Fic: Respect
Title: Respect
Author: brightly_lit
Rating: PG for mild language and mild violence
Genre: gen, angst, h/c, teen!chesters
Characters: teen!Sam, teen!Dean, John, OC hunter
Word Count: ~3,800
Summary: John sends a very unwilling 14-year-old Sam with Phil, one of John's hunter buddies, to help him kill a werewolf. When things don't go as planned, Sam has to rely on himself and what he's been taught to try to pick up the pieces. Sometimes life with Dad and Dean seems pretty great by comparison.
“Jesus, I thought John Winchester’s kids would at least know how to follow my orders. You better stay far away from the danger. I get John Winchester’s kid killed, I’m a dead man.”
Yeah, well, if I let you get killed, I’m dead, Sam thought. Phil could think he was a disobedient little snot if he wanted, but Sam would do whatever it took to follow Dad's order.
Sam couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to stand there while Dad said long goodbyes to an old hunter buddy in some bar. Dad couldn’t be bothered to delay their departure a couple of hours for Sam to say goodbye to his friends when they moved again, but oh, get him with some guy he’d once killed something with and get a couple of beers in him and suddenly they have all the time in the world. Sam looked at Dean. Used to be, he could get a conspiratorial eyeroll, but Dean was all Mr. Grown Up Hunter now that he’d turned 18, and he shook his head disapprovingly at Sam’s annoyed look.
Sam looked around the bar again futilely for something to do, but there weren’t even any video games or anything. There was a pool table, but this was a hunter bar. Even Sam wouldn’t try hustling pool in a hunter bar. He could play just to pass the time, but though he often played to earn money for the family, the game itself didn’t interest him.
Then something that had never happened before caught his attention. “Sam can go with you,” John said to his hunter buddy, Phil. They’d killed a rugaru together back in the day.
“I can go, Dad,” Dean said quickly, ever the eager beaver.
“No, I need your help with the nest. One man can get a werewolf--unless that man is you, Phil, you stupid son of a bitch.” Sam rolled his eyes as the three of them laughed it up. Oh, he and Dean got in trouble if they so much as said “crap,” but Dad could say whatever the hell he wanted as long as he had an audience to impress.
Phil kept trying to refuse the offer, but Dad wouldn’t let it go. Sam looked to Dean in alarm--what, Dad was pimping him out to other hunters now?! As much as he resented the way Dad dragged them everywhere and made them help him with his hunts now that they were older, the only thing that could be worse is having to do the same thing for some stranger. Sam didn’t want to have to leave the relative comfort of the familiarity of Dad and Dean and the Impala.
Of course Dean was no help; his expression revealed only his personal agony at not being the one to get the ‘glory’ of being able to help some other dumb hunter Dad had barely ever even mentioned. Dean was still hung up on this ridiculous idea of hunters as heroes, but of course, always hunting within the family, no other hunters would ever hear of their exploits. Dean thought this was Sam’s golden opportunity to make a name for himself as a hunter by impressing Phil, who he for some reason thought would talk up Sam and his mad skills to other hunters, and he was envious as hell.
“Sam’ll just be backup, Phil,” Dad was saying. “You said you’d be headed north in a couple days; we can meet up again then and take him back.”
Phil, out of polite ways to reject the idea, finally smirked, looking Sam up and down. “This shrimpy little bookworm? Looks like he couldn’t even get a machete through a vamp’s neck, no matter how much dead man’s blood you pumped into it. Kid’d be sawing away at that thing for days!”
The twinkle left Dad’s eye. “Don’t underestimate my son. He’ll be a good help to you. Sam’s killed wolves before; kinda got a knack for it. Good at tracking, too. He’s a good hunter, even if he doesn’t want to be. Gimme a call when you get into town,” he said with a note of finality no one could miss, getting up. “See you then. Have fun, Sam.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder, then left the bar so Phil would have no more opportunity to protest.
Phil looked at Sam, who did his best to cover over the vast sense of outrage, fury, and betrayal he was left with and put a blank expression in its place. Phil didn’t return the favor, rolling his eyes. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”
There were some perks. Phil’s methods of financing his hunting were far more lucrative than Dad’s (Sam didn’t ask what they were, sensing it’d be better not to know), so they ate at fine restaurants and stayed in great hotels where Sam had his own room and Phil let him watch as much pay cable as he wanted, which included the Playboy channel. This was a perk Dean would enjoy far more than Sam, but Sam had all but never had the opportunity to watch porn alone before, and at 14, he couldn’t resist his fascination.
For that matter, he’d hardly ever gotten to be alone before, period. Dad always got the cheapest hotel rooms where the quarters only came in close and closer varieties, and any time Sam did anything remotely interesting or unusual, Dean was ever on top of him, trying to get in on the fun. For the first time, Sam got to do exactly as he pleased, because as far as Phil was concerned, Sam wasn’t helping; rather, he was babysitting Sam until he could deliver him back to Dad and Dean. This was fine by Sam, too, figuring it was win-win for both of them ... until Dad called Sam’s cell on the first night of the full moon as Phil poured silver bullets into molds.
“I know Phil’s going to try to talk you out of going with him on his hunt, Sam, but I sent you along to keep the poor bastard alive. Give him a machete and he can take out a whole nest in four minutes flat, but he can’t shoot a gun worth a damn. I want you to keep safe--stay far away from the action--but if he gets into trouble, you kill that thing, you hear me? I’m sorry I did this to you--I know you didn’t want to go--but you get to save a life, and the guy’s rolling in it, so I knew you’d have fun. Fair?”
Hearing Dad’s voice brought an unexpected pang to Sam’s heart. Homesick. He was homesick. How could he be homesick, when he didn’t even have a home? He tried to steady his voice before responding. “Yes, sir.”
“Kill that thing tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow; I’ll give you our twenty before we get off the phone. If you even want to come home, now that you’ve got a taste for the good life,” Dad teased.
“Yes, sir,” Sam said with even more difficulty. To be home tomorrow night, listening to Dad order them around and Dean brag about exactly how he would go about killing whichever monster Dad was hunting at the moment, sitting in some crap hotel eating a bologna sandwich. Sounded like paradise.
Dad was right--Phil didn’t want him to come along, and when Sam insisted, he tried to make him stay in the car. When Sam got out of the car and followed him anyway, he shook his head. “Jesus, I thought John Winchester’s kids would at least know how to follow orders. Fine, but you better stay far away from the danger. I get John Winchester’s kid killed, I’m a dead man.”
Yeah, well, if I let you get killed, I’m dead, Sam thought, but said nothing. Phil could think he was a disobedient little snot if he wanted, but Sam would do whatever it took to follow his dad’s orders.
Phil wouldn’t listen when Sam told him where he was pretty sure the werewolf lived based on scratches on a brick wall and some more on a windowsill, instead getting distracted by some smell coming from a dumpster, as if werewolves carefully deposited their victims in dumpsters before running off in search of another one, so Sam mostly stood around all night, bored, while Phil poked around uselessly. All Sam could think about was how there would be another dead body in the morning due to Phil’s so-called “thorough investigation.” Dad wasn’t exactly the guy you went to if you wanted a respectful hearing-out, but even Dad would have listened to Sam’s observations and followed up on them. Sometimes Sam was wrong about what the signs meant, but Dad knew Sam wouldn’t say something unless he was sure it was relevant, and Dad trusted his insights. Maybe there were good things about living with Dad, after all.
Sure enough, the story on the night’s victim was in the next morning’s paper, which Phil noted over their ritzy breakfast as one might note that it looked like rain, whereas Dad would be on the warpath, furious with himself for letting someone else die because he couldn’t track down the monster fast enough. Dad must have gone crazy, trying to hunt with this guy. Sam had no intention of being a hunter once he turned eighteen and could go to college (he was already secretly collecting brochures), but it was even driving him crazy. Jeez, people were dying, and Phil was leisurely sipping exotic coffee and reading the stocks.
They went out during the day to the scene of the attack. Phil finally followed up on the scratches Sam had noticed, but pointed out it could have been the victim’s house, not the werewolf’s. Sam was sure by the end of the day he knew where the werewolf lived and even where it would hit tonight, based on some subtle signs it was stalking someone in an adjacent neighborhood, but he kept his mouth shut, now planning to just slip off on his own and kill the thing himself when they went out on tonight’s hunt ... because he wasn’t going to be back with Dad and Dean tonight, and if he didn’t get this job done tonight, he wouldn’t be back with them tomorrow, either. ... And if they didn’t get it by the last night of the full moon, who knows how long he’d be stuck here, watching free porn, which was already losing its lustre.
Sam loaded his gun when they got back to the hotel room, made sure there were as many silver bullets as the magazine could hold, and waited for nightfall. Dad was right; Sam did kind of have a knack for killing werewolves. They were one of his favorite monsters to kill, if he had to kill monsters at all, because they didn’t look human when you killed them, and you could do it from a distance instead of having to look into their eyes as you did it, and there was no room for uncertainty like with rugarus and even vampires and creatures like Amy, who could conceivably refrain from killing people if they really tried. Werewolves killed; that was all there was to it. They couldn’t control themselves. They had to get put down.
Sam heard Phil at his door and got up to open it once Phil knocked ... only Phil didn’t knock. Sam realized too late what Phil was doing--he was jamming the deadbolt so Sam couldn’t get out. Sam scrambled frantically at the lock, then, when it didn’t budge, pounded on the door. “Phil! I have to help you!” he shouted. “My dad said!”
“I’m not taking any chances, kid,” Phil replied gruffly, not unkindly. “I’m gonna have my hands full just looking after myself; I can’t look after a disobedient kid like you, too.”
“Phil!” Sam shouted, pounding on the door, but he heard retreating footsteps, heard the elevator ding, and he was gone. Sam worked feverishly at the lock, but whatever Phil did, it could only be undone again from the outside. Sam looked around the room. He’d cased the exit points when he first arrived without even thinking about it, but like most hotels, there was only the one door ... except the sliding glass door out onto the third-floor balcony. Sam opened the door and looked over the railing for the first time. Three stories was just too high to jump unless there was something below to break your fall, and there was only cement ... but the balcony below wouldn’t be that hard to drop onto, from which he could ease himself down likewise to ground level. Yes, he might be seen ... but people’s lives were at stake. Without another thought, he made sure his gun was securely holstered in his pants and hoisted himself over the railing.
Okay, so the couple getting down to very porn-style business were pretty startled, but whatever; he’d be gone tomorrow if the police came looking for a peeping tom. Sam hurried back to the place where he was sure the werewolf lived, grateful again that Phil had enough money to afford whatever hotel was closest to the heart of the action. From the signs, the werewolf had already left its home for the evening’s hunt, so Sam went straight to where he was sure the wolf planned to take its next victim.
Then he saw it--and he saw who it was stalking: Phil, who was meandering aimlessly down this empty street right by where Sam had told him the werewolf wanted to take its next victim--or more likely, Sam was beginning to think, bite its obsession, turning it into a werewolf, too. What was Phil thinking?!
As the werewolf let out a low growl of anticipation, Sam saw what he was thinking, as his hand tightened over the handle of his gun. It was a clever ploy, to lure it to him by looking like the perfect victim, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Frantic before, Sam stopped and took stock of the situation. Despite Phil’s efforts, actually, everything was exactly as Dad had wanted: Sam was out of the way and downwind of the wolf, with a gun. Backup. Sam edged over to get a better angle if he should be needed, then settled against a high wall in the shadows, watching intently.
The werewolf stepped gingerly out of the shadows, stalking Phil carefully, maybe sensing danger with this one. It didn’t take long for it to begin to lope, then run top speed for Phil, who stopped when he heard the sound of its feet on the pavement and turned around, aiming ... but he didn’t fire. Sam ran forward a few steps, cocking his gun. What was Phil thinking?! “Phil!” Sam shouted.
The werewolf wheeled at his shout and came instead for Sam. Sam cocked his gun and took aim, concentrating, trying to ignore Phil’s cursing and carrying on about what a stupid, disobedient little twit Sam was. He’d thank him when Sam had saved his life ... or, well, he probably wouldn’t thank him, but at least Sam would have the satisfaction of knowing he’d kept him alive. Phil finally fired his gun at the werewolf ... missing its heart. Sam saw the rage and bloodlust come over its features before it turned for Phil again, this time intent on revenge. Sam wouldn’t be able to draw it again. Sam aimed, making sure his aim was perfect, because the werewolf was now directly between them. If Sam missed, he could end up shooting Phil.
Phil must not be terribly concerned about the same thing; he fired again and missed the werewolf completely. Instead, it hit Sam, the bullet grazing along his arm before embedding into the wall behind him, throwing his aim, and then the werewolf was on Phil. There wasn’t time to think of his arm, though it was abruptly going numb and cold; he used his other hand to steady his aim and fired. Right in the heart. The werewolf collapsed on Phil as Sam ran to his side. He had to be alive. He had to. He had to.
Phil’s eyes were open, his hand still clutched his gun, ... his chest ripped open, half of his heart between the wolf’s teeth ... or what was a wolf, now human. Sam took in the sight in disbelief. No. How could it ...? How could Sam somehow still have failed?
He gulped, breathing fast, close to hyperventilation, as he stood there staring at Phil’s dead body for long, dangerous minutes, unable to think, but he had to think, he had to. Someone might come past at any moment. He shouldn’t be caught standing beside two dead bodies with a gun in his hand. Dad’s relentless training served him well, as even when he couldn’t feel his body, he automatically started to take the necessary actions. He should give Phil a hunter’s funeral ... but there wasn’t time; he had to look after himself. He needed to get away from here as fast as he could. Not back to the hotel. Home. He had to go home.
Taking Phil’s car would be easiest, but when the cops found his body, they’d start looking for his car. Sam picked a convenient nearby ride, hot-wired it, and peeled out. Good thing Dad had taught him how to drive at a young age. Though it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, he kept to the speed limit so he wouldn’t get pulled over and asked what he was doing driving at 14. He’d memorized the name and location of the hotel Dad said they were staying at. He would get there by dawn, even going the speed limit.
He tried to think what he would tell Dad, but he couldn’t think. What on Earth had happened? Sam had a line on the wolf--a good one, for several seconds. How could he have still failed? He’d only been given one job--the most important job there was: saving a life--and he’d watched the guy die right in front of him. He didn’t know what Dad would do to him for this, but he figured whatever it was, he would deserve it--welcome it, even. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so terrible anymore.
He pulled into the hotel parking lot just as the moon set, killed the engine, and went and knocked numbly on the door. He knew what the scene would be inside the hotel room, since he hadn’t given them any warning he was on the way to find them: Dad getting out his gun, whispering orders to Dean, checking the peephole. The door flew open. “Sam?” Dad gasped. “What in the--” Sam vaguely realized he must be quite a sight, streaked with blood, sweat, and grime, a bullet wound up his arm.
Tears formed in Sam’s eyes now, for the first time. “Phil’s dead,” Sam said as Dean crept into view behind Dad, looking freaked out. “I don’t know how, I-- I must have screwed up, Dad. I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” Dad demanded, yanking him inside and locking the door securely behind him.
“He locked me in my hotel room the second night so I couldn’t come with him, but I got out, and I found him, he was trying to lure it to him, and I had a line on it, I was gonna shoot, but then he shot--he shot me.” Sam glanced at where the bullet had left a clean line right up his forearm.
Dad’s eyes popped wide with shock. He grabbed Sam’s arm then, anxiously examining the wound. He made a sound of dismay, but after looking it over hard, Sam could tell from Dad’s expression that the wound wasn’t bad. Sam hadn’t even looked at it in the dark of night with so many more pressing things to attend to, but he had noticed the feeling had come back into it sometime during the drive, which was always a good sign. “That your Honda?” he barked. Sam nodded blankly. “Dean, ditch the car,” Dad ordered, then led Sam gently to the bed and sat him down on it as Dean started getting dressed, watching them wide-eyed from the shadows by the sink.
“That threw my aim, and by the time I .... Dad, I’m so sorry.”
To Sam’s utter surprise, Dad grabbed him tight and hugged him so hard it almost hurt. “Son of a bitch shot my son! If that damn wolf hadn’t gotten him, I would’ve hunted him down myself! And all his children and grandchildren! It’s okay, Sam,” he chanted, rocking Sam a little, lips against Sam’s head, just like when he was a kid. “It’s okay.”
“He’s dead,” Sam said hauntedly. “His heart was still in its mouth when I ....”
“You got the wolf, too?” Dad said, sounding surprised, pulling back to look him in the face.
“Well ... yeah,” said Sam like it was obvious. He hadn’t exactly relished having to tell his father he’d let his buddy die, but he couldn’t have faced him if he hadn’t even gotten the monster.
Dean chuckled, clapping Sam’s good arm as he passed by on his way to the door. “Well, look at my little brother! Locked up and shot, and he’s still a better hunter than Dad’s buddy who’s been hunting ... how long, Dad?”
“Long enough,” Dad said shortly, “but it was inevitable. He never could shoot a gun worth a damn. I don’t have any idea what he was doing, going after a werewolf. I shouldn’t have made you go with him. I should’ve warned you to stay as far out of his line of fire as possible. I’m sorry, Sam,” he said, and Sam heard that little fissure of guilt through the words.
He really ... he really wasn’t in trouble?
Dad held him at arm’s length, smiling in a way Sam could only describe as proud. “At least the bullet cauterized the wound. It’s just a little scrape. You’ll be all right.” He shook Sam in a way that was rough and loving and totally Dad, and Sam slumped with relief, now that he could relax. He was home again, where he belonged. No more crepes for breakfast; cereal on a good day, maybe hot dogs. He would torment Dean with just-not-detailed-enough descriptions of having all-day access to free porn as soon as he woke up this afternoon once he was slept out, and Sam could already tell Dad would regale everyone with tales of Sam’s heroics when he explained what became of their old hunter buddy Phil. Dean’s head would explode with envy. Home, and everything was all right ... well, as all right as things ever got for a Winchester. Still, right now, it seemed like the greatest thing in the world.
~ The End ~
Notes:
- This was inspired by 8.09, when Dean repeatedly warns Benny not to underestimate Sam. It got me to thinking about how sweet and mild-mannered Sam is, but sure enough, when he's on a hunt, that suppressed intensity comes out, and he can be a force to be reckoned with.
- As always, my John is deeply flawed as a father, but well-intentioned, not cruel. I'm re-watching season one now, and always seeing Sam saying, with tears in his eyes, "I've got to find Dad. It's all I can think about." They loved their dad, he just had a really skewed vision of the world, which made him make a lot of screwed-up parenting decisions (like volunteering your kid to help a stranger kill a monster), but I believe his heart was in the right place.
- I have to say, though Sam thinks of himself as the more mature brother by far, I do like that so much of Sam's satisfaction comes from thinking of ways to taunt Dean.
Author: brightly_lit
Rating: PG for mild language and mild violence
Genre: gen, angst, h/c, teen!chesters
Characters: teen!Sam, teen!Dean, John, OC hunter
Word Count: ~3,800
Summary: John sends a very unwilling 14-year-old Sam with Phil, one of John's hunter buddies, to help him kill a werewolf. When things don't go as planned, Sam has to rely on himself and what he's been taught to try to pick up the pieces. Sometimes life with Dad and Dean seems pretty great by comparison.
“Jesus, I thought John Winchester’s kids would at least know how to follow my orders. You better stay far away from the danger. I get John Winchester’s kid killed, I’m a dead man.”
Yeah, well, if I let you get killed, I’m dead, Sam thought. Phil could think he was a disobedient little snot if he wanted, but Sam would do whatever it took to follow Dad's order.
Sam couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to stand there while Dad said long goodbyes to an old hunter buddy in some bar. Dad couldn’t be bothered to delay their departure a couple of hours for Sam to say goodbye to his friends when they moved again, but oh, get him with some guy he’d once killed something with and get a couple of beers in him and suddenly they have all the time in the world. Sam looked at Dean. Used to be, he could get a conspiratorial eyeroll, but Dean was all Mr. Grown Up Hunter now that he’d turned 18, and he shook his head disapprovingly at Sam’s annoyed look.
Sam looked around the bar again futilely for something to do, but there weren’t even any video games or anything. There was a pool table, but this was a hunter bar. Even Sam wouldn’t try hustling pool in a hunter bar. He could play just to pass the time, but though he often played to earn money for the family, the game itself didn’t interest him.
Then something that had never happened before caught his attention. “Sam can go with you,” John said to his hunter buddy, Phil. They’d killed a rugaru together back in the day.
“I can go, Dad,” Dean said quickly, ever the eager beaver.
“No, I need your help with the nest. One man can get a werewolf--unless that man is you, Phil, you stupid son of a bitch.” Sam rolled his eyes as the three of them laughed it up. Oh, he and Dean got in trouble if they so much as said “crap,” but Dad could say whatever the hell he wanted as long as he had an audience to impress.
Phil kept trying to refuse the offer, but Dad wouldn’t let it go. Sam looked to Dean in alarm--what, Dad was pimping him out to other hunters now?! As much as he resented the way Dad dragged them everywhere and made them help him with his hunts now that they were older, the only thing that could be worse is having to do the same thing for some stranger. Sam didn’t want to have to leave the relative comfort of the familiarity of Dad and Dean and the Impala.
Of course Dean was no help; his expression revealed only his personal agony at not being the one to get the ‘glory’ of being able to help some other dumb hunter Dad had barely ever even mentioned. Dean was still hung up on this ridiculous idea of hunters as heroes, but of course, always hunting within the family, no other hunters would ever hear of their exploits. Dean thought this was Sam’s golden opportunity to make a name for himself as a hunter by impressing Phil, who he for some reason thought would talk up Sam and his mad skills to other hunters, and he was envious as hell.
“Sam’ll just be backup, Phil,” Dad was saying. “You said you’d be headed north in a couple days; we can meet up again then and take him back.”
Phil, out of polite ways to reject the idea, finally smirked, looking Sam up and down. “This shrimpy little bookworm? Looks like he couldn’t even get a machete through a vamp’s neck, no matter how much dead man’s blood you pumped into it. Kid’d be sawing away at that thing for days!”
The twinkle left Dad’s eye. “Don’t underestimate my son. He’ll be a good help to you. Sam’s killed wolves before; kinda got a knack for it. Good at tracking, too. He’s a good hunter, even if he doesn’t want to be. Gimme a call when you get into town,” he said with a note of finality no one could miss, getting up. “See you then. Have fun, Sam.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder, then left the bar so Phil would have no more opportunity to protest.
Phil looked at Sam, who did his best to cover over the vast sense of outrage, fury, and betrayal he was left with and put a blank expression in its place. Phil didn’t return the favor, rolling his eyes. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”
There were some perks. Phil’s methods of financing his hunting were far more lucrative than Dad’s (Sam didn’t ask what they were, sensing it’d be better not to know), so they ate at fine restaurants and stayed in great hotels where Sam had his own room and Phil let him watch as much pay cable as he wanted, which included the Playboy channel. This was a perk Dean would enjoy far more than Sam, but Sam had all but never had the opportunity to watch porn alone before, and at 14, he couldn’t resist his fascination.
For that matter, he’d hardly ever gotten to be alone before, period. Dad always got the cheapest hotel rooms where the quarters only came in close and closer varieties, and any time Sam did anything remotely interesting or unusual, Dean was ever on top of him, trying to get in on the fun. For the first time, Sam got to do exactly as he pleased, because as far as Phil was concerned, Sam wasn’t helping; rather, he was babysitting Sam until he could deliver him back to Dad and Dean. This was fine by Sam, too, figuring it was win-win for both of them ... until Dad called Sam’s cell on the first night of the full moon as Phil poured silver bullets into molds.
“I know Phil’s going to try to talk you out of going with him on his hunt, Sam, but I sent you along to keep the poor bastard alive. Give him a machete and he can take out a whole nest in four minutes flat, but he can’t shoot a gun worth a damn. I want you to keep safe--stay far away from the action--but if he gets into trouble, you kill that thing, you hear me? I’m sorry I did this to you--I know you didn’t want to go--but you get to save a life, and the guy’s rolling in it, so I knew you’d have fun. Fair?”
Hearing Dad’s voice brought an unexpected pang to Sam’s heart. Homesick. He was homesick. How could he be homesick, when he didn’t even have a home? He tried to steady his voice before responding. “Yes, sir.”
“Kill that thing tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow; I’ll give you our twenty before we get off the phone. If you even want to come home, now that you’ve got a taste for the good life,” Dad teased.
“Yes, sir,” Sam said with even more difficulty. To be home tomorrow night, listening to Dad order them around and Dean brag about exactly how he would go about killing whichever monster Dad was hunting at the moment, sitting in some crap hotel eating a bologna sandwich. Sounded like paradise.
Dad was right--Phil didn’t want him to come along, and when Sam insisted, he tried to make him stay in the car. When Sam got out of the car and followed him anyway, he shook his head. “Jesus, I thought John Winchester’s kids would at least know how to follow orders. Fine, but you better stay far away from the danger. I get John Winchester’s kid killed, I’m a dead man.”
Yeah, well, if I let you get killed, I’m dead, Sam thought, but said nothing. Phil could think he was a disobedient little snot if he wanted, but Sam would do whatever it took to follow his dad’s orders.
Phil wouldn’t listen when Sam told him where he was pretty sure the werewolf lived based on scratches on a brick wall and some more on a windowsill, instead getting distracted by some smell coming from a dumpster, as if werewolves carefully deposited their victims in dumpsters before running off in search of another one, so Sam mostly stood around all night, bored, while Phil poked around uselessly. All Sam could think about was how there would be another dead body in the morning due to Phil’s so-called “thorough investigation.” Dad wasn’t exactly the guy you went to if you wanted a respectful hearing-out, but even Dad would have listened to Sam’s observations and followed up on them. Sometimes Sam was wrong about what the signs meant, but Dad knew Sam wouldn’t say something unless he was sure it was relevant, and Dad trusted his insights. Maybe there were good things about living with Dad, after all.
Sure enough, the story on the night’s victim was in the next morning’s paper, which Phil noted over their ritzy breakfast as one might note that it looked like rain, whereas Dad would be on the warpath, furious with himself for letting someone else die because he couldn’t track down the monster fast enough. Dad must have gone crazy, trying to hunt with this guy. Sam had no intention of being a hunter once he turned eighteen and could go to college (he was already secretly collecting brochures), but it was even driving him crazy. Jeez, people were dying, and Phil was leisurely sipping exotic coffee and reading the stocks.
They went out during the day to the scene of the attack. Phil finally followed up on the scratches Sam had noticed, but pointed out it could have been the victim’s house, not the werewolf’s. Sam was sure by the end of the day he knew where the werewolf lived and even where it would hit tonight, based on some subtle signs it was stalking someone in an adjacent neighborhood, but he kept his mouth shut, now planning to just slip off on his own and kill the thing himself when they went out on tonight’s hunt ... because he wasn’t going to be back with Dad and Dean tonight, and if he didn’t get this job done tonight, he wouldn’t be back with them tomorrow, either. ... And if they didn’t get it by the last night of the full moon, who knows how long he’d be stuck here, watching free porn, which was already losing its lustre.
Sam loaded his gun when they got back to the hotel room, made sure there were as many silver bullets as the magazine could hold, and waited for nightfall. Dad was right; Sam did kind of have a knack for killing werewolves. They were one of his favorite monsters to kill, if he had to kill monsters at all, because they didn’t look human when you killed them, and you could do it from a distance instead of having to look into their eyes as you did it, and there was no room for uncertainty like with rugarus and even vampires and creatures like Amy, who could conceivably refrain from killing people if they really tried. Werewolves killed; that was all there was to it. They couldn’t control themselves. They had to get put down.
Sam heard Phil at his door and got up to open it once Phil knocked ... only Phil didn’t knock. Sam realized too late what Phil was doing--he was jamming the deadbolt so Sam couldn’t get out. Sam scrambled frantically at the lock, then, when it didn’t budge, pounded on the door. “Phil! I have to help you!” he shouted. “My dad said!”
“I’m not taking any chances, kid,” Phil replied gruffly, not unkindly. “I’m gonna have my hands full just looking after myself; I can’t look after a disobedient kid like you, too.”
“Phil!” Sam shouted, pounding on the door, but he heard retreating footsteps, heard the elevator ding, and he was gone. Sam worked feverishly at the lock, but whatever Phil did, it could only be undone again from the outside. Sam looked around the room. He’d cased the exit points when he first arrived without even thinking about it, but like most hotels, there was only the one door ... except the sliding glass door out onto the third-floor balcony. Sam opened the door and looked over the railing for the first time. Three stories was just too high to jump unless there was something below to break your fall, and there was only cement ... but the balcony below wouldn’t be that hard to drop onto, from which he could ease himself down likewise to ground level. Yes, he might be seen ... but people’s lives were at stake. Without another thought, he made sure his gun was securely holstered in his pants and hoisted himself over the railing.
Okay, so the couple getting down to very porn-style business were pretty startled, but whatever; he’d be gone tomorrow if the police came looking for a peeping tom. Sam hurried back to the place where he was sure the werewolf lived, grateful again that Phil had enough money to afford whatever hotel was closest to the heart of the action. From the signs, the werewolf had already left its home for the evening’s hunt, so Sam went straight to where he was sure the wolf planned to take its next victim.
Then he saw it--and he saw who it was stalking: Phil, who was meandering aimlessly down this empty street right by where Sam had told him the werewolf wanted to take its next victim--or more likely, Sam was beginning to think, bite its obsession, turning it into a werewolf, too. What was Phil thinking?!
As the werewolf let out a low growl of anticipation, Sam saw what he was thinking, as his hand tightened over the handle of his gun. It was a clever ploy, to lure it to him by looking like the perfect victim, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Frantic before, Sam stopped and took stock of the situation. Despite Phil’s efforts, actually, everything was exactly as Dad had wanted: Sam was out of the way and downwind of the wolf, with a gun. Backup. Sam edged over to get a better angle if he should be needed, then settled against a high wall in the shadows, watching intently.
The werewolf stepped gingerly out of the shadows, stalking Phil carefully, maybe sensing danger with this one. It didn’t take long for it to begin to lope, then run top speed for Phil, who stopped when he heard the sound of its feet on the pavement and turned around, aiming ... but he didn’t fire. Sam ran forward a few steps, cocking his gun. What was Phil thinking?! “Phil!” Sam shouted.
The werewolf wheeled at his shout and came instead for Sam. Sam cocked his gun and took aim, concentrating, trying to ignore Phil’s cursing and carrying on about what a stupid, disobedient little twit Sam was. He’d thank him when Sam had saved his life ... or, well, he probably wouldn’t thank him, but at least Sam would have the satisfaction of knowing he’d kept him alive. Phil finally fired his gun at the werewolf ... missing its heart. Sam saw the rage and bloodlust come over its features before it turned for Phil again, this time intent on revenge. Sam wouldn’t be able to draw it again. Sam aimed, making sure his aim was perfect, because the werewolf was now directly between them. If Sam missed, he could end up shooting Phil.
Phil must not be terribly concerned about the same thing; he fired again and missed the werewolf completely. Instead, it hit Sam, the bullet grazing along his arm before embedding into the wall behind him, throwing his aim, and then the werewolf was on Phil. There wasn’t time to think of his arm, though it was abruptly going numb and cold; he used his other hand to steady his aim and fired. Right in the heart. The werewolf collapsed on Phil as Sam ran to his side. He had to be alive. He had to. He had to.
Phil’s eyes were open, his hand still clutched his gun, ... his chest ripped open, half of his heart between the wolf’s teeth ... or what was a wolf, now human. Sam took in the sight in disbelief. No. How could it ...? How could Sam somehow still have failed?
He gulped, breathing fast, close to hyperventilation, as he stood there staring at Phil’s dead body for long, dangerous minutes, unable to think, but he had to think, he had to. Someone might come past at any moment. He shouldn’t be caught standing beside two dead bodies with a gun in his hand. Dad’s relentless training served him well, as even when he couldn’t feel his body, he automatically started to take the necessary actions. He should give Phil a hunter’s funeral ... but there wasn’t time; he had to look after himself. He needed to get away from here as fast as he could. Not back to the hotel. Home. He had to go home.
Taking Phil’s car would be easiest, but when the cops found his body, they’d start looking for his car. Sam picked a convenient nearby ride, hot-wired it, and peeled out. Good thing Dad had taught him how to drive at a young age. Though it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, he kept to the speed limit so he wouldn’t get pulled over and asked what he was doing driving at 14. He’d memorized the name and location of the hotel Dad said they were staying at. He would get there by dawn, even going the speed limit.
He tried to think what he would tell Dad, but he couldn’t think. What on Earth had happened? Sam had a line on the wolf--a good one, for several seconds. How could he have still failed? He’d only been given one job--the most important job there was: saving a life--and he’d watched the guy die right in front of him. He didn’t know what Dad would do to him for this, but he figured whatever it was, he would deserve it--welcome it, even. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so terrible anymore.
He pulled into the hotel parking lot just as the moon set, killed the engine, and went and knocked numbly on the door. He knew what the scene would be inside the hotel room, since he hadn’t given them any warning he was on the way to find them: Dad getting out his gun, whispering orders to Dean, checking the peephole. The door flew open. “Sam?” Dad gasped. “What in the--” Sam vaguely realized he must be quite a sight, streaked with blood, sweat, and grime, a bullet wound up his arm.
Tears formed in Sam’s eyes now, for the first time. “Phil’s dead,” Sam said as Dean crept into view behind Dad, looking freaked out. “I don’t know how, I-- I must have screwed up, Dad. I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” Dad demanded, yanking him inside and locking the door securely behind him.
“He locked me in my hotel room the second night so I couldn’t come with him, but I got out, and I found him, he was trying to lure it to him, and I had a line on it, I was gonna shoot, but then he shot--he shot me.” Sam glanced at where the bullet had left a clean line right up his forearm.
Dad’s eyes popped wide with shock. He grabbed Sam’s arm then, anxiously examining the wound. He made a sound of dismay, but after looking it over hard, Sam could tell from Dad’s expression that the wound wasn’t bad. Sam hadn’t even looked at it in the dark of night with so many more pressing things to attend to, but he had noticed the feeling had come back into it sometime during the drive, which was always a good sign. “That your Honda?” he barked. Sam nodded blankly. “Dean, ditch the car,” Dad ordered, then led Sam gently to the bed and sat him down on it as Dean started getting dressed, watching them wide-eyed from the shadows by the sink.
“That threw my aim, and by the time I .... Dad, I’m so sorry.”
To Sam’s utter surprise, Dad grabbed him tight and hugged him so hard it almost hurt. “Son of a bitch shot my son! If that damn wolf hadn’t gotten him, I would’ve hunted him down myself! And all his children and grandchildren! It’s okay, Sam,” he chanted, rocking Sam a little, lips against Sam’s head, just like when he was a kid. “It’s okay.”
“He’s dead,” Sam said hauntedly. “His heart was still in its mouth when I ....”
“You got the wolf, too?” Dad said, sounding surprised, pulling back to look him in the face.
“Well ... yeah,” said Sam like it was obvious. He hadn’t exactly relished having to tell his father he’d let his buddy die, but he couldn’t have faced him if he hadn’t even gotten the monster.
Dean chuckled, clapping Sam’s good arm as he passed by on his way to the door. “Well, look at my little brother! Locked up and shot, and he’s still a better hunter than Dad’s buddy who’s been hunting ... how long, Dad?”
“Long enough,” Dad said shortly, “but it was inevitable. He never could shoot a gun worth a damn. I don’t have any idea what he was doing, going after a werewolf. I shouldn’t have made you go with him. I should’ve warned you to stay as far out of his line of fire as possible. I’m sorry, Sam,” he said, and Sam heard that little fissure of guilt through the words.
He really ... he really wasn’t in trouble?
Dad held him at arm’s length, smiling in a way Sam could only describe as proud. “At least the bullet cauterized the wound. It’s just a little scrape. You’ll be all right.” He shook Sam in a way that was rough and loving and totally Dad, and Sam slumped with relief, now that he could relax. He was home again, where he belonged. No more crepes for breakfast; cereal on a good day, maybe hot dogs. He would torment Dean with just-not-detailed-enough descriptions of having all-day access to free porn as soon as he woke up this afternoon once he was slept out, and Sam could already tell Dad would regale everyone with tales of Sam’s heroics when he explained what became of their old hunter buddy Phil. Dean’s head would explode with envy. Home, and everything was all right ... well, as all right as things ever got for a Winchester. Still, right now, it seemed like the greatest thing in the world.
~ The End ~
Notes:
- This was inspired by 8.09, when Dean repeatedly warns Benny not to underestimate Sam. It got me to thinking about how sweet and mild-mannered Sam is, but sure enough, when he's on a hunt, that suppressed intensity comes out, and he can be a force to be reckoned with.
- As always, my John is deeply flawed as a father, but well-intentioned, not cruel. I'm re-watching season one now, and always seeing Sam saying, with tears in his eyes, "I've got to find Dad. It's all I can think about." They loved their dad, he just had a really skewed vision of the world, which made him make a lot of screwed-up parenting decisions (like volunteering your kid to help a stranger kill a monster), but I believe his heart was in the right place.
- I have to say, though Sam thinks of himself as the more mature brother by far, I do like that so much of Sam's satisfaction comes from thinking of ways to taunt Dean.