Chapter Text
The sky is lit up brightly by the sun, not a cloud in sight. A cool, light breeze snakes through the air and tickles the back of Sam’s neck, rustling the sun-baked leaves where they are rooted to the tree branches. All the colors in the world are too bright and flashy, the nearly perfect level of wind adding another layer of surreality into the mix.
Sam hates days like this. They make him want to bury his face into a musty motel room pillow, curl up under a stained comforter, and never have to face the world again. Unnatural brightness makes everything harder for him to control, and he usually begins to lose his grip on the tight reins he keeps on himself. The sweet trill of a pine warbler and the clanging of a melodic windchime resounding from the distance add to the serenity of the scene. Sam has to resist the urge to clench his fist.
The delicate balance that had settled over the bucolic field is shattered by the slamming of a car door and the harsh screeches of metal on metal. He almost melts out of relief when Dean shoves a gun in his direction. Guns Sam can do; Birds and Beauty and Peace he's never quite had the chance to try. “Here ya’ go, Sammy,” his brother greets with a tight smile. He leans over Sam’s back with the cover of adjusting his grip (which is, admittedly, not in need of any real correcting. The weight of the gun feels more natural to Sam’s skin than the gentle touch of another human being.), but took the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “Watch the hair.”
Sam nods in return. Message received.
He scrunches his eyes to block out the light, and lets the familiar waves of blankness that are always lapping at the edges in the back of his mind take control. His face is nothing more than a silhouette, dark, empty, and he can blend in because that’s what it takes to survive in the world. He’s capable of cutting off this piece of himself for the sake of furthering his life (though lately, nagging tidbits of thoughts of why do I even bother? have been leaking through, but Sam pushes these down and buries them with all of the other rejected mindsets that could get him or worse, his family, killed).
One look at Dean's face when Sam tentatively cracks open his eyes lets him know that he was successful. Dean's eyes are heavy and weary, too dark for somebody who's only eleven and a half for christ's sake, but his lips quirk into the familiar smirk that seems to always adorn Dean's face. "Dad decided to let us practice on our own for a while today, Sammy. He may not be able to pick us up like he dropped us off, but we're not that far a walk from the hotel. He's on his way to something important right now, but might stop by later to check in with us, so no slacking," Dean says.
Sam snorts lightly and lifts his eyebrows. Really, Dean, his expression seems to say, I may only be seven, but I'm not stupid, no matter what you and dad think. I know what 'busy' means. Sam mentally pushes the images of his dad drowning himself in whiskey aside and says out loud, "Okay, sounds good."
They spend an hour or so refining their aim, but pack up earlier than they normally would. Sam's still too small to be able to compensate for the kick of the gun after he shoots, the recoil throwing his entire body back each and every time. After about twelve shots, his sore and aching muscles are done for the day. Dean, who has had a few more years to build a tolerance, gets in a few more shots with nothing but the occasional wince, but he too is exhausted after a short while. The brothers' muscles are thin and cordy, like tough stretches of rope threaded through the underside of their skin. They were born out of necessity rather than carefully monitored protein intake and recreational weight-lifting. Sam and Dean consider themselves lucky to get two meals a day, let alone food with any sort of substantial nutritional value.
With a nod, Dean leads Sam to the edge of the dirt path bordering the field. It's a long walk to the motel, and it's already getting late. They had been dropped off around five, and the sun had gone from its halfway point in the sky to a point tucked just slightly above the horizon while they practiced. The pleasant wind that had been refreshing earlier in the day is now on the side of too cold. Sam shivers and hunches down further into his threadbare jacket.
Yeah, it's going to be a long walk.
They're along an empty paved road now, at least, making the trek marginally easier. A lone pair of headlights cuts through the hazy dusk ahead in the distance, coming towards the Winchesters head-on. They pull their guns closer to their bodies and to the side away from the road, trying their best not to draw attention to the fact that they are children walking around with shotguns half their size. Sam and Dean move over to the side to avoid the car. With their short heights and skinny bodies, there's no guarantee that the car will see them, especially if they're preoccupied with screaming kids in the backseat or their radio blasting away. The car trundles by slowly, the driver scanning the Winchesters intently. An uncomfortable prickling sensation spreads through Sam's spine, and even with the car long in the distance, it doesn't go away.
Dean had perked up, body stiff now and his gait carefully controlled. He had felt it too, then. Sam adapts a carefully measured pace as well, letting each step fall casually and slightly off-beat. This feels more naturally than walking normally. Their dad had ingrained this walk into them from such a young age that it was second nature, like slipping into your most comfortable pair of sweats after a long day in a suit (except Sam hates this, hates hunting, hates how comfortable he is sliding into the position of predator. He'd take a suit over a hunter's sprawl any day).
They're both on such high alert that even the slight bending of a blade of grass in the wind wouldn't have passed unnoticed, which is why the brothers are so surprised when they quite literally run into someone. "What the hell?" Dean blurts, his grip on his gun loosening in surprise. It clatters to the ground with a resounding clang. The man they had almost run into is of average height and slightly above average weight. His hair is very dark brown and plastered to his forehead with sweat, just a slight shade darker than his skin. One very out of the ordinary thing about him, though, is his choice of clothing.
Dean cuts in before he even has a chance to process what he's seeing, "Who the hell are you? Answer my question, or I'll shoot." Sam doesn't feel it prudent to point out that Dean's gun is in fact resting on the ground, rendering it useless in the current situation.
The man opens his mouth to speak, and when the words come out, they are heavy and deliberate, contradicting the words’ meaning. "Silence, child. We don't have much time, and I'd rather not resort to violence against the hunter if it can be helped." All sorts of alarms were already blaring in their heads, and this new information sets off a few more. Anything that knows about the Winchester's hunting status isn't good news.
Sam still has his grip on his gun, and he knows he should shoot. Really, he does. Some part of his mind tells him to hold off though, despite his father's voice screaming in the back of his head that hesitation will get their family killed. He pulls the gun down by his side, but he doesn't put the safety on. "Explain," he says. He tries to force his high-pitched voice down an octave to make himself sound more menacing, but all that achieves is making it crack slightly. Dean snorts softly in amusement at that.
The man seems taken aback for a second at being talked to that way by a seven-year-old, but he recovers quickly and says, "It's not usually done this way, but we've all agreed that this is a unique case that merits equally unique handling." He stops speaking for a moment and looks at Sam pointedly, though Sam has no idea the reason as to why. "It was determined by a council that taking Dean and leaving you, Sam, would put you at too much risk to be allowed. I'm under orders to pick you both up at the same time, if you wish to come, that is."
They don't respond, both still without a clue about what is going on, so the man continues. "Our records indicate that you're a metamorphmagus, though I suppose it's obvious now that a mistake was made somewhere in the paperwork. I'm not quite sure how somebody could make such a large mistake, but it'll be looked in to, that much I am sure of. However, I can be absolutely certain that you are both wizards. That, at least, I have witnessed with my own eyes."
Dean seems to regain control, and slips easily into a faux casual stance. "Listen, buddy. I don't know what you're on about, and believe me, I don't want to know, but I know what I'm talking about. Let me tell you, nobody is my family is a freakin' wizard. We've never even come across a demon, so it’s not like any of us could have or would have sold our soul. Fact is, dad doesn't even know if they exist. If you leave now, we can both just forget that this whole mess ever happened."
Sam knows firsthand the terror that Dean's 'hunter' voice can strike in a person; it had been used on him a few times in the past to scare him in line. He's prepared for the man to turn tail and run, or for him to pale slightly and stutter out a few excuses to save face. Sam is not, however, prepared for the man's teeth to split into a wide grin and for him to give a full-bodied chuckle. "Yes, yes," he said, half to himself. "I was expecting something along these lines, though you are certainly a character, that's for sure.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning. My name is Ed Morris, and I work for the Center for the Control and Tracking of Underage Wizards. Your family has been on my watch list for quite some time, both because of your history and Sam's supposed form-changing abilities." At that, the brothers exchange an uneasy glance, but he continues, oblivious. "You boys are both wizards. Not the kind your family is used to hunting, of course; no, there's natural and demonic- you two are both natural, unless there's something I should know about." The man laughs at his own joke. Neither Sam nor Dean can find the supposed humor.
"Now, I really am running out of time. You are both welcome to choose however you wish. You may come with me, and you'll attend a school for wizards where you'll learn how to control your powers and harness them for the greater good. Or you can stay, if you'd like, but you'd pose a threat to society each minute you spend in the outside world untrained. Decide. I can explain more later, if you’d like."
Ed eyes them with a severe look in his gaze, making it clear which of the two routes he expects them to decide upon. A few charged, tense moments of silence pass, and then something seems to switch into place in Dean's mind, and he begins to speak. "Sorry, dude. You need some help, and I hope you get it. But for now, my brother and I are going to get out of here. If you even try to stand in our way, my dad will make sure there's hell to pay."
The strange man in front of them seems sad, disappointed, maybe even a little bit resigned. He's not the least bit surprised, though. Dean puts his hand, calloused from handling knives and tools and guns for hours a day, firmly around Sam's wrist and pulls. Something's still disconnected between Sam's brain and the rest of his body. His legs stay firmly cemented in place, but Dean's tugging pulls his upper body along with him down the sidewalk.
He means to explain himself when he opens his mouth, really he does, but he’s had a long day and his muscles hurt and he just wants everything to be over. “Wait,” he says. Dean’s and Ed’s heads both snap up at the same time, like a synchronised dance (and that though would be enough to make him laugh at any other time, but right now his heart is pounding too hard and his throat’s constricting in a way that makes it hard to breathe). An emotion akin to hope is rising in Ed’s eyes, while Dean just looks confused. His head is tilted to the side, and his eyes are wide. Sam feels the grip on his wrist tighten ever so slightly, and he thinks that Dean probably isn’t even aware he’s doing it.
“I’ll come.” The words leave Sam’s mouth before he registers their meaning. He doesn’t take them back, though. All he can think about are the times where he and Dean had to go for days without food because their dad forgot to leave money or that time they had to last a week without shelter because Dad couldn’t rake up the cash for rent. He’s thinking about how scared he is all the time, of what’s wrong with him, and there’s so much wrong with him he doesn’t know where to begin to fix it. Sam’s fed up with trying to hide his rocking back and forth or his muttering from his dad. His eyes feel heavy from all the missed sleep because he can't control it when he's asleep and no matter what John can't see.
When he says those two words, he can see in his mind the expression on his dad’s face that night a year and a half ago when Sam was sure John was actually going to kill him. John’s eyes had been stormier than a hurricane and the shadows in his face enough to make Sam want to run and hide. Sam thinks about the nightmares, and the guns, and the weapons, and about his dwindling desire to live. “Please help me,” he adds without meaning to. His voice wavers, and for the first time in years, he actually sounds his age.
Ed nods, a loose, concerned smile adorning his elegant features. “Dean,” the man asks hesitantly, “have you changed your mind? It’s not too late, you know.”
Dean’s eyes start to water for a fraction of a second, but the eleven-year-old quickly steels his expression and stubbornly juts out his jaw. Sam knows the look, the one that Dean’s always gotten when he wants to conceal it when something’s bothering him. More specifically, he always looks like that when he’s hurt and doesn’t want to show it. His voice burns like acid when he talks, caustic and harsh. “If Sam wants to abandon the family, that’s fine, but I’ll always stick by dad. He can count on me. I can be a good son.” Sam feels his heart start to wilt and wither, surely to never recover.
Ed nods once and says, “If you’re sure.” He turns to Sam and holds out a rather large Barbie doll that he had pulled from the significantly smaller pocket of the orange robes he’s wearing. “Take it.” Sam obeyed, even as everything in his body wanted to rebel as he saw the fleeting expression on Dean’s face. Still, Sam had been conditioned his whole life to follow orders to a letter even when under great emotional duress, and at least some good had to come out of being trained by John Winchester for seven years.
Sam wants to say so many things (I’m sorry please forgive me I don’t want to hurt you Stay safe I love you), but Dean and the sidewalk they were standing on is gone in a flash of color. The clear, blue sky is replaced by a heavy darkness while Sam’s entire body is jerked around through an endless twister.
When they land, they’re in a clean office that smells faintly of plastic and artificial air freshener. Ed tells Sam to take a seat on a stained yellow sofa. Sam complies easily, too numb to argue. He checks the room for all possible entrances and exits, years of habit dying hard, but past that, he just sits and waits for whatever’s next to come.