page, he found that all were labeled wrong or not labeled at all.

“Hey Dean, did dad’s journal fall apart or something once?”

“Uhh, no, dad took better care of that thing than us”, he was joking but of course, this was heartbreakingly true. “Why’d you ask?”

“All the pages are out of order or something, they’re not numbered in order.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, “Dad never numbered the pages, he said it was a waste of time since he was always sticking loose pages in there anyway.”

“Do you think he did it on purpose?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Here, check it out college boy,” Dean said as he pulled a notepad and pen from the glove box and tossed them into Sam’s lap.

It took the rest of the drive to their motel for Sam to finally crack the code hidden throughout the pages of their dad’s journal, but it was worth it.

“Coordinates?” Dean pondered at Sam’s discovery.

“Yeah, to some spot in the Appalachian mountains. Where the hell is he sending us?”

“He’s probably got a base there. He’s got a few across the country. Keeps supplies and junk there.” Dean responded, lacing up his beaten workboots. It had only been a year and a half since he had last seen him, but Dean almost looked, older to Sam. His physical appearance hadn’t changed much, he still had the pristine attractiveness of any other twenty-three-year-old, but it was something in how he acted, in how he held himself. Exhaustion.

How long had he been looking before he went to get Sam? When was the last time he slept?

“Want me to drive?” Sam enquired, imagining Dean falling asleep at the wheel sending them careening down a cliffside.

Dean let out a forced chuckle, “Yeah sure, if you give me fifty bucks.” he said with that familiar smugness of an older brother. Sam looked at him blankly, groaned, and reached for his wallet, handing his brother a wad of cash. Normally he would just tell Dean to fuck off, but he didn’t really trust Dean’s driving skills all that well, and he didn’t feel like bickering with the hard-headed bastard at seven in the morning.

“I’m just screwing with you,” He teased, shoving Sam’s money aside. “You can drive. If you scratch it you’re dead though.” he laughed as he strode out of the motel room.

That was weird, Sam thought as he looked down at his hands, the car keys nestled in the refused money. Dean never let him drive, says some shit about eldest privilege, or whatever. He must’ve really been tired.

The drive was long and awkward, mostly filled with uncomfortable silence and the scuffling sounds of Dean clutching onto the “oh shit” handle whenever Sam got a little close to the edge of the winding Smokey Mountian roads or took a curve a little bit too quickly.

Eventually, they reached their destination, a little spot out of the middle of nowhere, without an ounce of cell service for miles, much to Sam’s dismay. They could only drive the car so far before the road ended so they found themselves trekking through the rough underbrush on foot.
Sam hadn’t ever been the woodsy type, so he found himself stumbling over roots and rocks constantly, which was visibly wearing on his temper.

“How much further?!” he huffed, exasperated. He was beginning to get sweaty and felt a number of mosquito bites rising on his skin.

Dean paused and glanced down at his phone. “Not sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, we have no service out here, I can’t exactly pull up google maps.” He said frankly, too casually.

Sam felt the anger bubbling again but this time managed to reign it in, with a deep breath. “So what? We’re lost?”
“Not at all,” Dean laughed, as he turned around and kept walking, “They don’t call me bloodhound for nothing!”

“Literally no one calls you that.”

While it was true that no one called him that, what was true was his tracking skills were sharp as a jackknife. Within the next five minutes, Dean managed to find what their dad had been leading them to. It was an old cabin, well, maybe cabin wasn’t the right word. It was small, with no windows, and a single door sealed shut with a hefty padlock.

Sam thought that maybe the padlock would piss Dean off, or at least discourage him, but when he set his eyes on it they lit up with excitement.

“Fuck yeah! Steel locks, that shit’s nice as hell, I’ve been wanting to try picking a lock that’s actually tough.”

Even though he raised him, Sam never could quite understand how his older brother’s mind worked, the same guy who always called him a nerd for liking school was the same guy who acted like a kid on Christmas morning when he found a new lock to pick or engine to fix. If you asked him, Dean was the real nerd of the two.

“Got it!” Dean beamed, the lock now free from the door.

“I don’t like how good you are at that.”

Dean only chuckle as he pulled open the door to the shack and pushed his way inside.

“Jackpot!” he beamed.

Sam ducked his head through the small doorframe and peered inside the little room only lit by his brother’s phone’s flashlight.
The walls were adorned with news clippings, pins, and photographs. Almost all relate back to one thing, dead women.

Were these their dad’s victims? Sam’s mind raced as he looked closer at the news clippings, all of the women had died across the span of a hundred years, and most were suicide cases, they couldn’t have been victims of their dad, but then why were their pictures and stories here? And why send the two of them here?

Sam hadn’t even opened his mouth to ask all the questions when Dean while gazing up at the wall calmly said, “La Llorona, The Running Lady, the weeping woman, or the woman in white.”

“What?”

“It’s a case. He sent us on a case.” Dean said, his demeanor changing, shifting into a mechanical form.

“Wait wait wait,” Sam said grabbing Dean by the shoulder, “I thought this was gonna lead us to him, not to a ‘case’. This isn't what I signed up for.”

Dean only looked at him with a flat expression before finally saying, “He has his reasons. I’m sure this will lead to him.”

“Dean! Why do you keep vouching for him? He’s just making us run his fucked up errands! I shouldn’t have wasted my time. I’m going home.”

“Sam wait!” Dean called, grabbing Sam’s wrist, “You said a week. We still have five days! Please.” He had a desperate pleading look in his eyes. What was he so afraid of?

He wished he could say he stuck with Dean out of brotherly love and or loyalty, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He wanted John to burn, and he wanted fame and money. He never claimed to be a good person, but at least he knew what he was.
“Fine. Five days. Where are we headed this time?”

Dean smiled which admittedly made Sam’s stomach knot with guilt, “Not too far, just a few hours from here.”

“Alright, let’s head out then.”