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Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter One

It isn't Sam's fault.

He had done everything that he'd been told to do. John said to carry the pack – heavy with extra knives and emergency supplies – so Sam carried the pack. He'd hardly complained at all, considering it must have weighed almost as much as he did. It kept throwing off his center of gravity, threatening to send him sprawling in the undergrowth as he trudged doggedly through the uneven terrain.

When John had barked at him to quit bitching Sam had done that too. Instead, he'd entertained himself by compiling a mental list of all the things he'd like to say to his father. All the things he would say to his father, if not for the fact that he isn't dumb and he doesn't have a death wish.

And when the wood nymph had emerged from it's tree, spitting mad and moving freakishly fast on creepy stick-like legs, Sam had been ready with the silver knife John had given him when he turned sixteen, the latest in a long line of weapons as gifts that would inevitably end up in the back of John's truck. (Sam is convinced that John uses their birthdays as an excuse to add to his own weapons collection.)

Slashing at the creature, Sam had forced it back, giving John time to douse the tree in lighter fluid. He'd heard the striking of a match and the 'whoomph' of the flames and the wood nymph had screamed, shrill and seriously pissed off, but it didn't crumble to ash as the lore had promised.

The wood nymph had made use of their moment of surprise. It twisted like a falling leaf caught in a gust of wind, slipping around Sam, and Sam doesn't see it but he hears it when Dean hits a nearby tree. There's a 'crack' that sounds like a branch breaking, except branches don't yell in pain like Dean does.

It isn't Sam's fault. Later, Dean will tell him this over and over and Sam even thinks he believes it. After all, is it his fault that he isn't as fast a a supernatural stick monster juiced up on hikers?

Sam doesn't think so but John still yells at him the entire way to the hospital.

XXX

“It's really not that bad, Sammy, honest.” Dean is hiding pain behind a deliberately casual sprawl and a grin. His leg, in it's gleaming white cast, is propped up on the arm of the couch. He waves away the painkillers Sam is offering. “I've had broken bones before.”

“Don't be dumb.” Sam shakes the pill bottle insistently in front of Dean's face, getting between his brother and the TV he's trying to watch. Dean cranes his neck in an attempt to see the screen. “Dad isn't even here. You don't have to pretend you don't feel pain.”

Dean rolls his eyes but he holds out a hand. “Whatever. If it makes you feel better I'll take the pills. But if they make me loopy you don't get to laugh.”

“No promises.” Sam drops two pills into Dean's outstretched hand. “Want water?”

“Nah.” Dean tosses back the pills, swallowing them dry. “Happy?”

Sam makes a face. “Ecstatic.” He sits down on the floor, seeing as Dean is taking up the entire couch, and watches absently as a glamorous woman on the television screen slaps a second woman across the face.

Dean drops a hand onto his shoulder. “Ignore Dad. You know what he's like.”

“It's not like I let it past me on purpose,” Sam complains

“I know.”

“The lore said it would burn with the tree. Not that we needed to burn it and the tree.”

“Dude, I know.” Dean squeezes his shoulder. “You didn't do anything wrong. Dad's just... well, he's still pissed off about the bitch-fit you threw when we moved here.”

Sam spins around, looking up at his brother indignantly. “I worked hard on that project, Dean! One more week and I would have been done. It wasn't fair!”

Dean raises his hands as if fending off blows.

“Hey, I get it,” he says.

But he doesn't. Not really. Dean never wanted to go to college. He thinks Sam is just fighting with John for the hell of it. Teenage rebellion or something dumb like that. Dean has never looked at good grades and seen an escape route.

“Don't shoot the messenger, Sammy. And don't worry about Dad. He'll get over it eventually.”

XXX

Dean's prediction seems to prove correct. Gradually, John stops see-sawing between scathing lectures and glowering silence. He slides back into the demeanour Sam is more accustomed to; stern and distant, with a terminally disappointed scowl.

It takes a while. Dean's leg has almost healed by the time John seems to get over himself and forgive Sam for not being the perfect hunter John wants him to be. Dean points out that Sam isn't exactly helping matters.

“You make 'yes, sir' sound like 'fuck you'.” Dean is sitting on Sam's bed, watching Sam prepare for the night's hunt.

“I do not,” Sam denies as he rubs his hair dry with one of the rough motel towels, even though the observation makes him smile a little in smug satisfaction. He hopes John hears the insult, too.

Dean shakes his head. He swings his plastered leg up onto the bed and leans back against the headboard.

“Your smart mouth is gonna get you in trouble one day,” Dean warns.

Sam wonders if Dean has been sitting here waiting for him to get out of the shower just so they can have this conversation.

“What's Dad gonna do? Make me run laps? Clean weapons? Stay up all night hunting monsters when I should be studying?” Sam scoffs. “He already does all that, Dean.”

Sam tosses the damp towel aside and looks around for his sweatshirt. Dean tugs it out from beneath him – Sam makes a face – and holds it out.

“Can you just... try not to piss Dad off tonight?” Dean asks. “Please?”

Sam takes the sweatshirt. “I don't have to try. It just happens.”

“I'm being serious.” Dean sounds serious. There's a tightness to his expression, something pinched and stressed.

“So am I.” Sam pulls his sweatshirt on and starts looking for his shoes.

“I have a bad feeling about this – you and Dad, hunting without me.” Dean glares down at his cast, somewhat battered now and covered in the girly hearts and flowers that Sam had made a habit of drawing whenever he caught his brother sleeping, much to Dean's continued annoyance. “I should just cut this thing off.”

“No, you shouldn't. That would be stupid.”

Dean seems to actually be considering it. Sam softens. Being left behind sucks. Waiting. Worrying. Sam has had far too much experience with it. The only thing worse than being dragged out on a hunt is not being dragged out on a hunt. The hours between your family leaving and your family returning safe and alive tend to stretch into years.

Sam sits down next to Dean, bumping shoulders.

“It'll be fine,” he assures his brother. “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.”

Dean shoves him off of the bed in response.

To Be Continued...

A/N: Reviews will get to draw flowers on Dean's cast.

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

A/N: You all are awesome. Dean's cast looks so pretty!

Chapter Two

The house is creepy. Really creepy. Not all haunted houses are. A lot of them are stupidly normal. Boring beige houses with cute porches and wind chimes and kids toys in the yard. The kind of houses Sam always wanted to grow up in, minus the ghosts.

Not this house.

Sitting on the outskirts of town, where the only light is the moon and the only road is dirt, the house is barely more than a shack. The roof droops with rot and the floorboards sag and shriek beneath their feet. The shadows have an oily look to them, lurking in the corners, avoiding the flashlight beams. The EMF meter in Sam's hand stays dark and silent but there is an ominous feeling crawling up his spine. Like there's something looming over him, waiting to pounce the moment he lets down his guard.

John's hand drops onto Sam's shoulder. Sam's heart jumps into his throat.

“Look,” John says. His flashlight is pointed at something in the back room, against the far wall. Some leftover bit of furniture. A table, cluttered with some sort of mess. Probably beer bottles and cigarette butts. Someone's trash.

The air tastes like chemicals. Like spray-paint. Maybe some kids have been vandalizing the place.

Sam creeps forward, through the slumping doorway. Silently obedient, just like he promised Dean. He glances down at the EMF meter, frowning at the lack of reaction. Maybe this case is a dud.

Then the beam of Sam's flashlight lands on the jumble of items spread across the tabletop and he pulls up short.

Stalactites of wax stretch towards the floor, the stubs of melted candles standing sentry in each corner. There's a small pile of little white bones – probably cat or rabbit – and a bundle of herbs set beside a shallow brass bowl. The smell of spray-paint is stronger here, hanging heavy in the stagnant air. Sam moves his flashlight beam around the room, searching for the source.

He finds it at his feet.

The flashlight beam reveals a red circle painted on the floor in the middle of the room. It's decorated with a series of strange swirling symbols, undoubtedly magical, and Sam is standing right in the center of it.

“Actus,” John says, before Sam can step away.

The circle and the symbols glow. A feeling like warm water rushes over Sam's feet, rising up his ankles, thighs, through his stomach and chest, over his head. Panic sweeps thought aside. He can't breathe. His lungs are frozen. He is frozen. He can't breathe. Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe -

The wave recedes. It washes back down his body in reverse. Sam sucks in a desperate lungful of air and the flashlight and EMF meter drop from his startled hands before he can remember how to grip things. He staggers sideways, stumbling on suddenly unsteady legs. He almost falls but he reaches the curving line of glowing red paint and, rather than crossing it, hits an invisible wall.

The flashlight rolls away across the room and the EMF meter has skittered across the paint-line but Sam is trapped. His hands push against air that feels solid.

“Dad!” he gasps, alarmed, an automatic plea for help falling from his lips, even as his brain begins to process the sudden turn of events. John said something. Something that made the circle glow. And now Sam is trapped.

“It's okay,” John says. “There's no ghost.”

“What?” Sam's mouth is dry. They're meant to be here for a ghost. John said that this was a haunting. “What do you mean? What's happening?”

John strides across the room, over to the table – altar, Sam's brain supplies – without looking at Sam or answering his questions.

“What are you doing?” Sam demands. “Dad!”

He presses hard against the solid air, palms flattening. He's reminded, ridiculously, of mimes and their invisible boxes.

“It's okay,” John says again. He isn't surprised, Sam realizes. Not by the altar or the circle or the lack of a ghost. He isn't surprised by any of it. John knew that this was here.

John set this up.

John set Sam up.

At the altar, John scoops up the pile of bones and drops them into the bowl. They make a hollow clatter that reverberates ominously around the room.

“Wait.” Confusion morphs into fear and it bleeds into Sam's tone. Witchcraft isn't something to mess around with. It's dangerous. “Dad, wait. You don't have to do this.”

He has no idea what 'this' is. John still won't look at him. Is this a test? A lesson of some sort? John's always doing things like dropping him and Dean off in the middle of forests so they can learn to navigate, or tying their hands together so they can practice getting free. Is Sam supposed to escape the circle? He doesn't know how. Usually there's some warning before John pulls something like this, some sort of instruction on how to pull it off.

John speaks but not to Sam. His voice rings out in a deep booming timbre, speaking in a lyrical language that Sam doesn't understand.

Blood rushes in Sam's ears, a sudden roar of panic. He spins in a circle, his hands searching for a gap in the barrier, for a way out, but everywhere he touches pushes back.

The candles on the altar spring to life, flames bursting from their wicks.

“Dad!” His voice rises, high-pitched and frightened Sam's hands curl into fists and he slams them frantically against the invisible wall, as if he can beat it down. His blows make no noise. Horror rises in Sam's throat like vomit.

What if this is a punishment?

“Dad, stop! Stop! I'm sorry! Please, stop!”

He doesn't know what he's apologizing for but every strange word that drops from John's lips deepens the dread in Sam's stomach. Desperate tears spark in his eyes.

“Dad, please,” he whispers.

Somehow, John must hear him because he falters. His eyes slide sideways, to Sam, and his voice loses some of it's confident volume, the words trailing into silence. The candlelight dances across his face and with it, a flicker of uncertainty. He stares at Sam, at the glowing circle that traps him.

Then John sucks in a steadying breath and he turns away, resuming his chant with fresh determination.

Sam can't stop the tears from spilling over, hot on his cheeks and blurring his eyes. The candlelight fractures. Despair hollows out his chest. His hands press helplessly against the unseeable wall.

John adds a handful of the herbs to the bowl of bones. His chanting gets louder, faster. The small shack seems to fizz with a building charge. The air is electric, raising the hair on Sam's arms and the back of his neck. He feels like an elastic band, stretching to breaking point, ready to snap.

And then, like a strike of lightning, something silvery and snake-like erupts from one of the sigils beneath his feet. Sam screams. He tries to escape, lurching away, but there's nowhere to go. The creature twists itself around his legs, swirling up up up until it reaches his chest and splits itself in two to coil down his arms. A serpent made of smoke and chains.

Sam claws at the creature but his hands pass straight through it, tearing instead at his own skin and clothes. John reaches a crescendo, shouting the final words of his spell. The candles flare up again, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

The world turns white.

Sam shatters and scatters, wisps of him swirling away into emptiness. He's an explosion. An implosion. A star gone supernova. An atom being split. When the pieces come back together Sam finds himself on the floor, lying on his side. The circle is no longer glowing and he is no longer trapped inside of it. One of his outstretched arms crosses the line of paint. The snake-like creature is gone but Sam thinks he can still feel it's slippery weight twisting around him.

Everything is quiet, except for Sam's ragged breathing. Shudders run up and down his spine. The candles have gone out and darkness has crept back into the room.

What just happened?

“Sammy.” John picks up his flashlight and thumbs it on, shining a beam of light down on Sam.

Sam shies away, raising an arm to shield himself from the brightness. Shakily, he pushes himself up. He's stunned speechless. Thoughtless. Numb, dumb, and confused. He sits on the floor and understands nothing.

“It's okay,” John says. “It's done now.”

He steps forward. Panic has Sam scrambling backwards, hands scrabbling, heels pushing against the floorboards, in a burst of desperate uncoordinated limbs. Suddenly, he sees the man that the monsters see. Someone ruthless. Dangerous.

Suddenly, Sam is afraid of his father.

“Stop,” John says.

Sam stops.

He doesn't want to stop but his limbs all seem to turn to stone. He is frozen. A living, breathing statue.

John crosses the room and stands over Sam. He stares down at him.

“It worked.” He sounds relieved.

“What did you do?” Sam croaks, testing his voice and, thankfully, finding it unaffected.

John seems to realize that he's looming in a rather intimidating way because he crouches down, dropping to one knee at Sam's side. The closeness is worse. Sam's skin crawls, yearning to back away. He can't even turn his head, forced instead to stare into his father's face. John looks ghoulish. The downward tilt of the flashlight leaves his features lost in shadow, making his eyes appear sunken and empty. He licks his lips, choosing his words.

“Look, Sam-”

“What did you do?” Sam asks again, more forcefully.

John's face twists. Hardens. His chin rises and his chest puffs out defiantly. “What I had to. This is for your own good. I wish there was another way but, well...”

John's nostrils flare and he manages to convey his dissatisfaction with a single aggravated exhale. It's the sound he makes whenever Sam does something that John deems to be a screw up or says something that John decides counts as back-chat. He's been making the sound a lot lately, ever since Dean broke his leg.

“I know you don't understand,” John continues. “You're too young and you aren't like Dean. But what I'm doing – what we're doing – it's important. So much more important than math homework or reading assignments. You need to get your head in the game. It's time to knuckle down, start focusing on what really matters. Another mistake could get you killed. It could get Dean killed.”

Sam swallows a sour pulse of resentment. His face is still damp and, again, angry tears threaten to wet his cheeks. This is about the hunt for the wood nymph. Because the creature didn't burn like they thought it would. Because Sam wasn't good enough to stop Dean from getting hurt. Obviously, John doesn't care that it was faulty lore that messed up the hunt, not Sam.

Biting back an argument, Sam tries instead to look contrite. This must be what John wants. To scare him into apologizing. Into taking hunting more seriously. Sam can do that. Whatever it takes to get John to reverse the spell, Sam can do it.

“I'm sorry,” Sam says, tongue tripping on the words. “Dad, I'm so sorry. I'll do better. I promise.”

The hard lines in John's face soften. His spine loses some of it's rigidity and he reaches out a hand. Sam wants to duck away but he's still frozen in place. All he can do is sit completely still as John's fingers card through his hair, ruffling it affectionately.

“I know you will, kiddo,” John says, almost proudly. “I'm going to make sure of it.”

To Be Continued...

A/N: Reviews get to run their fingers through Sam's hair.

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter Three

John tells Sam to stand up.

Sam stands up.

John tells him to help clean up the altar and Sam helps to clean up the altar. Sam tells John that he can't do this and John tells Sam that it's already done. He tells Sam to go get in the truck.

Sam sits in the passenger seat, simmering. The fear he felt when the creature burst from the sigil has boiled into rage. Of course saying sorry wouldn't cut it.. He feels stupid for even thinking that that would be enough for his father. John doesn't want an apology.

John wants obedience.

John returns all the items – the brass bowl, the candle stubs, the flashlights and EMF meter – to the trunk and climbs into the drivers seat. He checks the time on his watch and, instead of starting the engine, sits behind the wheel and lays down the rules.

“You won't tell Dean about this. You won't tell anyone. No speaking about it, no writing it down, no charades. When Dean asks about this hunt, you'll act normally. You'll tell him that we found a grave out back and salted and burned the body. You'll tell him that everything went smoothly.” There's a pause, then John adds, “You'll say 'yes, sir' when I'm talking to you.”

Sam tries to press his lips together but the words spring free, oddly toneless. “Yes, sir.”

John nods, satisfied. “I know you're probably angry-”

Sam is grimly thrilled to learn that he can still bark out a derisive laugh.

A tic twitches in John's cheek. He sets his jaw and ploughs on. “I know you're angry but you'll soon learn that this is for the best. I'm not unreasonable-”

Sam scoffs, incredulous, and opens his mouth to spit out something sardonic.

“Sam, be quiet.”

Sam's mouth snaps shut. His lips press together and refuse to part. Choking on a mouthful of words that suddenly have no where to go, Sam slams his hands on the dash, enraged.

“Stop acting like a child,” John says firmly. He stares resolutely out of the windscreen, curling his hands tightly around the wheel even though they aren't moving.

Sam fumes. John sits. Both of them silent. It must be childish to squirm because Sam finds that he can't move, again. He can only sit still and wait, with mounting frustration, as minutes tick past. Eventually, John drives.

Instead of heading back to the motel, John swings by an all-night drive-through. Sam wonders how he can eat right now, after what he's just done, but John doesn't seem to be bothered. He orders them both large combo meals, in spite of Sam's silence when asked what he wants, and stops the truck again a few streets away. Sam isn't sure why until John checks his watch again. Of course. He's stretching out their absence. It can take hours to dig a grave and burn a body. If they return too fast Dean will know that the story is off.

John tears into his burger. Sam leaves the sack of food John passes him untouched in his lap.

“You should eat,” John says, nodding at it.

“I don't want it.” A suggestion is apparently not enough to trigger the spell because Sam feels no urge to comply.

“You don't eat enough,” John says, like now he wants to play the concerned parent, worried about Sam's well-being. As if he didn't just trick Sam into accompanying him to a shabby old shack in the middle of no where and put a curse on him.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Why does everything have to be a battle with you?” John shakes his head. He rubs a hand over his eyes, as if Sam not wanting to eat greasy fast food right now is unreasonable. “Just eat the damn food, Sam.”

“Yes, sir. “ Robotically, Sam's hands move to open the bag. He unwraps the burger – an unappetizing slab of mince with a wilt of lettuce and a bun soggy with sauce – and takes a bite, even as his stomach turns.

John goes back to his own burger, finishing it off in another two bites. Sam eats his slowly but he can't stop himself from eating it, no matter how hard he tries. He picks out the fries one by one, chewing and swallowing, until the bag is empty and Sam is full. Uncomfortably so. He thinks about trying to throw up – that'd teach John – but whether it goes against the order to eat or the order not to be childish, he can't get his body to listen to him.

Finally, John checks his watch and must decide that enough time has passed. He starts the engine once more but before he drives, he turns to Sam.

“I'm not unreasonable,” John insists. “This isn't even mind control. Your thoughts are still your own. You're probably thinking some pretty ugly things about me right now. That's okay. When you're older you'll understand that I did this to keep you safe.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam grits his teeth, appalled by his own verbal compliance. The meal rolls over in his stomach but stays put.

“I need you to start taking your training seriously,” John instructs him. “No more back-chat. No complaints. When it's time to move, you pack your things and we go. Trust me when I say that I know best.”

“Yes, sir.”

John is right. It isn't mind control. He can make Sam say the words but he can't force Sam to actually trust him.

John doesn't speak again until the truck has grumbled to a halt outside their motel. The neon vacancy sign flickers overhead. John grips the steering wheel, head bowed, and sucks in a breath.

“I'm sorry I had to do this, Sam,” he says.

He can't force Sam to believe him.

XXX

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you get lost last night?”

Sam peels apart gummy eyelids and blinks up at the fuzzy shape hovering above his face until he blinks it into focus.

Dean's face. It's a lot closer than usual.

His brother is lying beside him on the bed, propped up on an elbow and looking down at Sam with a puzzled look in his eyes. Dean's lip twitches upwards in amusement but confused concern stops him from forming a grin.

“Huh?” Sam asks eloquently.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You're in my bed, doofus.”

Sam looks around the room, confused and only half-conscious. To the right, his own bed sits, neatly made and untouched. The foggy grasp of sleep is still clutching at him. His thoughts are slow and there's a heavy feeling in his chest, pressing him flat against the mattress. He feels sort of like he's waking up from a long illness. His bones weigh more than they should and his skin seems bruise-soft and sensitive. Frowning, he looks back up at Dean.

What happened last night?

Memory returns with all the subtlety of a truck crashing through a wall. The glowing circle on the floor of an old house. John standing at an altar, his eyes lit up by flame. Chanting. Conjuring a serpent of smoke and chains.

Sam gasps, jack-knifing upright. Dean jerks back with a yelp, almost falling off of the bed, and scrambles to sit up, grabbing Sam's heaving shoulders.

“What the fuck, Sam? Are you okay?” His hands skate down Sam's arms, over his chest, searching for injuries in a move that's so familiar and comforting that it makes Sam want to collapse against his brother and cry.

Sam is so not okay.

He remembers floating back into the motel room last night, feeling as though he was sleepwalking. Shell-shocked and exhausted and nauseated from being force-fed fast food. John had told him to go to bed but he hadn't specified which bed so, in a fit of defiance and desperation, Sam had elected to lie down beside his brother, who was asleep on top of the covers, still fully dressed. He must have succumbed to fatigue while awaiting Sam and John's return.

The two of them never shared a bed unless they had to these days. It would be a sign to Dean that something was wrong. Sam had wanted to wake him but John had warned him as they crossed the parking lot to be careful not to disturb his brother so instead, Sam had laid there, still and silent, staring at the ceiling, until sleep had finally claimed him.

“I'm okay,” Sam says, his mouth moving without his permission.

“What happened?” Dean demands, staring at him. “Is Dad okay? Did the hunt go bad?”

Yes, Sam thinks furiously but what he hears himself say is, “No, everything went smoothly.”

“Went smoothly?” Dean makes a face. The wording sounds awkward to Sam, unnatural. Dean must hear it, too. He lets go of Sam's shoulders, leaning back to eye Sam critically “Did you and Dad get into another fight?”

“No.” Words are building up behind Sam's teeth. He desperately wants to tell Dean everything. About the altar and the circle and the snake.

“Well, what the hell, then?” Dean huffs, starting to sound frustrated now. “What did happen?”

Sam opens his mouth. He needs to let Dean know about the witchcraft. Dean will know what to do, how to convince John to reverse what he's done. John listens to Dean, sometimes. Sam just needs to get the words out.

“Nothing,” Sam says. He wants to scream. “We found a grave behind the house. We salted and burned the body.”

“Okay...” Dean says slowly. He looks at Sam with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. Confused and suspicious. Like he's not sure whether Sam is messing with him or if he's lost his mind. “So why the hell are you in my bed?”

“I...” Sam's explanation refuses to leave his tongue. He searches his brain for words that would alert Dean to his plight without disobeying John's orders but he can't find any.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Dean can't seem to decide whether he's supposed to be worried, amused or annoyed. “You sound weird.”

“I'm fine.” Sam feels like a ventriloquist's dummy. John's words tumble out of his mouth. “Everything went smoothly.”

Dean definitely looks like he's questioning Sam's sanity now. He grins, a little awkwardly, like he thinks Sam must be pulling some sort of prank that he doesn't get. “Have you turned into a robot or something? What's wrong with you?”

The bitter taste of disappointment joins the words stuck to Sam's tongue. He can't say what he needs to say. He doesn't know how to make Dean understand.

Sam flops back on the bed.

“Nothing,” his mouth says. “Nothing's wrong with me.”

To Be Continued...

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter Four

Sam can tell that Dean is watching him closely. He feels eyes on him when he isn't looking and he catches Dean staring at John with wary dubiosity.

Dean's suspicions make the air prickly and tense and Sam is thrilled because, despite his inability to tell Dean anything, his brother isn't dumb and has obviously figured out for himself that something isn't right. He keeps placing himself purposefully between Sam and John, like he's preparing for an inevitable show down, snapping to attention if either of them moves too fast. He's alert, ready, and Sam is sure that it will only be a matter of time before Dean realizes what has happened, but...

John is unusually and infuriatingly lenient. Sam is unusually annoyed by the reprieve. If John would just give him some unreasonable order that Sam would never obey without argument then Dean would see his unnatural acquiescence and he would know. Dean is always telling him that he's a brat and Sam is always happy to live up to that reputation. Dean will notice the difference. Dean will figure it out and make John take it back.

Sam just needs to be patient.

Then John up and leaves town to hunt ghouls with some guy he met somewhere who calls him for help, and Dean is annoyed because if John would wait one more day then Dean would be free from his cast and able to come along. John refuses – he won't even let Dean join him after he gets the cast off, tells him to work on strengthening his weakened leg instead - and Dean sulks about it for the next week.

Sam spends that week attempting to compose sentences that will actually leave his mouth. Holding a pen above a blank page, trying to convince the ink to spill his secret for him. He ends up snapping his pen in half out of frustration.

When it howls with rain on the day their father returns, John actually allows them both to skip training rather than using his new power to force Sam out into the storm. Dean looks happily surprised but Sam's stomach sinks. A smug smile flashes across John's face after Dean has turned away.

Sam has been waiting almost two weeks for something like this. It would have been a perfect opportunity to alert Dean – Sam never runs in the rain without complaining bitterly about the injustice of it – and John knows it. Over the next few days, when Sam completes his training without a word of protest, Dean probably thinks it's out of gratitude for the rare day of rest.

John is playing the long game.

Sam should have known. His father is too smart to flaunt the fact that he turned to witchcraft in front of Dean. John doesn't push, doesn't immediately institute an insane new regimen or really do anything out of the ordinary that might set Dean on edge. He acts completely normal, as if he has nothing to hide, and if Sam is less mouthy than usual, well, Dean actually seems to be enjoying the break from all the fighting.

As the days go by, Dean, now distracted by the newfound freedom of being freshly de-casted, appears to come to the conclusion that whatever happened on the hunt was nothing more than a typical fight between Sam and their father. Not something that he needs to be worrying about.

Three weeks after the spell, Dean is back to spending his evenings with whatever girl he's in love with lately, disappearing as soon as he can after flawlessly completing whatever tasks John has assigned, and Sam is left behind.

Once alone, John sets extra books in front of Sam and orders him to keep reading to familiarize himself with the material. John tells him to disassemble, clean, and reassemble all the guns. He makes Sam run extra laps with a stitch in his side and fury in his throat.

Sam hates it.

He hates John. He even hates Dean a little bit because he keeps leaving Sam alone with John. Because when Sam sulks about it Dean laughs light-heartedly and accuses him of being jealous of Dean's dating prowess. Because when Sam pleads with his brother, asking him to stay, Dean promises that they'll hang out soon – maybe they'll catch a movie over the weekend or go out and grab some pie – and skips out the door to meet his date. After a while, John tells Sam that he needs to stop bothering Dean.

“Dean gets to go out because he knows how to behave. He was miles ahead of you at sixteen because he has always taken hunting seriously. It's time for you to catch up on everything you've been slacking off on all these years.” John pauses his lecture long enough to fix Sam with a disapproving glare. “No more trying to weasel out of training by asking Dean to stay home. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam's hands curl into fists and his fingernails cut crescent moons into his palms.

Dean does keep his promises, most of the time, but he's easily distracted by pretty faces and short skirts and, now without the ability to ask for his brother's attention, Dean sometimes spends weeks chasing down the latest object of his affections, lost in the thrill of new love, or at least lust, until eventually he'll turn to Sam like he's just remembered that he exists and point out that they haven't spent much time together lately.

Sometimes Sam messes things up by being angry about how long it takes Dean to notice. He'll give Dean the silent treatment or snap something bitchy and then immediately regret it when Dean's expression moves from wounded to defiant and he marches out to spend an evening with his fake ID instead of with Sam.

If Sam is lucky, Dean will forgive him quickly. If he's not, he has a lot of time to be furious at himself while Dean avoids him and John takes advantage of the distance between them to make Sam spend even more time training.

XXX

John buys a crossbow from some dodgy guy in the back of a roadhouse.

Sam is dismayed to find out that, while John and Dean take to the unfamiliar weapon like fish take to swimming, for some reason he just can't get the hang of it. It's heavy and awkward and it won't shoot where he wants it to.

John is disgusted by Sam's lack of natural ability. He scowls, as if Sam is missing the target on purpose.

“Concentrate!” John snaps. “Just look at the target. Stop messing around.”

“Yes, sir.” The words force themselves past Sam's clenched teeth. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and reloads. Hefting the crossbow, he takes aim and he does concentrate. He really does. It's not like he has a choice in the matter, with John's order drawing his attention to the makeshift target (hastily drawn on an old pizza box in red sharpie) and refusing to allow him to look away. But the crossbow is so heavy that he can't keep it steady.

The muscles in Sam's arms strain under the weight and it makes his hands shake. Biting down on his lower lip, Sam lets loose the bolt. It sails through the air but the trajectory is woefully off. Before it can reach the target, the bolt slams into the ground.

Sam's shoulders slump. He lowers the crossbow and huffs out a frustrated breath. “I can't do it.”

“Yes, you can,” John insists. His jaw is set in grim determination. “Watch Dean again.”

Dean has the decency to look apologetic as he takes the crossbow from Sam's hands but, whatever second-hand embarrassment he feels for Sam, it doesn't stop him from lifting the weapon with ease and sending a bolt directly into the bullseye.

Sam scowls. Why does Dean always have to be so perfect? It would be nice if he would dial it back a little, if only so Sam doesn't look quite so terrible in comparison.

“See?” John says impatiently, as if watching Dean succeed will automatically dispel all of Sam's inadequacies. “Just do what Dean did.”

Like it's that simple.

Like Sam can just suddenly be six feet tall and packed with muscle and good at everything.

He takes the crossbow back, hot with humiliation. He does exactly what Dean did; loads, aims, and releases the bolt. They all watch as it sails past the target, at least a foot off to the left, and thuds into the hill behind it.

“Maybe we should call it a day,” Dean suggests magnanimously. “Practice again tomorrow.”

John glares at Dean, his face stony. “He'll never get it right if you keep babying him.”

Sam can tell that the reprimand stings his brother. Dean ducks his head, shuffling his feet awkwardly. John's frustrated sigh is more of a growl. He looks down at Sam, not bothering to hide his disgust, and if Sam weren't so angry and embarrassed, maybe he'd find it darkly satisfying that not even John's spell is strong enough to make up for his complete lack of talent.

“Dean, you can go get cleaned up for dinner.” John directs. “Sam... you can come in once you've hit the target.”

Dean's head shoots up, eyes wide. He visibly braces himself as he looks from John to Sam.

Sam's mouth drops open, an argument pressed to a tongue that refuses to move. He wants to throw the crossbow at the ground. He wants to smash it into splinters until it's as useless as he is. But he can't, of course, because that would contradict John's standing orders against messing around during training. He can't yell at John for being unreasonable or refuse to complete the task or even point out all the logical reasons behind a sixteen year old failing to measure up to a twenty year old. All he can do is drop his eyes, so he at least doesn't have to look his father in the face while subjugating himself, and murmur a meek, “I'm trying, sir.”

Dean reacts as if he's been standing next to a bomb that has turned out to be a dud. He turns slowly, stiffly, staring at Sam in disbelief.

“Try harder,” John says.

XXX

It takes another hour.

Finally, most likely due to the sheer statistical improbability of complete failure after so many attempts, Sam lets loose a bolt that slams into the very edge of the target. It's no where near a bullseye but it's enough that Sam feels the slackening of his magical chains.

A cheer erupts from behind him.

Sam's arms have felt wooden for at least the last half hour. His hands are cramping, fingers stinging. The crossbow feels like it weighs a million tons and pain travels all the way down Sam's spine when he lowers it, turning to face the noise.

Dean claps his hands, approaching from where he has apparently been watching, leaning against the wall outside their rented cabin. “You did it.” He sounds cautiously impressed, a vein of confusion cutting through his tone. “You were determined, huh?”

Sam shrugs his shoulders. It hurts.

Dean stares at him. “Is this some weird new tactic against Dad? Malicious compliance or something?” He reaches out and takes the crossbow and, before Sam can withdraw his hand, grasps Sam's wrist. He holds it up, inspecting the blisters forming on Sam's fingers.

“No,” Sam says.

“So... what?” Dean asks, bemused. “You really wanted to learn how to use a crossbow?”

“No.”

Dean cocks his head to the side, regarding Sam curiously. “I don't get it. There's something going on with you.”

Sam's pulse quickens. A rush of hope hits him in the chest and makes his heart speed up excitedly. Dean is still gripping his wrist, staring hard into Sam's face, searching for answers.

Sam stays still. He holds Dean's gaze, willing his brother to somehow understand. To read the answers in Sam's eyes. They don't need words. Dean knows him. He knows this isn't right.

Then Sam's stomach rumbles. The moment passes and Dean releases him, stepping back with a sigh.

“I'll clear this stuff up,” he offers, gesturing to the target and the bolts that litter the field. “Go take a shower and get something to eat. Dad bought pizza.”

The pizza is cold and greasy. Sam forces down a couple of slices while water drips from the tips of his hair, dampening the shoulders of his t-shirt. He'd been too hungry to take the time to dry himself properly.

John watches him from the other side of the table. “Is Dean asking questions? Tell the truth.”

“Yes, sir. He is.” A droplet of water rolls down Sam's neck and soaks into his collar.

John sits back in his chair. He folds his arms across his chest and squints at Sam imperiously.

“If he asks again, tell him that you want to do better,” he orders. “Tell him that you want to be better.”

Sam chokes down his mouthful of pizza.

“Yes, sir.”

To Be Continued...

A/N: Reviews get to smash the stupid crossbow.

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

A/N: I swear to Chuck, I have nothing to do with John's choices in this chapter.

Chapter Five

It had always been somewhat of a relief when John took off to kill monsters with Caleb or Pastor Jim or whatever hunter with a lead he'd bumped into, leaving Sam to his own devices. Especially when Dean was left behind as well and they were able to skive off of training together and watch movies or go grab milkshakes or burgers or drive aimlessly for no reason because Dean just always wants to be driving the Impala and Sam is always willing to do what Dean wants if it means not doing what John wants.

Nowadays, these are the only times Sam feels like he can breathe.

It isn't as good as it used to be. Dean doesn't understand why Sam keeps refusing to skip training so that they can hang out, and Sam can't explain that he's incapable of ignoring John's standing orders to keep up with his training schedule (which seems to get more comprehensive and time consuming every week).

So Dean's feelings keep getting hurt and when that happens Dean likes to pretend that the only feeling he has is anger, so Sam ends up doing a lot of jogging or studying a lot of Latin or practising with whatever weapon John has decided he needs to work on while Dean stomps around loudly and obnoxiously in the background, making nasty comments and trying to pick a fight to get Sam to pay him attention.

It sucks. Upsetting Dean makes Sam upset, and guilty, and angry at John and then sometimes at Dean for being angry at Sam when he should be angry at John and then at himself for being angry at Dean when he should be angry at John. But at least John can't spot him reading a book or writing an essay or just trying to watch TV and rest (because he's constantly exhausted these days and sometimes he can't even find the energy to think) and order him to do something more productive, like cleaning knives or push-ups.

Time keeps rolling along and Sam... Sam feels like he's losing himself. He doesn't stop trying to find ways to drop Dean hints but he does stop expecting Dean to figure them out. He does what John tells him to do and tries to keep up with his schoolwork but sometimes he falls asleep on top of his textbooks and John keeps pulling him out of schools so they can skip town and sometimes he forgets to enrol Sam in a new one for an extra week or so, until Dean speaks up to remind him (because the last time Sam tried John had been busy and annoyed and had snapped at Sam to shut up about school).

Sam's straight A's begin to be marked with minus signs, before turning into B's, starting to slide towards C's, but John has never cared to keep track of Sam's grades. He praises Sam's new ability to run a mile in under seven minutes, his developing knife skills and strengthening aim. He beams when Sam almost takes down Dean one day while sparring and tells Dean he's going to need to up his game. He claps Sam on the back and says 'good job' and tells him that he's really proud of the effort Sam has been making, as if he's forgotten about the spell. As if Sam is doing all this because he wants to and not because he has to.

Sometimes, despite himself, Sam feels a warm glow of pride. It's nice when his father looks at him with something other than disappointment. It's satisfying when he beats his best time. It's thrilling to put his new skills to the test and take down a monster three times his size.

This must be what it feels like to be Dean.

Most of the time, though, Sam simply simmers with rage. He's a pot poised to boil over. A balloon stretched to bursting. A grenade with no pin, about to explode. All the arguments he hasn't been allowed to make, every snarky comment he's been forced to swallow, it's all stuffed down inside him, desperate to escape, filling him up and forcing him apart at the seams. He feels like, at any moment, he could split open and let out a flood of blood and guts and sharp angry words.

As much as he can, Sam tries to stay out of John's sight, especially when Dean isn't around to act as somewhat of a shield. Which is why his stomach sinks when he returns from a day of school (spent feverishly trying to catch up on several late assignments) and John is sitting at the kitchen table, bent over several large battered leather-bound tomes, and Dean is no where to be seen.

Sam closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. Hoping not to draw his father's attention, he slinks silently past. He still has an entire essay to write for history class tomorrow and he'd been planning on getting started before heading out for his daily run.

Sam is almost at the doorway to the bedroom he's sharing with Dean when John speaks, without looking up.

“Put your things away and come help me with this.”

The spell smothers Sam's sigh.

“Yes, sir.”

Sullenly, he drops his backpack on the floor by his bed and returns to the kitchen, sliding into the seat furthest from his father. “Where's Dean?” he asks.

John turns a page. “I sent him for supplies.”

'Supplies' could mean anything from a case of beer to an obscure magical talisman only available in a far-off antique store. Dean could be gone for hours.

“What are we looking for?” Sam pulls one of the books closer and flips it open, shoving his hair out of this face.

“Something that strikes on a full moon and likes virgins.”

They read in silence. John works his way through a six-pack. Sam thinks, despairingly, of the homework in his bag. He'll have to stay up half the night if he wants to make a dent in it. At least John seems to have decided that research is more important than physical training tonight. Unless he plans on sending Sam out later. There's still time before it gets dark.

“This could be something.” Sam turns his book around for John to see.

John glances over. “No, I already ruled that out.”

Disappointed, Sam turns the book back, leaning over it again. His hair falls in his eyes and he brushes it aside impatiently. At this rate, there's no way he'll be able to finish that essay. Maybe he could ask for an extension, think up some excuse.

Sam reads another page before a prickling sensation in his spine makes him look up. John is staring at him, a strange look on his face.

“What?” Sam blurts out, shrinking back a little in his seat.

Another order is coming. Another addition to his already-packed training schedule or maybe instructions to keep reading until he comes up with an answer, whether it's in these books or not. If he's lucky, John will just tell him to go grab dinner.

“Stay there,” John says. He sets down his beer and rises to his feet.

A flutter of nerves quivers in Sam's stomach. John disappears into his bedroom. Straining his ears, Sam hears the zzzz of the zip on John's duffel bag and the faint sound of rummaging, things being moved around. What is he looking for? Another book? More research material?

John reappears with something in his hand, too small to be a book. He doesn't return to his side of the table. Instead, he comes to stand behind Sam.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, twisting in his seat.

“Turn around,” John says. “Sit back and stay still.”

Of course, Sam obeys, with an automatic 'yes, sir'. He swivels around to face the table again. His spine straightens against the back of the battered kitchen chair. His arms settle on the armrests, fingers curling over the rounded wooden edges. He sits still and stiff, staring straight ahead. The fluttering anxiety in his stomach spreads to his chest and his pulse does an uncomfortably frantic dance.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks again. He hates how small his voice sounds; tentative and meek. Helpless.

John's palm presses against the back of Sam's head, tilting it forward until his chin almost touches his chest.

Sam sucks in a shaky breath. His ears start to ring, a buzzing hum of growing panic. He can't stand being trapped in his own body like this. He wants to move. He needs to move.. He wishes he could look over his shoulder, to see what his father is up to behind his back. He wishes he could do anything other than sit in this chair, paralysed and choking on claustrophobia inside his own skin. Sam feels like a doll, being played with and posed by a dispassionate owner.

“It's about time you had a proper haircut,” John says.

Sam thinks that his heart actually stops. He definitely stops breathing. Something touches the nape of his neck and slides upwards and he realises, with a sudden jolt of horror, that the buzzing isn't only in his ears. It's coming from John's electric hair clippers and it gets louder as the blades chew through his hair.

“Long hair isn't practical on a hunter,” John lectures, matter-of-fact. “It's a liability. A monster could get hold of it, or it could get in your eyes at the wrong moment.”

The clippers keep going, higher and higher, creeping closer and closer to the top of Sam's head, before finally pulling away, only to return to the nape of his neck to carve another stripe.

John tips Sam's head a little to the left, then to the right. Tufts of brown hair tumble over Sam's shoulders and drop to the floor. Sam stares at it, dumbfounded. He can't believe it.

“Dean cuts my hair,” he says, stupidly.

John doesn't bother to reply to this. His breath is hot against the freshly-bare back of Sam's head as he leans closer and guides the clippers around Sam's ear. Strands of hair slide softly past Sam's cheek, falling like tears.

This isn't happening.

None of this is happening. It's all just a bad dream. A nightmare. None of this is real.

Sam closes his eyes and hides in the darkness behind his eyelids. He's somewhere else, anywhere else, and none of this is happening.

John steps back, taking the clippers away. The buzz stops and, for a moment, Sam thinks, wildly, that he's reconsidering. Realising that he's gone too far. Then there's a clicking sound, a new guard being snapped into place, and John's fingers curl under Sam's chin, lifting his head. The buzzing returns.

Sam breathes slowly. In and out. In and out. This isn't happening but he feels the clippers press against his forehead, cold against his skin. He feels them begin to move. There's an all-too-brief tug of resistance before the blades slice through his bangs and he feels hair spill down his face, tickling his skin on the way to the floor. This isn't real but he feels the vibration of the clippers as they continue their glide over the top of his head . He feels John's ruthless determination and he feels the chill that spreads across his scalp, strip by strip, in the razor's unforgiving wake.

He feels pieces of himself falling away.

John is whittling him, cutting off the parts he doesn't approve of, that he deems unimportant. The things that make Sam Sam. John is carving him into something else. Something new.

John's hands move with swift practised precision and soon – so soon it really can't be real, it can't be done so fast, it can't be, it can't be – the buzzing stops. The silence is loud without it. Sam opens his eyes and watches as the clippers are set down on the table beside the book he'd been reading. There are dark scraps of hair lying limply on the open pages. John's hands brush off Sam's shoulders and a few more join them.

“There.” There's a smile in John's voice. Maybe a smirk. He sounds pleased with himself, satisfied by his handiwork. “Go have a look, see what you think.”

Mechanically, Sam rises to his feet. He steps over the fluffy spread of hair – fuck, there's so much of it - that surrounds his chair and walks on legs that feel strangely numb. He's adrift. Detached from his own body. He moves across the room without feeling the floor beneath him and enters the small bathroom. He flips on the light with fingers that may as well belong to someone else, steps up to the vanity, and looks into the mirror.

The person that looks back at him has large eyes, wide with bewildered astonishment. Their face is pale, tired, and shocked. Their ears seem to stick out a little but maybe that's just because their hair is short. Really short.

Feeling dazed, Sam raises a hand.

So does the person in the mirror.

Slowly, Sam runs his hand up the back of his neck, over the top of his head. The person in the mirror copies him. His palm skates over prickly fuzz instead of the mess of curls he's searching for.

“A crew cut is much more sensible for a hunter,” John says, remorselessly, from the doorway.

“Yes, sir,” Sam hears himself say. The mouth of the person in the mirror moves along with the words but it can't really be him. It doesn't look like him.

John actually grins. Like he truly believes that Sam likes the haircut. Or like he enjoys knowing that Sam doesn't. Sam can't tell which.

John steps into the bathroom and stands behind Sam, taking up most of the remaining space. He runs his own hand over Sam's freshly shorn head, a move that could be meant as affection but feels more like a mocking taunt. A needless reminder of the power he wields.

They both stare at Sam's new reflection; Sam with a burgeoning sense of devastation. John with an air of thoughtful assessment, like he's wondering what other changes he should make.

In the end he nods approvingly.

“You're starting to look like a real Winchester now.”

To Be Continued...

A/N: Reviews get to punch John, really, really hard, right in the face.

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter Six

Sam thinks he gets it now.

Looking in the mirror, at the new him, he thinks he finally understands what John has been trying to teach him all these years. What Dean already knows. The thing Sam's brother and father learned the night their house burned and Mary Winchester died. The lesson behind the spell.

Life is hunting.

Everything else can be taken away.

John claps him on the back and instructs him to take a shower and wash off all the scratchy scraps of hair that itch beneath his shirt. Sam stands under the spray, running his hands over and over his head, exploring the unfamiliar fuzz that stretches up the back of his neck, where he's been shaved almost bald. The hair on the top of his head is a little longer. The short strands feel sharp, like fuzzy little spikes.

He doesn't cry. He thinks he should be crying but he just feels hollow. Resigned. He watches the last few strands of his long hair disappearing down the drain and wonders how he could ever have been so foolish as to think there could be more to life than this.

When Sam finishes, he dries off – faster than usual. It's so strange, not feeling damp hair sticking to the back of his neck. He dresses in fresh clothes and rejoins his father in the kitchen, without asking whether John still wants his help. Probably yes. Probably he should just get on with it.

John has just finished sweeping up the mess. Sam slips into his seat. He watches as his father takes the dustpan full of his hair and dumps it unceremoniously into the trash.

John sits down and opens up his last beer.

“This was your idea,” he declares firmly.”Dean will ask so I want you to make it clear that you wanted this.”

Is that really what John believes? It almost seems like it is. Like he has himself convinced that if he says it, if he makes Sam repeat it, somehow it will become the truth.

“Yes, sir,” Sam says. “This is what I wanted.”

John nods. For a second, Sam is sure he sees something flash across his father's face; a sneer, some sort of sick satisfaction, and he changes his mind. John isn't oblivious to his distress. John doesn't really think that any of this is his idea. John is simply loving having complete control over his rebellious son.

And then, the sneer is gone and Sam isn't certain that he didn't imagine it. John returns to his reading.

Sam bends over his own book. One of his hands raises in an automatic gesture to brush hair from his eyes but nothing blocks his vision. He lets his hand drop and stares determinedly at the page, trying to think of nothing else but reading the swirling black ink. He just needs to find the answers John requires. He needs to get this over with so he can retreat to his room, away from his father's gloating presence, and just... stop.

He just needs everything to stop.

XXX

Sam doesn't look up when he hears a key being fumbled into a lock, too busy trying to make out a particularly smudged sentence. Behind him, the door creaks open and a gust of cold air accompanies Dean over the threshold.

“I got all of them,” Dean announces. “Bobby didn't want to part with one but I promised we'd look after it. I said – holy shit.”

There's a thump as something hits the floor. Startled, Sam swivels towards the sound.

Dean is frozen just inside the doorway, one hand still poised on the door handle. His other hand balances a stack of books, one of which has slipped free. It lies on the floor, splayed open.

“Be careful with those,” John chastises him. “They're old. And shut the door.”

Moving robotically, Dean closes the motel door. He crouches down to pick up the wayward book, missing completely on his first attempt because his eyes don't leave Sam. His mouth hangs open.

Heat rises in Sam's face. Feeling hideously self-conscious, he turns away, leaning over his book again, and pretends he can't feel his brother staring at his hair. At what's left of his hair.

“What happened?” Dean asks.

John lets out a chuckle, like Dean's shock is amusing. “Nothing happened. Sam just felt like a change. Didn't you, Sam.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam answers flatly, refusing to look up.

“You...” Dean actually sounds a little faint. Sort of like how Sam felt when he looked in the mirror. “What?”

“Felt like a change,” Sam repeats. He stares fixedly at the pages of the old book. Dean's eyes are itchy on his bare neck. He feels exposed, stripped and on display.

“Really?” Dean asks uncertainly.

“It looks good,” John proclaims, a little too enthusiastically. “Don't you think, Dean?”

Slowly, almost tentatively, Dean's footsteps move forward. He comes to stand beside the kitchen table, in the space between John and Sam. The table wobbles a little as he sets down his stack of books.

“Sam, stop researching for a moment. Show Dean your new look.”

Reluctantly, like so many things he does these days, Sam raises his head, so that John can show off his work. He seems proud of it. Sam thinks back to the screaming matches they used to have, when he was around 10 or 11 and just starting to be brought into the world of hunting. John had wanted then for him to have a soldier's haircut. Like his own. Like Dean's. And Sam had refused, point blank, every time, no matter how angry John got or how much his father yelled. He'd just... wanted something that was his.

It may have taken six years, but John had finally gotten his way. Now he wants to revel in it.

But Dean's gaze skates right over Sam's hair. He seeks out Sam's eyes. His mouth is still hanging slightly open and his own eyes are wide with dismay. He looks completely stunned, and utterly confused, searching Sam's face for an explanation better than John's.

John clears his throat, prompting Dean for a response. Dean makes an effort to shake off his consternation but his frown doesn't fully go away.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. He offers Sam a small smile. “Yeah, you look good, Sammy.”

Dean waits until later, for the privacy of their bedroom, both of them lying awake in the dark, to ask, “Did you really want to cut your hair? Or did Dad talk you into it?”

Sam's mouth opens. How long has it been since he was able to speak his own words? Lately, it seems like the only words he has are John's. “It was my idea.”

Dean props himself up on an elbow. “Why? And why did you get Dad to do it? I always thought he'd have to tie you down to get his hands on your hair.” There's a beat, then Dean asks, in a tone that only half-suggests he's joking, “He didn't, right?”

Sam stares at the ceiling. Even in the dim light, he can make out the nicotine stains. “I felt like a change,” is the only explanation he can offer.

Dean hesitates, his confusion stretching out across the room.“What's going on with you, Sam? You've been really weird for the last...” - Dean seems uncertain on a time frame - “ages. You never want to hang out. You don't argue when Dad pulls you out of school, or get pissy about training or going out hunting all night. You're practically failing your classes. Now you just randomly decide to cut all your hair off? I don't get it.”

Sam says nothing. Everything he wants to say would only end up stuck in his throat.

“I'm not saying it looks bad,” Dean continues quickly, maybe interpreting Sam's silence as him taking offence. “You look fine. Good. You look badass. It's just...” Dean sounds bewildered. “I thought you liked your hair.”

Finally, tears spring into Sam's eyes. His throat tightens, clogging up with despair. It's going to take forever for his hair to grow back. If John lets him grow it back.

And it had been humiliating, degrading, being forced to sit before his father like that, immobilized by magical chains and unable to lift a finger to stop John from chopping off his hair. His father hadn't framed it as such – he'd spoken only of practicality - but it felt like a punishment. Like John was getting revenge for Sam's years of fighting back against his rules. John knew – he knew – that Sam had liked his hair. John took it anyway.

Sam closes his eyes. He forces himself to breathe.

Thinking like this is pointless. Whatever the motivation, whether this is penance or pragmatism, John isn't going to let him grow his hair back. John isn't going to let up on the training regimen. John will never let him be anything other than the perfect hunter. It's time for Sam to grow up and get it through his thick head that this is his life. The spell is never going to be reversed. This is the way things are, the way life is, and, as John likes to tell him, no amount of whining is going to change that.

“I did,” he tells Dean, his voice entirely flat.

“Well, why cut it then?” A tinge of frustration bleeds into Dean's confusion. “Talk to me, Sam. Please. Tell me what's going on.”

“Nothing's going on,” Sam says. He opens his eyes, staring blankly at the stained ceiling as he recites John's script. “I just want to do better.”

“You keep saying that.” Dean sits right up in his bed. “This isn't about that stupid wood nymph, is it? Because that wasn't your fault, Sam. You know that. And my leg is fine. Good as new. If Dad is still giving you crap about it...”

Dean trails off, leaving the threat vague. He doesn't know what he'd do.

Sam does.

Nothing.

There is nothing Dean can do.

John always wins.

XXX

Sam takes out a werewolf and can't find it in himself to feel bad for the human man that gapes up at him from the pavement, blood pumping from his chest where Sam's silver bullet has sunk into his heart. It isn't just the crime scene photos Sam had studied, the people this man had torn apart.

Sam watches as the life fades from the werewolf's eyes and thinks about how nice it would be if everything would just end.

XXX

An ache settles behind Sam's eyes and refuses to let up. There's a scratch in the back of his throat and gravity seems to be pressing down on him harder than usual.

He drags his feet through another week of school and can't remember anything from his classes. He feels blurry. Vague like an impressionist painting. Frayed like worn out cloth. He wants to lie down.

Instead, Sam runs a mile in six minutes and forty-two seconds, then cleans all the guns John leaves out for him.

Dean sits down next to him and tries to start a conversation. He asks Sam about his day and whether he likes his new school and if he maybe wants to go do something this weekend, just the two of them.

Sam shrugs every time Dean pauses for a response until finally Dean goes quiet. He stays and helps Sam clean the guns though, which Sam thanks him for before falling into bed.

The weekend passes in a haze. On Monday morning, Sam pushes cereal around his bowl until it turns to mush, then he scrapes it into the trash. He sleepwalks through his classes. By the time he drags himself through the door of their latest motel room at the end of the long school day the pounding in his head is so loud that he can hardly see and harsh coughs are rattling his lungs.

Dean is sitting cross-legged on the couch, the TV turned down low. One of John's books is open in his lap, which strikes Sam as unusual. John tends to get Sam to do the bulk of the research because he reads faster and has a knack for following threads that others miss, while Dean's strength lies in getting witnesses to spill their life stories within two minutes of meeting and, well, pretty much everything else. He's even a decent researcher, when he has to be.

“Hey,” Dean greets him, glancing up. He does a double take. “You don't look so hot. Are you feeling okay?”

Sam's backpack is weighing him down. He lets it drop to the floor. Answering Dean seems like it would take energy he doesn't have so Sam ignores the question and heads to the kitchen. At the sink, he fills a glass with water and sips it slowly, letting the water trickle down his swollen throat. Then he presses the glass to the side of his face. The cold seeps into his skin, soothing the throbbing in his head, just a little.

Dean appears at his side. “Tylenol?” he offers, holding out a pill bottle. Sam accepts it gratefully and shakes two pills into his palm. He swallows them with another sip of water.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. He really doesn't feel good.

Dean leans against the counter. “Bobby called,” he tells Sam. “Wanted Dad's help with something. He'll be back in a few days.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He's too tired to drum up more than a faint sense of relief. He sets the glass down and coughs into his fist.

“I was thinking,” Dean says, unconvincingly casual. “Maybe while Dad's gone, you could take it easy. We could take it easy, I mean. Pull back on the training. Maybe blow it off altogether. We could just hang out. Slack off, eat junk food, watch bad TV. What do you think?”

Sam thinks that life doesn't work like that. He's been under standing orders to complete all his regular training, whether John's around or not, for months now. There is no slacking off. Dean's shoulders sag with disappointment when Sam shakes his head.

“I have to train.”

“You look like you're coming down with something,” Dean presses. He reaches out and touches the back of his hand to Sam's forehead. Sam jerks his head away. He has to grab the counter to steady himself when the room stumbles. Dean drops his hand.

“You should take a break, Sam, especially if you're sick. I won't tell Dad.”

Sam shakes his head again, slowly, so the room doesn't spin. “I want to be better,” he murmurs.

Dean shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. His eyes are troubled but Sam doesn't have the time or the energy to figure out what Dean is thinking. He turns away, mildly annoyed now that his brother is attempting to interrupt his routine. He just wants to get on with things.

“Something's wrong,” Dean announces, following Sam into the bedroom, where Sam changes from his jeans into sweatpants. “With you. This isn't normal.”

“Nothing's wrong.” Sam slips his feet back into his shoes.

“Bullshit, Sam. This isn't right. This isn't you. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on.”

Dean is more insistent than usual but how many times has Dean looked at him like he's lost his mind, or told him that he's acting like a weirdo, over the last few months? How many times has Sam felt hope surging through him only for life to continue on exactly the same?

“Nothing.” Sam shrugs. “I'm going for a run.”

Dean follows him to the door, asking him to 'wait, just a minute, Sammy, please'. Sam doesn't. He can feel his brother's gaze trailing him all the way down the street, until he turns a corner.

Dean is quiet that evening. He sits on the couch and reads. Sam sits at the kitchen table and practices tying knots.

To Be Continued...

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter Seven

Getting out of bed in the morning is impossible.

The pain behind Sam's eyes blurs his vision. It pulses angrily, thumping against his skull, and does its best to claw its way out through his eye sockets. His joints feel like they're made of rusty metal. Sam curls up into a ball and coughs until his lungs are raw and his chest is aching. Dean wakes up and rolls out of bed to bring Sam water and Tylenol, saying something about getting 'something for that cough'. Sam isn't really listening. His head hurts too much to think.

Luckily, John never bothered to include an order to attend school – why would he? John doesn't care about whether he goes to school. It's probably only a matter of time before he forces Sam to drop out altogether - so nothing prevents Sam from rolling over and pulling the blankets over his head. He breathes the humid recycled air and falls asleep.

XXX

An insistent tugging in Sam's bones drags him back to the waking world.

He surfaces unwillingly, clutching at the last dregs of sleep, but the pull is unignorable and the heat beneath the blankets has become unbearable. Sam claws his way free, gasping for fresh air. He's feverishly clammy. Suffocatingly hot. Sweat clings to his skin and dampens what's left of his hair, making him feel uncomfortably sticky and gross.

The alarm clock on the night-stand reads three forty-eight. Normally, Sam would have started his training by now. He's running late, burning daylight. He should get moving.

Sam closes his eyes and tries to will away his ever-present headache. He feels worse than yesterday.

Finally, he can't ignore the draw of the spell any longer. Sam heaves himself out of bed and staggers to the bathroom on watery legs, one hand on the wall to hold himself steady. He rinses off quickly, without giving the shower time to warm up, and stumbles back to his room to dress.

Dean appears in the doorway just as Sam is shoving his feet into his shoes.

“What are you doing?”

Sam has no idea why Dean sounds so incredulous. “Going for a run.”

“Don't be dumb. You're obviously sick.”

Instead of arguing, Sam coughs into his elbow and focuses on tying his laces. They're being difficult, slipping through his fingers. By the time he has them knotted, Dean has left the doorway and is standing in front of him like a solid wall; arms folded, feet planted.

“Go back to sleep, Sam,” he says firmly.

“Move,” Sam complains. He tries to stand up but Dean grabs his shoulders and forces him to sit back down, pressing him back onto the bed with embarrassing ease. John would be ashamed.

“You're sick,” Dean says. As if that matters.

Sam shakes his head. The room carries on shaking for a moment too long. He grips the mattress and waits for it to stop. “I have to go.”

“No, you don't,” Dean insists. “Missing one day of training isn't going to kill you.”

Sam isn't so sure about that. The longer Dean stands in his way, the harder it's getting for him to breathe. He has to go, before he's crushed by the invisible weight coiled around his chest, cinching tighter with every passing second.

“Move,” Sam demands, starting to panic. He smacks Dean's hands off of his shoulders and pushes himself back to his feet. Fending off his brother's attempts at grabbing him, Sam dodges to one side, hoping to skirt around Dean and make for the door. He almost manages it, despite the way his vision is splitting in two, but then Dean latches on to his arm.

Sam spins around and punches his brother in the face.

Dean reels. He stumbles backwards, letting go of Sam's arm, and his hands fly to his face. His eyes are wide, more stunned than wounded, Sam thinks, though he feels the force behind his blow. His knuckles sting. He has grown stronger over these last few months. More accurate and powerful. Just like John wanted. Dean will have a bruise.

Sam wishes he could stop to apologize but Dean is already shaking off the shock. He can't risk his brother trying to hold him back again. His feet are moving, out of the bedroom, out of the motel.

Dean yells his name but Sam is already gone.

XXX

Dean has his cellphone pressed to his ear when Sam returns, pacing the length of the motel room. His voice is low and hurried. Urgent. He seems to wilt when he lays eyes on Sam, sagging with relief – did he think Sam wasn't coming back? Sam had thought about running away, ages ago, but John must have seen the look in his eyes because he had quickly shot down that idea - but his face is still pinched and panicked.

“You have to make him stop,” Dean implores whoever's on the phone.

Sam closes the door behind him, breathing hard and struggling to stay upright. He leans against it for a moment, back pressed against the wood, head tipped back, allowing himself a few self-indulgent seconds of rest, before he refocuses and gets back on task.

Pushing away from the door, Sam lurches across the room, towards the duffel bag that sits against the far wall. There's a collection of knives that John needs him to clean. Weapons maintenance is important, John is always telling him that. Sam needs to take it seriously. John will inspect the knives when he returns and if they aren't up to his standards Sam will be ordered to do it again or to complete some other task to make up for his failure. Maybe John will come up with a creative new way to punish him. He needs to get it right the first time. He needs to focus, just a little longer. Once he's finished, he can go back to bed. He can go to sleep. He just needs to do this one last thing.

Sam blinks away the encroaching darkness. He needs to do this.

“Sam?”

Dean is at his side, out of swinging distance this time. His phone is still clenched in his hand. When did he get there? Sam didn't hear his approach. He should be more vigilant.

What was he doing?

Knives. He needs to clean the knives.

Sam is turning back to the duffel bag but Dean holds out the phone.“It's Dad. He wants to talk to you.”

Oh. Fresh orders from out of town. That doesn't happen often. What does John want him to do now?

Sam takes the phone and presses it to his ear. John's voice is tinny and metallic as it passes through the phone lines. Sam sways as he listens, swallowing down a flurry of coughs.

“Sam?” John is asking. “Sam, are you there? Dean says you're sick. Is that right? Or is he just trying to get you out of training? Tell the truth.”

“I think I'm sick,” Sam says. The phone is growing heavier and heavier, like it's filling up with words. If John keeps talking Sam is going to drop it. He needs to clean the knives.

Sam reaches for the duffel bag.

John heaves a frustrated sigh in his ear. “Take a break,” he commands. “Do you hear me, Sam? Take a break. No training until you're well.”

Sam stops, mid-reach. His hand hovers over the bag.

“Yes, sir.”

He stands there, struck still by indecision. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do with himself, without a task laid out before him. He feels suddenly bereft. Deprived of purpose. Should he go to bed now? How does he take a break? What is he supposed to do?

The phone is taken from Sam's hand.

“I knew it. I knew it.” Dean is yelling – he sounds really mad - but Sam doesn't know whether his brother is speaking to him or to John. Has he done something wrong?

The spinning of the earth beneath his feet is making him dizzy. Sam blinks again but the darkness doesn't recede. It spreads, creeping across the room. It wants to sweep him away.

Sam sinks to his knees. Hands grab him when he pitches sideways and he doesn't remember hitting the floor.

XXX

Something cold is moving over Sam's skin.

It sweeps across his forehead and smooths back his hair. Whispers down the side of his face and dabs at his throat.

Sam's hand twitches towards the thing interrupting his sleep, scrunching up his face in annoyance.

The cold thing disappears.

“Sammy? You awake?”

Sam slides back towards oblivion, ignoring his brother's voice. He's almost there, almost cradled by the dark nothingness of sleep, when the cold thing returns, resting against his forehead.

“Stoppit,” he complains.

“Sorry, Sammy, gotta cool your eggs before they scramble.”

The sound Sam makes in reply isn't really a word. It's more of a noise of confusion that ends in a question mark.

Dean rephrases. “Your temperature's still pretty high.”

Sam peels his eyelids open. Early morning sunlight is sneaking in between half-drawn curtains and Dean is sitting at his bedside, on a chair he must have dragged in from the kitchen. There's a wash cloth in his hand and exhaustion in his sagging shoulders.. A bruise has blossomed on his jaw. Sam frowns at it and a misty memory emerges.

“Was that me?” he asks. He casts his mind back but his memories are fever-fogged and vague. Dean was in his way. Sam had needed to make him move. He remembers going for a run that was more of a stumble and then John speaking in his ear. Dean was yelling into a phone.

“Don't worry about it.” Dean shrugs it off. He sets the wash cloth aside and gets to his feet. “One sec.”

Dean returns with a glass of water and two small white pills. “Take these,” he says. He doesn't wait for Sam's assent before sliding an arm beneath Sam's shoulders and helping him to sit up, and Sam doesn't bother to ask what the pills are before taking them. The glass of water shakes in his hands. Dean takes it back and puts it down beside the wash cloth.

Sam sinks back down on the pillows.

“I'm sorry,” he says, frowning again at the bloom of purple on his brother's face.

“It's fine.” Dean waves away the apology. “It wasn't your fault.”

This is confusing because Sam is pretty sure it was his fault. There's an ache in his knuckles where they remember making contact with Dean's jaw.

“Dad's on his way back,” Dean says.

That seems fast. John only just left. Is the hunt finished so soon? “Already?”

Dean's jaw works. “I told him that if he doesn't get back here and fix what he's done to you, I'd hunt him down and drag him back.”

Sam's breath catches in his throat, which sends him into a fit of coughing. Dean helps him to sit up a little, propping the pillows up behind him

“Dad didn't do anything,” Sam says, once he can breathe again.

“Did he tell you to say that?” Dean's hands clench into fists in his lap.

“No,” Sam denies. A flutter of hope beats its wings in his chest. “He didn't tell me to say anything.”

The breath Dean drags in is full of anger but he exhales, tight and controlled, and a moment later his voice is soft. “It's okay. I know you're lying, and I know you're not doing it on purpose.”

Dean leans back and retrieves a book that has been discarded on his bed. It's the same one Sam remembers seeing him reading a few days ago. One of John's old leather tomes. Dean flips it open to a page he has marked with a torn scrap of paper and sets the open book down in Sam's lap.

“Look familiar?”

There's a list of ingredients and a long incantation, foreign words written in old swirling ink, but what catches Sam's attention is the illustration. A blank-faced figure stands inside a circle, a smokey snake-like creature twisted around its torso. Sam traces a finger along the coils.

“No,” he says.

Dean's nostrils flare. He takes the book back and tosses it onto his bed.

“Well, I think it does,” he declares. “I think Dad did something monumentally stupid and fucked up and you can't talk about it. I think he did it ages ago, right under my nose.”

Sam's heart is pounding with excitement now, but his head is shaking back and forth on the pillow.

“No.” John's words tumble from his mouth. “Dad didn't do anything. I just want to do better. I want to be better. A real Winchester.”

Dean looks so incredibly angry and so incredibly sad at the same time. His eyes are damp but there's fire in them. He takes Sam's hand and rubs his thumb across Sam's knuckles.

“You don't need to be better, Sammy. You've always been a real Winchester.”

To Be Continued...

A/N: Reviews get to give Dean a high five for finally figuring it out!

Chapter Text

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter Eight

Sam rouses to the sound of raised voices outside his bedroom door. He surfaces slowly, through layers of soupy sleep, and rubs exhaustion from his face, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

“Of all the damn fool things I've ever heard! Have you lost your damn mind!”

Bobby is here.

“How I raise my boys is none of your business!” John thunders. “You have no right to tell me-”

“You have no right to use witchcraft on your own son!” Dean cuts their father off, an unheard of display of disrespect. His voice is almost shrill with unbridled rage, hurling words violently across the room. “How could you do this? To Sam? I can't fucking believe you.”

There's a beat of ominous silence before John speaks again, using his low dangerous don't-mess-with-me voice. The one that usually sets Dean back on his heels. The one that, once upon a time, in a life that seems long ago, Sam would always argue with. Sometimes just for the sake of it, to prove that he wasn't afraid.

That had been a mistake. He should have been scared. He should have listened.

“I'll do whatever I deem necessary.” John says coldly. He sounds a long way from apologetic.

“Was it necessary to make him clean weapons until his fingers bled?” Dean spits, sounding a long way from intimidated.“Or to make him run until he passes out? Was it necessary to cut his hair? What's wrong with you!”

“I am keeping him safe!” John roars. “I'm keeping us all safe!” Something shatters against a wall. Sam imagines his father emphasizing his point with an empty bottle.

“John, you have to stop this.” Bobby steps in again, calmer now, a voice of reason this time. “It ain't right. Doing this to your own kid? It's just wrong. And this spell? You're playing with fire.”

“I know what I'm doing,” John states defiantly. His voice is back to grim and determined.

Sam rolls over and watches the sunlight playing on the wall, scattered by the wavering branches of a small determined tree, potted outside the room. He listens to the argument go on and on and on.

Dean is absolutely furious. Outraged. Sam has never heard him yell at anyone like this, let alone their father. It's actually kind of scary. Sam almost wants to get up and tell Dean that it's okay and that he should just accept things as they are, like Sam has. He still feels too sick to get out of bed, though, and maybe he hasn't actually accepted things because his heart is thumping frenetically against his ribs, wild with anxious hope. He stays where he is and prays to anything listening for John to back down.

Bobby, after his initial outburst, is more restrained. He argues with logic and lectures John on the inherent dangers of witchcraft, insisting firmly that the only safe way to proceed is by removing the curse, before any further damage is done. Sometimes he speaks too quietly for Sam to make out what he's saying, hearing only the mumble of his gravelled voice and troubled tone, but occasionally his words get sharp and assertive. Bobby is unfaltering in the face of John Winchester's scathing rage and barely veiled threats of violence. A couple of times, Sam hears scuffling noises and he thinks that Bobby is holding Dean back from launching himself at their father.

Sam stares at the wall and the listless light, and waits for John to decide what happens next.

XXX

Sam is shaken awake by Dean's insistent hands.

He doesn't remember falling asleep but the sun has drooped in the sky and the bedroom is dim.

“Hey,” Dean's voice is gentle, like Sam is liable to break if he speaks at full volume. “You feeling any better?”

Sam thinks about it. The pain in his head has settled back into a vague throb and his bones don't feel quite so heavy. “Yeah.” His throat is still prickly though and his voice is scratchy and raw.

“Good.” Dean offers him a tight-lipped smile. “Think you can get up? It's time to go.” He's already peeling back Sam's blankets.

“Where are we going?” Sam asks, allowing Dean to guide him upright. His arms are fed into sweatshirt sleeves and his feet stuffed into shoes.

“Bobby found an old barn outside of town. He's there with Dad, setting up. We're going to meet them.”

Sam coughs wearily into his elbow. “Setting up what?”

“The counter-spell, Sleepy Smurf. They should be about ready by now.” Dean steers him across the bedroom.

They're outside, almost at the Impala, before the brisk evening air wakes Sam up enough for him to understand.

He isn't just floating in a fever dream, lost in a hopeful hallucination. This is actually happening.

Sam's steps falter under a wave of relief so strong that he feels it hit him like a physical blow, almost knocking him off his feet. He sucks in a breath, grabbing at Dean's sleeve.

“What?” Dean swings around immediately, eyes wide with alarm, and Sam throws his arms around his brother.

Dean rocks back a step, surprised, before returning the embrace. He wraps his arms around Sam and holds him tightly. Sam presses his face into Dean's collarbone and squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden rush of tears.

One of Dean's hands slides over Sam's spiky hair. He draws in an unsteady breath of his own, cupping the back of Sam's head with a calloused palm.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

Sam shakes his head against Dean's chest and hopes that his brother interprets it as absolution. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care how long it took Dean to figure things out, only that he has. Only that, somehow, Dean has actually convinced their father to remove the curse.

Sam tries to force a 'thank you' from his lips but it must be too close to acknowledging the spell's existence because he can't get it out.

“Come on,” Dean says, giving Sam a final squeeze. “Let's go fix this.”

XXX

Sam shivers.

The barn is draughty, old and lantern-lit. Chills keep rattling up Sam's spine. He adjusts his sweatshirt, tugging it tighter around him, and tucks his hands into his armpits in an attempt to ward off the cold. He's standing in the centre of a circle, sprayed in bright green paint on the floor.

Bobby is crouched down at Sam's side, checking the sigils painted around the circle's edge one last time. His mouth is set in a grim line as he looks from the book to the floor, inspecting each one carefully.

“It's gonna be important that you don't move,” he tells Sam. “Things are probably gonna get hectic and I don't want you getting hurt.”

Sam nods. “Okay,” he promises.

“Once things get going, it might be harder to stay still,” Bobby warns him. He looks up at Sam, his face grave. “You remember what happened when the spell was cast?”

How could Sam forget? He can still see the horrible creature that had sprung into being to bind him every time he closes his eyes. Sometimes, in his dreams, it tries to strangle him. But his head is shaking a denial.

“There is no spell. Dad didn't do anything.”

Bobby makes a 'harrumph' sound and mutters something under his breath. His eyes flick to the barn door. Sam follows his gaze.

John is a shadowy figure, filling up the doorway. The scarlet tip of a cigarette flares brightly as he sucks in a drag, bathing his face in an eerie red glow. He blows a long stream of smoke out into the darkness.

Sam ducks his head, averting his gaze before John catches him looking and decides to change his mind about reversing the spell.

“Right,” Bobby says. “Well, that thing that didn't happen? The creature you didn't see? You're gonna see it again. And it might not be so keen on letting you go. That's why Dean and I have these.”

Bobby gestures to a machete that rests beside the book he's been consulting. Something is smeared across the blade. Some sort of oil. It has an earthy, herby sort of scent. Strong. It works its way into Sam's nostrils, even though his sinuses are stuffed up.

“You don't need to worry,” Bobby continues. “Dean and I are gonna deal with it. All you gotta do is stand there and look pretty, okay?”

Bobby flashes Sam an encouraging smile. Sam makes an effort to return it. He's glad that Bobby is here.

He is worried, though. He doesn't want to see that... thing again or find out what happens if it decides it wants to keep him. When he shudders, he isn't sure if it's from the cold or out of fear.

“It's gonna be fine,” Dean says. He reaches across the paint line and squeezes Sam's shoulder reassuringly. He hasn't left Sam's side since they stepped out of the Impala and Sam is insanely grateful. John hasn't said anything to him or even looked Sam's way, but his silent rage is daunting. He lurks, huge and hulking and pissed off, over by the door, glowering and breathing smoke into the night. Dean acts as a shield, moving unerringly to place himself firmly in between Sam and John.

Sam nods his agreement and tries not to look as apprehensive as he feels. It will be fine. Dean won't let anything bad happen. Neither will Bobby. It will be fine.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks.

Sam swallows and hopes his brother can't tell how scared shitless he is. He nods again, not trusting his voice.

“Just stay still,” Dean reminds him gently. “And we'll handle everything else.”

Satisfied with the sigils, Bobby picks up the book and the machete and rises to his feet.

In the doorway, there's a scuffing sound as John crushes the butt of his cigarette beneath his boot. He steps into the barn.

“Sam, no moving until this is done.”

The order is delivered flatly but Sam can hear the undercurrent of spite in the command. This is John demonstrating his power, deliberately pulling Sam's strings to prove to Dean and Bobby that he is still the one in charge. To remind everyone that what's happening now only happens if he allows it.

Sam wasn't moving much to start with but now he's struck unnaturally still. Even his shivering stops. “Yes, sir.”

Dean watches him stiffen, eyes growing wide with horror. He whirls around to face their father. “Stop it!” he demands angrily. “What the fuck!”

Bobby glares venomously. He shakes his head in disgust.

Unrepentant, John stalks over to the altar that has been arranged beneath one of the lanterns. He holds out an expectant hand.

“Finished with that book?” he snaps impatiently.

“Let him move.” Spinning back to Sam, Dean grabs his shoulder, again, but seems to realise that he has no next move. His fingers press grooves into Sam's arm, desperate and furious and stuck, just like Sam is. “Let him move!”

“You want this done right or not?” John asks, cruelly, as if Sam can't even be trusted to stand correctly.

“Bobby, do something,” Dean implores. “Make him stop.”

Looking from Dean, to John, and then to Sam, Bobby grimaces apologetically. “Let's just reverse the spell. Sooner the better.”

Dean's mouth opens. Sam sees the argument brewing in his brother's darkening expression but Bobby shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, a warning in his worried eyes.

Don't push it, his expression says.

Dean hesitates – he wants to push, Sam can tell. Dean wants to yell and scream and throw punches – but instead he breathes out an angry growl and forces himself to step back, releasing Sam's arm. His eyes beg for forgiveness.

“Fine. Let's just do this.”

Bobby nods. He untucks the book from beneath his arm and brings it to John. His hand lingers on it as he passes it over, holding it back.

“Don't try anything stupid, Winchester,” Bobby warns, voice low.

John's chin rises in a confrontational jut. The two hunters stare each other down.

“Let's get this over with,” John says sourly.

Bobby relinquishes his hold on the book. With one last warning look at John, he returns to Sam's side, taking his place next to the circle. Dean takes up his own position, on the opposite side, and raises his machete.

“Actus,” John says.

The circle glows.

A feeling, uncomfortably familiar, of watery warmth sweeps up from Sam's feet, swallowing him. This time he's ready for it when his lungs seize up and he rides out the moment of suffocation without panic. The warmth recedes.

John begins to speak, the foreign words rolling flawlessly from his tongue. He barely glances at the inscription of the spell. He must have studied it intensely before cursing Sam. John always has been a perfectionist that way. Sam can imagine him staying up late, quietly practising his conjuring under cover of darkness while Sam lay asleep nearby, blissfully and horrifically oblivious.

Now, Sam stands motionless as John's voice fills the barn, a deep booming drone that drills dread right into the marrow of Sam's bones. He's been here before, trapped inside a circle while his father chants, and it hadn't ended well for him. Maybe it's a good thing that John ordered him not to move. He wants to run.

Flames burst from the candles. Beside Sam, Dean flinches, startled.

“Easy now,” Bobby murmurs. The candlelight glints dangerously on the oiled blades. Dean adjusts his stance, shifting on the balls of his feet.

John's chanting is getting faster and something is loosening inside Sam's chest. It's warm.

Then it's hot.

Then it's burning and Sam is screaming and a silvery serpent made of smoke and chains is surging up his throat. It's a sickening, slippery, slithering sensation. Sam gags, choking, as the creature spills out of his mouth..

Dean yells something and Bobby calls out a reply. Sam has no idea what either of them are saying. The snake is heavy, coiling around his shoulders, sliding down his torso. It moves speedily from his hips to his thighs and down past his ankles, where it swirls around his feet.

Sam sucks in a deep, desperate breath. His throat feels raw but his lungs swell and his skin tingles. A network of nerves sparkle to life that he hadn't even realised had been deadened. He sways, light-headed and overwhelmed, as ownership of his body returns to him. He has to throw out his arms to steady himself.

He can move again.

His legs tremble, though, threatening collapse. He feels unsteady. Disoriented. It's almost like he's forgotten how to stand, how to balance, how to simply be in his own body without someone else in command.

“Watch out!” Bobby yells a warning.

The misty serpent at Sam's feet has grown darker, thicker, bigger. It circles him, dizzyingly fast, solidifying and expanding, swiftly growing into an enormous column of black smoke with the head of a snake. It rises up before him, huge violet eyes glittering in the candlelight.

Distantly, Sam is aware of the creature's huge thrashing tail. The yells and cries of alarm that echo around the barn. But the violet eyes are drinking him, drawing him in. He can't look away. The tugging in his bones makes him want to strip out of his skin.

Something is tearing inside of him. Being dragged inexorably from somewhere deep inside his chest, leaving behind a void so hollow that it seems more like an abyss; a blank nothingness, empty and endless. There's a flash of light so dazzling that everything goes white.

At the same time, the serpent lets out a high-pitched shriek. The violent pull behind Sam's ribcage relents at once. Whatever was being ripped from him abruptly slams back into place, leaving him gasping, completely breathless and clutching at his chest. The barn has gone dark again.

Sam's eyes are burning. He blinks away the stars that have imprinted on his retina in the aftermath of the brilliant light that had so briefly filled the barn. There's an ache in his chest and his throat feels pretty much how he'd expect it to feel after vomiting up a snake made of magical chains but he feels lighter than he has in months. It feels like he's been curled up into a tight little ball inside his own skin and now, finally, he can stretch himself out, from his toes to his fingertips.

Dean is standing in front of him, face flushed with exertion. His shoulders heave, his breathing heavy, and his eyes are a little wild with fright. The machete in his hand is stained with something dark.

Surrounding Sam, wisps of a shattered smoke monster swirl towards the floor, vanishing into the same glowing sigil from which it had once burst forth.

The light from the sigil fades.

With a hiss, the candles on the altar sputter out.

Sam sways, staggers a step, and Dean tosses down his machete to grab him. Sam latches on and lets Dean hold him up while his head spins and the world threatens to fall out from under him.

“Sammy?” Dean asks urgently. “You still with me?”

Sam nods, his face mushed against Dean's chest.

“Did it hurt you? Are you okay?”

“I'm okay,” Sam says, even though he feels a little loose. Like a wobbling tooth.

“It worked, right? That's the end of it?” Dean speaks to Bobby over the top of Sam's head. Sam pulls away, just enough to watch for Bobby's response.

Bobby looks to John. He raises an eyebrow that manages to be both expectant and disapproving.

John's lips are pressed together in a tight waspish line. He folds his arms dourly across his chest.

“Sam, come here.”

There's no tug towards obedience. Instead, Sam shies away, drawing closer to his brother. Dean's arms tighten around him protectively.

Sam opens his mouth and says the word he's been wanting to say to his father for months. “No.”

Somehow, John manages to look even more pissed off. His face clouds darkly with disapproval. “Happy?” he snaps.

“Thrilled,” Bobby snarls back.

They glare at each other.

“Let's go,” Dean mutters in Sam's ear, and then, louder, to Bobby or John or both, “I'm taking Sam back to the motel. He needs to be in bed.”

There's a part of Sam that wants to protest being treated like a tired toddler in need of a nap – that wants to protest doing anything that anyone else tells him to do - but sleeping sounds really good right now.. The longer he stands here, the harder it's getting to keep his eyes open.

Together, they cross the barn. Sam focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, almost blinded by exhaustion, and lets Dean lead the way. They're almost at the door when John calls out to him.

“Didn't I make you faster? Stronger?” John's voice is bitter, challenging, rising with anger. Sam flinches as a hand slams down on the altar, creating a sudden violent thump. “Didn't I make you better!”

Sam shrinks against Dean, who tugs him closer, tucking Sam behind him as he whirls around.

“He didn't need to be better!” Dean yells furiously. “He needed you to be a fucking father!”

Taken aback by Dean's sudden rage, John's eyes narrow. He draws his shoulders back, standing at his full intimidating height. He goes to speak but Dean cuts him off before he can make a sound.

“I swear, you say one more thing and I'll not only take Sam and make sure you never, ever see us again – I'll put you in a circle and set one of those monsters on you.”

Sam gasps, stunned by the ultimatum. Dean sounds like he really means it.

John must hear it, too, because colour drains from his face. His shoulders drop and his mouth snaps closed. He glances at the circle painted on the floor. Suddenly, he seems uncertain.

“You boys should head out,” Bobby says grimly. “John and I are gonna talk.”

Dean's arms turn Sam back towards the door. Sam can feel John's gaze following them across the barn but he doesn't say anything and Sam doesn't look back.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean murmurs quietly. “Let's get out of here.”

Sam leans against his brother, and obeys.

END

A/N: Thank you, to everyone, who left kudos, comments/reviews, or simply read this and enjoyed. I hope you liked the ending! You have all been so lovely and supportive and I've really loved hearing what you all think.

Reviews get to run away with Sam and Dean and live happily ever after without John.