Fic: Master of None 1a/3
Title: Master of None 1/3
Authors: faye_dartmouth and sendintheklowns
Summary: Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He'd figured wrong. Written for proj_nebula .
A/N (sendintheklowns ): I’ve been in a funk when it comes to writing lately but the mega talented and persuasive Faye kindly pulled me out of it by talking me into co-writing a story with her for Authoressnebula whose writing I absolutely adore (All Locked In is perfect in my book). Floralia, blueeyedliz and gidgetgal9 consented to beta for us and they did a wonderful job (scum-bug anyone?). I’m very lucky to be surrounded by such generous, talented people.
A/N (Faye): This fic is written for authoressnebula . I've always loved nebula's enthusiasm (and her love of limp!Sam!) so when we found out there was a plan to do something special for her, I was all over it. Much thanks to sendintheklowns , who is so much fun to write with. She is responsible for a large part of my participation at all these days--and she puts up with a LOT from me. I appreciate her not just as a fellow fan but as a very, very good friend. Also, thanks to our three betas Floralia, blueeyedliz , and gidgetgal9 . Also, personal thanks to my favorite lurker (who needs a username!) who gave this a once-over as well and assured me with her squee. Anyway, this one's for your, Nebula! You deserve it, for all the fic you've entertained others with, and just for being YOU.
Disclaimer: Not ours.
-o-
Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. After all, they were about to move--again. Which made their dad stonier and more difficult to talk to than usual, and it just made Dean hyper enough to make it impossible for Sam to focus on anything except what Dean wanted. And on top of that, they were picking up and leaving before Sam had a chance to finish out the term in school, which would make his transfer even more difficult when they finally settled again.
So yeah, this day had pretty much sucked from the start. Not much worse than all that, he’d figured.
He’d figured wrong.
Lying on his back, he could feel the dull throb of blood pulsing in his temples. He cracked his eyes open to find Dean, eyes wide and panicky, hovering over him, and then he remembered.
Dean had wanted to try some exotic submission hold on him before they left for their next gig in the morning. Sam had declined, his body had endured enough abuse for one day, but then his older brother had gotten surly. Dean, who never asked for much, wanted to do this so to keep the peace he'd finally agreed.
Everything had been fine until Dean applied pressure to Sam's neck; the same neck that was bruised because some hulking alpha jock at school had tried to shove him into the locker…by curling his hand around Sam's throat and squeezing. Another moment in his less than stellar day.
So when Dean had changed the position of his arm and it had scraped over his tender neck, he'd gasped. Dizziness left him reeling in Dean's arms and the next thing he knew, he was on the grass, blinking up at his brother.
His insanely protective, older brother who was about to flip out on him.
He knew the signs and symptoms and could forecast the gathering eruption. After all, he’d had sixteen years to learn everything there was to know about his brother. In fact, he could predict the upcoming tirade nearly verbatim in his mind. Sam couldn't take care of himself because he was too young, short, weak, naïve…fill in the blank. Sam needed a keeper, jail warden, full-time baby sitter, all of the above and then some to keep him safe.
And worst of all, Dean was going to dog Sam's every step for the next week to try to fulfill all those crazy responsibilities.
It wasn't that Sam wasn’t grateful to have a brother like Dean; his older sibling was pretty much his world since their dad was gone so much. Dean always made sure Sam had enough to eat, got to school, didn't get bullied, practiced his training moves. And it was nice to have someone there, someone who remembered that he existed at least--a familiar face from place to place and hunt to hunt.
Sam had always had to deal with more bad than good, so he could definitely appreciate Dean’s finer qualities even in the face of his more frustrating ones and the minor annoyances that only brothers could truly appreciate. After all, in addition to being over-protective and insanely obsessed with submission maneuvers, Dean also had poor taste in clothes--well, poor taste in clothes that Sam could steal, anyway.
A brutal growth spurt had left his jeans too short, unless the flood look was returning, so Sam had lifted a pair of Dean's jeans for his own use. Soft and broken in, they were way too loose around the waist but fit him in the legs. But his belt kept them from falling and he hoped Dean would never catch on; his brother was territorial when it came to his clothes. And playing his music. And driving the car.
But Dean was still awesome.
The thing was, Sam wasn't a little kid anymore. He could look out for himself. And that's why passing out like some girl and waking up to his looming, freaked out brother was so frustrating; it was hard to make an argument for being independent when you'd just blacked out.
So yeah. This day was about to get a whole lot worse and Sam was pretty sure there was nothing he could do about it.
-0-
It wasn't supposed to happen like this; the book had been very explicit about how to do the move and having your victim pass out wasn't the intended result. Preventing them from moving was the goal, not choking them out.
Especially when the victim was Sammy.
They were leaving tomorrow morning, which meant everything had to be packed up, and it was Dean's job to make sure it got done. But throwing crap in a bag was easy, and they had all night, and Dean had been cramped up in the house all day by himself. He needed to expend some energy, have some fun. So before he and Sammy started in on the task of packing, he just wanted to try out the Abdominal Stretch with Claw. He'd read about it in the book his dad had given him and he was excited to use it; he was totally into submission moves and who better to practice on then Sammy?
And who didn’t want to know a move that could be called the claw?
Only Sammy was quiet, more quiet than usual. He'd slunk into the house and headed straight for his room. Dean had cajoled and whined and was about ready to yank his shorter, lighter brother outside without his consent when Sam had finally capitulated.
Dean mentally reviewed the move. The attacker stands behind the victim, reaching around the victim's body with one leg so it is around the victim's side and between their legs, hooking the leg on the same side as the attacker's leg. The attacker wraps their arm which is closest to the victim's head around the victim's head or arm which is up. The attacker then uses their free hand to grab the victim's side/stomach and apply pressure. The victim should be forced to bend slightly to the side.
He quickly realized his mistake; he'd accidentally executed the straight forward Abdominal Stretch and put pressure on Sam's neck, pulling him upwards, instead of wrapping his arms around Sam's head and raised arm. A rookie mistake, one that would annoy Sam, but no harm, no foul. So why the hell was Sam imitating a rag doll all of a sudden?
One moment Dean had been shifting his grip, his arm inadvertently settling against Sam's throat, and the next his brother had been a sagging weight in his arms, Dean scrambling to hold him up.
Lying Sam on his back on the grass, Dean dropped to his knees next to him. "Sammy? You with me?"
His sibling was pale, his tan from training outdoors fading to white. Those expressive blue-green eyes were closed, mouth slack.
Dean picked up Sam's wrist and quickly found a pulse. It wasn't too strong or too thready or too slow or too fast; Goldie Locks would be proud, because Sam's pulse was just right. But why was Sam unconscious? He wasn't faking it, Dean knew that much. He could tell the difference between live and dead weight.
Only Sam wasn't dead.
The neck of Sam's hoodie looked a little restrictive so Dean tugged, loosening it. His eyes widened as he saw red marks circling Sam's throat. Marks in the shape of fingers.
Dean hadn't used his hand, he'd used his arm.
He was going to tear the bastard who dared touch his little brother limb from limb. Of course he had to wait until Sam told him which scum-bag had laid a finger on him.
Suddenly, Sam was blinking up groggily at him, glassy eyed. Dean watched as an impressive array of emotions played over his features, eyes widening, face flushing and then lips pulling into a mutinous straight line - surprise, embarrassment and finally frustration.
Dean got an arm behind Sam's back and supported him into a sitting position before his little brother swatted his arm away. "I'm fine."
He couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes in response. Sam exasperated him, there was no doubt about it. Claiming he was fine after he’d just passed the hell out in Dean’s arms. But, exasperation or not, Sam was also the most important thing in his life along with his dad and hunting.
Pushing too long bangs out of Sam's face, he noted that his brother’s eyes had cleared. And were staring at Dean with accusation in their sparkling depths. Dean put his hands up. "I didn't do anything! I mean I wasn't supposed to pin your throat but it shouldn't make you pass out! You're too--"
His brother pushed himself to his feet, glaring. "Forget it, Dean. Whatever you're about to say, just save it. I'm fine. I'll be in my room packing. For yet another move. Oh joy."
Dean hated when Sam was sarcastic. That was his own shtick, not his little brother. Sam was innocent and naïve and…stomping away, very pissed off. "Hey, I'm not done with you! Tell me who put their beefy hand around your throat! I’m going to go teach them a lesson…hey, Sammy!"
-0-
John had spent the day at the library, gathering information on Spring Heeled Jacks. He’d hunted one before, but only one, and it had been some years ago and his knowledge gained from that hunt had been sparse. He never approached a hunt unprepared, no matter how simple it seemed to be.
That didn’t make him relish it any more. Some research he didn’t mind. There was a certain beauty to it. The complicated mess of plotting patterns, of putting together clues and figuring out patterns. His note taking was extensive and his breadth of knowledge was expansive.
But a Spring Heeled Jack? Not high on his hit list of evil things to be eradicated. This was one he would have gladly pawned off, even to Sammy. Dean would have found a Jack boring even in his early days of hunting.
Too bad Sam had thrown a damn hissy fit and trudged off to school instead.
Sam was the strangest child. Unlike Dean, who John swore he knew better than himself; Dean liked fast women, fast cars, eating, drinking and hunting. His time was spent in the pursuit of these things. Except for when he was looking out for his little brother.
As he walked in the door, he could hear pounding within. Dean was yelling. "Open the freakin' door, Sam, or I'm going to kick it open...I’m not screwing around here!"
No one pushed Dean's buttons like Sam. Actually, no one pushed buttons in general quite as well as Sam did. He sighed heavily, throwing his backpack on the table before moving down the hallway. "What now?"
His oldest son whipped his head to the side to look at John, frowning heavily. "I tried the Abdominal Stretch with Claw except it was more like a regular Abdominal Stretch and Sammy passed out. And he's got marks on his neck, in the shape of fingers. And the little jerk won't tell me who did it and won't open the door."
Dean was so upset, he was out of breath. And true to form, it was because Sam's well being had been threatened - his youngest had passed out during a training maneuver and someone had dared manhandle him, probably at school.
He was pretty sure Dean viewed Sam as his own personal property and didn't take kindly to others abusing his brother; that was Dean's sole providence. From the moment John had placed Sammy in Dean's arms and told him to run, Dean had protected him fiercely.
John sighed again. He could understand Dean being worked into a froth; now he needed to see Sam, make sure his youngest was okay. "Why don't you pack up the kitchen? By the time you're done, I'll have this all sorted out."
His stubborn son stalked away, mumbling under his breath about stupid little brothers.
John knocked on the bedroom door that the boys shared. "Sammy, it's Dad. I need to talk to you."
He didn't need, or even want to talk to Sam; more times than not, all he got for his efforts was a quiet, sulky boy he didn't know how to communicate with. But he did need to see with his own two eyes that Sam was okay. His youngest had a way of getting into scrapes and if he didn't keep an eye on him, his injuries and illnesses tended to get out of hand. Despite Sam’s training, the kid seemed like a magnet for trouble, and his slight frame didn’t help matters. Though Sam had finally started to grow like a weed in the last year, it only made him even skinnier than John had imagined possible, which John knew made Sam look like an easy target.
Why Sam was so insistent on letting that image persist was another issue entirely.
The doorknob turned and the door swung open. Sam didn’t look him in the eye, but left the door open far enough for him to come in. "Hey, Dad," he muttered.
Sam moved back to his bed where his clothing sat in neat piles, waiting to be packed in the large duffle bag on the floor. Tension radiated from him, evident in the straight line of his back and shoulders and the way his head was held high.
John shuffled uncertainly inside. "So, um, Dean said he tried out a new move on you and didn't go as expected."
He heard a soft snort and then Sam turned to face him. "I'm fine. I'm not dizzy, my color is good…there was just too much pressure on my throat."
Those large, slanted eyes still wouldn't meet John's. He walked over, grasping Sam's chin in his hand, rotating the head up. He could see the marks Dean had mentioned. They were probably the reason Sam had passed out. Bruises on the neck were a bitch.
His son tolerated the scrutiny for a while and then stepped back, bumping the bed with his legs. Sam looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here, talking to his dad. "So what happened to your throat?"
Now he got the eye contact he wanted, Sam's eyes blazing. "Some jerk at school tried to shove me in a locker but I took care of it. I don't need Dean fighting my battles for me. I can take care of myself."
The doubt must have shown on his face even though John worked hard to keep a stony expression because Sam huffed before turning back to his project. Clearing his voice, John changed the subject. “We leave at daybreak."
His brain couldn’t abandon the subject but he kept his thoughts to himself. His youngest might think he could take care of himself but he hadn't proven that to John's satisfaction. Sammy had always been small for his age and was just now coming into his own, limbs lengthening and stretching. But he was still too slight and his coordination wasn't quite there. Maybe his training wasn’t going quite as well as John had thought.
For the moment, John knew enough to keep his mouth shut. But he knew he'd be watching Sam extra close on this hunt.
-0-
Minnesota. The land of lakes, Pastor Jim, and, apparently, Spring Heeled Jacks. Minnesota was one of their more frequent destinations it seemed. Though not really a convenient state for a stopover, Sam knew that his dad's list of friends were few and far between and not even John Winchester’s gruff form of agnosticism could alienate Pastor Jim. Which was fine with Sam. As far as the hunting buddies went, Pastor Jim was one of the best. Soft spoken and a keen listener, Sam had found it a bit of a refuge even when everything else was utterly crappy. In fact, Jim had been one of the few people Sam had ever really been able to talk to--about things like God and good and evil. Dean was usually pretty good at letting him ask about most things, but when it came to God or their mother, all bets were off, and it didn't take much to figure out that those two things were related somehow.
Pastor Jim had answers, that was what it came down to. Not the black and white directives his father gave him or the need-to-know crap Dean liked to try to pull, but actual answers, or at least more questions that got him thinking. So, really, Minnesota was actually a step up in the world for Sam, especially considering the hell hole they'd just left, even if they weren’t going to be visiting Pastor Jim right away.
Still, Sam was going to be the new kid. He was going to have to figure out his classes and his schedule all over again. And on top of all that, he was going to have to prep for the next hunt, because clearly Sam was past the age that he was allowed to opt out.
Which meant that getting ahead in trigonometry would have to wait another day. Right now he had to read up on Spring Heeled Jacks, which was his father's best guess at their latest hunt.
If he thought he could get away with a little free reading instead, he would. But his father's withering gaze had him pinned in the rearview mirror and Dean's haphazard quizzing of Sam's knowledge of supernatural beings kept him focused on the task at hand.
To be fair, this was a new one to Sam, and even to Dean. It wasn't the run of the mill spirit or a werewolf or anything that Sam had seen before, so the extra knowledge probably would be beneficial in the long run.
The fact that he had to believe that just made him think how completely screwed up his life was.
And to think most kids felt over-protected when their parents set a curfew at 10 PM. Sam couldn't even ride in the back seat of the car without an interrogation or plan for the future without considering what supernatural lore was native to the region.
"Where do they come from?" his brother asked.
Sam sighed. "The first recorded sightings were in England. As far as supernatural creatures go, this one's fairly new."
"Well, think about it," Dean chastised. "What does that probably mean?"
"Considering the reports are kind of distinctive, you'd think it was a ghost," Sam said.
Over the seat back, Sam saw his father shake his head and Sam felt himself shrink a little. So much for proving himself through his knowledge.
Because that was what this was about. It wasn't just prep work or passing the time. It was about Sam proving he could do it. About Sam showing them both that he was up to the challenge. It was a constant pressure, and after the incident with Dean's submission hold, Sam knew they were watching out for him more than ever. Just looking for a way that he could screw up, that they could correct him on the error of his ways, point out his weaknesses so he could never forget them.
They always assumed the worst. They assumed that Sam had gotten his butt kicked by bullies at school, not that Sam had done his best to not make a scene while still getting the goon off his back. They assumed that Sam was too weak to hold up under normal sparring conditions without considering that Dean’s constant experimentation was hard to keep up with, as was the constant changes in his body.
Dean clicked his tongue. "Too corporeal for that. I mean, ghosts flicker in and out, but this thing jumps around, touches people."
"And breathes some kind of fire," Sam added in. "I know that. You just asked me about the fact that it's new."
Dean nodded. "Well, it could also be a monster by another name. Some kind of older creature making a new name for itself. That's why you’ve got to look at the other characteristics, the descriptions, the method of attack. So you can figure out its origin."
Yeah, Sam could see that. And he could have figured that out--but they never gave him a chance. It seemed like everything was a set up for failure. Leading questions about the hunt that never let him reason out loud. Fighting sessions where he was paired again Dean, who was always faster and stronger, no matter what Sam did. He just couldn't win sometimes, and it was more than a little disheartening.
"Come on, Sammy," his brother said. "I'm just trying to get you to think like a hunter. We have to figure out what this thing really is in order to know how to kill it."
As if Sam needed to be reminded of that. Sighing, he knew an argument would get him nowhere. "Past reports have talked about its ability to leap. Like I said, its breath. Some reports make it seem less human, more, I don't know, demonic. Claws and oilskin and stuff."
"Keep it simple, Sam," his father lectured.
Sam resisted his urge to roll his eyes. It would be nice if he got more than two seconds to even talk things through before he was being treated like he couldn't figure it out. "So it's probably got some kind of demonic heritage," Sam said. "Some kind of demon incarnate? Which would explain its superhuman abilities. And its appearance."
Dean nodded approvingly, and he even seemed to be glowing. "Good," he said. "Recent reports are similar, though this one looks more human than not."
"Then how can we be sure it’s demonic?" Sam asked.
Dean looked sidelong at his father, who raised his eyebrows. "There aren't many modern cases around the country, but even with the cape and the flourish, these guys always leave behind traces of one thing: sulfur."
Well, gee, it might have been nice if they'd included that in the background they'd given him. Historical texts were helpful, but modern science certain did give them an advantage.
It was a continual test. Always trying to make him stronger, faster, smarter, better. Because he just wasn't good enough.
The fact that Sam didn't want to be better in that kind of way was clearly beside the point.
It just seemed too typical. Sam gets into a fight and they want to protect him and completely ignore that Sam handled it just fine, on his own, his own way. Because there was only one way in this family: the Winchester way.
Which was great for Dean, but made Sam miserable.
He'd have to work harder then. Not to make them happy, but to earn some space again. If he didn't, this next move would be worse than the last. And that was saying something, considering that the courses he'd been stuck in were filled with information he'd already learned and apparently being new, tall, and eager to please made him the target of every two-bit jock in the stupid place.
He shifted through the notes again, looking at the history, the mysterious presence, the gentlemanly facade. "So how is it attacking now? Back then it didn't even seem to kill people. Scared them, scratched a few. But there's little record of them actually murdering, so why is it our gig?"
Dean looked mildly impressed. "Well, death isn't the only supernatural inconvenience."
"But it's the kind we go after," Sam shot back.
"Reports started out minor," their father cut in. "The appearance of a mysterious figure unnerved a few people. Then he showed up in the middle of a traffic intersection. Caused a couple of accidents, one pretty bad. Then he swiped a teenager for a few hours. Kid made it back unscathed, but the pattern's clear."
Sam didn't need it spelled out for him. "He's stepping up the attacks."
"And so how long before he starts to kill? Maybe never, but it’s a chance we can’t take," his father agreed. "Besides. It's supernatural. We kill it."
It was so black and white. No margin for disagreement. "Silver bullet to the heart?" Sam asked.
"And then we torch the corpse," Dean added in, sounding far more excited than anyone should. "Can't go wrong with fire."
Sam shuddered a little involuntarily. Monsters. Fire. Not his favorite subjects. What kind of hunter would he be anyway?
Dean was grinning at Sam again. "See, Sammy," he said. "All it takes is some focus."
Great. That was so not the lesson Sam was taking away from this.
Still, Sam wasn't stupid. There were some battles to fight, some to let go, and some to fight in secret. The goal now was minimal conflict, proving himself, else he'd never be happy.
Because Sam wanted time to read. Books he liked. He wanted time to do his homework, to join a club or something. Maybe write for the school newspaper. Those were things he liked, things he enjoyed. Hunting was like chores, a requirement. He just wanted to do the bare minimum and make it through.
The balance was off, though. The more they doubted him, the tighter Sam’s leash would be.
So this Spring Heeled Jack? Better watch it. Because Sam didn't care so much about the Jack itself, but this was Sam's chance to prove himself and gain the freedom that he needed to do anything he liked at all.
-o-
Dean had to admit. This hunt sounded kind of boring.
Sure, he had to put on a good face. His father wasn't one to tolerate sulking, and in the end, that was just the kind of example Sammy didn't need right about now.
But a Spring Heeled Jack? That hadn't actually directly killed anyone? There had to be some kind of nasty poltergeist or a demonic possession that was more worthy of their time and more interesting to boot. Dean was all up for new challenges, so in that regard adding a Spring Heeled Jack to his list of conquests was good and all, but boring.
And not his father's style.
Then again, this probably wasn't about his father's style or Dean sharpening his skill set. This was about getting Sam back in the game, upping his game, giving Dean and their dad a chance to watch Sam in action and see if they could get the kid back on top of things again.
After all, Sammy was getting pushed around by bullies. Still. He'd sort of hoped they'd left that behind. Especially since Sam had finally hit a growth spurt. Now they just needed to bulk the kid up and no one would think twice about messing with Sam, because he'd look as dangerous as he was.
Because Sam was dangerous. He could kick any normal kid's ass any day of the week. So why was Sam pussyfooting it? Why was he getting pushed around? Didn't make sense.
Then again, Sam hadn't been making much sense lately. Something had changed in Sam. Sam had always been focused on hunts ever since his dad officially let him in on the family secret. Sam didn’t quite like it as much as Dean did, but the kid was good at the prep work even when he hadn't been allowed to participate in the kills. All good signs that his brother was ready to fall in line and be a part of the family business.
And then? Sam changed. Puberty made some kids horny and other kids emotional roller coasters. It made Sam distant and withdrawn. Wanting to spend more time at school. Still obsessed with making friends, doing homework, even extra-curriculars. Which might have been cute were Sam still an innocent eight year old who didn't know better. But Sam did know better. All that crap--it was getting him sidetracked and now they were all paying for it with some inane hunt with some wussy creature with quasi-demonic origins. The best part--the only good part--would be watching the thing go up in flames.
That hardly made the research phase any more fun. Because it wasn't enough to identify the thing, but they had to figure out where it was holed up. Otherwise, waiting for an attack would be foolish at best and just plain stupid at worst. The attacks were random and unpredictable. Spirits had patterns. Creatures of demonic origin? Just liked their kicks.
So they had to track the thing. Which meant talking to people about where they'd seen it, where it went. Clues from its appearance, from its methods.
Of course, it wasn't a coincidence that their father had given Dean the task of following up with the group or terrorized coeds. Sometimes being the good son? Really paid off.
Better yet. They were sorority chicks.
Now if there could just be a spur of the moment wet t-shirt contest, he'd be in heaven.
Business before pleasure. A cruel fact of the universe.
The girls were roommates, an elementary ed major and a communications major. A blonde and a brunette. Both juniors. Names Rachel and Mindy or Rebecca and Wendi or something like that.
They had invited him into the main room, which was sadly empty of other girls, though he could hear some in the kitchen, and he could only hope they'd walk by. If not, he could always feign hunger (which, man, was his stomach grumbling for real or what?).
Not that Renee and Cindie weren't quite enough, but fantasies and all that....
"So you're with the campus paper?" Rochelle asked.
"Uh, yeah," Dean said, turning his focus back to the task at hand. He scowled at his notebook. "Just, you know. Trying to stay on top of the student body."
Raquel (that had to be it) didn't seem to get it (communication major, what did Dean expect?) and Bindi looked vaguely intrigued.
"So the attack," Dean said.
"Wasn't so much an attack," Raquel said. "Just some weirdo."
"Probably some frat boy initiation," Lindy agreed (which, was Lindy even a name?).
"But you said the guy moved quickly? Like track star quickly or--?"
"No, that's the weird part," Raquel said. "The dude was, like, jumping. One second he was there then the next he was over there."
"Optical illusion," Sydney said (because Sydney sounded more plausible than Lindy). "Must have been. Some kind of freakish elaborate hoax to see if we'd scream."
"Did you?" Dean prompted, not sure why it was relevant, but the thought of them screaming made him get a little excited.
Raquel shrugged. "He was just some weird perverted underclassman, I'll bet," she said. "So skinny and all. And that costume. What a stupid costume!"
"What did it look like?"
"Like some freaky-ass old fashioned wedding or something," Raquel said. "Cape and a hat."
"And a trimmed mustache," Sydney added in.
"A mustache?"
"A super well cared for one," Raquel confirmed. "And he spoke all dignified like."
All dignified like was surely a very technical description. Perhaps Raquel could benefit from Sydney’s communication classes to help improve her clarity. "And what did he say?"
"Some crap about a lovely evening for a stroll and two lovely ladies should never walk alone," Sydney said. "Total freak all the way. I mean, who takes the time to set that kind of crap up?"
"What else did he do?"
The girls exchanged nonplussed looks. "Jump around, rattled on," Raquel said. "Tried to swipe at us a couple of times."
"Swipe?"
"Yeah, the freak was wearing some kind of claws or something. Didn't get close enough to do anything," Sydney said.
"Um, no," Raquel interjected. "He totally scratched my skirt. My leather skirt. That thing cost me, like, two hundred dollars."
Sydney nodded sympathetically. "I know, and you bought it in Chicago."
"And it's the only skirt that gets me free drinks when I'm at the bars."
"So you two were out drinking?"
Sydney shrugged. "On our way home. But you're not going to print that, are you? My mom would totally freak if she knew. She already is convinced I need to start carrying mace or something after this freak."
Well, that wasn't exactly encouraging. But still, these girls didn't have much to say. It fit the description of a Jack to a tee. The jumping, the monologuing, the clothes. Even the claws.
Raquel giggled. "Though we must have been pretty wasted," she said. "I swear, I saw the dude, like, breathe fire."
Sydney looked surprised. "Me, too! I thought I was totally tripping!"
Breathing fire, check. This was a Jack. And the lesson Dean had learned? That Jacks were the lamest supernatural dicks around, couldn't even scare a couple of half-drunk sorority girls.
The other lesson? That he had missed out on a lot by not going to college.
"Well, thank you, ladies," he said. "I have what I need."
"You sure?" Raquel asked.
Sydney looked somewhat concerned. "And you're not printing the part about the drinking."
"Or the miniskirt," Raquel said. "I put that on my mom's card and she doesn't know."
Dean grinned. "Ladies, I'm a journalist. I have my standards."
"Well, maybe you can, well, wave your standards," Sydney suggested. "Just this once."
Dean caught her drift. "Well, maybe," he said. "But I'll need your names and numbers. For, you know, any follow up interviews."
"I do love a man who’s on top of the story," Sydney said, and Raquel giggled.
Dean just bit his lip to hide his glee.
-o-
Mary had always told him not to compare his kids. To not think back to what Dean had done, to not think about how many dirty diapers a day Dean had had, or how soon Dean learned to crawl or sit up or any of that. She lectured him often that their boys were different, distinctive, and that it was detrimental to all of them to compare them.
Still, sixteen years later, it was hard advice to follow. Especially when his boys were so damn different.
Dean was eager and compliant. Damn near perfect. Brilliant on the hunt. Anything John asked, Dean did. There were a few missteps here and there, but Dean was the good little soldier that he needed to win this fight, to keep this family together.
Sam on the other hand--well, Sam was not. Sam was smart, thoughtful in a whole different way. He could see things, understand things. He was a perceptive kid, always knowing what questions to ask and how to ask them. And he had the perfect puppy dog eyes that could get him just about anything the kid damn well pleased.
But where Dean followed orders, Sam questioned them. And it wasn't that John didn't tolerate Sam's curiosity. It was his open insubordination and perplexing hesitance to act that pushed all his buttons. Where Sam used to ask why they moved around so much or why monsters wanted to kill people, now the kid asked why they had to hunt at all. Why they had to give up so many things, why they had to spend so many hours training. Those questions were counterproductive and indicative of a bigger problem with the kid.
Namely, he was distracted. He wasn't living up to his potential. He was whittling away his time on studies and friends and putting his life at risk. He wasn't even fighting back when he was supposed to, which was perhaps the biggest lapse in training John could see. He didn't encourage his boys to violence, but getting beat up? Letting bullies get the upper hand? Wasn't just stupid but dangerous. If Sam had been on a hunt and passed out like he did during his scuffle with Dean--well, that could be the difference between life or death.
So the Spring Heeled Jack? Sam's hunt. Sam would have to know every detail of it, he would have to be part of the kill. After all, he was sixteen. Time for him to step it up--a lot.
And one more comparison? Dean was fun to work with. Witty and engaged.
Sam just looked miserable.
Slumped at the lone desk in the motel room, skimming the text in front of him half heartedly in the dim light. Every now and then, John could see him longingly eye his discarded book bag on the couch.
The kid still wasn't getting it. They'd been in town for nearly a week, checking with the locals, talking to the victims, getting the low-down from the cops. He had consented to let Sam start school, but had insisted that his nights were all prep work and training, reading up on the interview notes, sorting through the police reports, then endurance training, hand-to-hand, some target practice. It was his hope that the kid would figure it out what he needed to be focusing on, but no such luck. John would just have to make it a little clearer.
"How's it going?" he asked, eyes steadily on Sam over the journal open on his lap.
Sam's shoulders sagged a little. "Fine," he mumbled.
"What have you learned?"
"Not much new," Sam said. "Same stuff I've learned all week. He jumps a lot. Gentlemanly approach but some weird features. Breathes fire. All the reports talk about the fire. And his cape."
"Then don't look for what we already know. Think about what we don't know."
"Location," Sam intoned.
"So what have you figured out about its lair?"
Sam sighed, shifting through the papers in front of him. "Well, he can move--fast. So he can scale a wide distance. But I plotted the attacks on a map."
"And?"
Sam turned, holding out the map. "And it looks like there's a general zone for the attacks. I figure he's holed up somewhere in the middle."
"So we know the general location," John agreed.
"And so then you think about its personality. For as much as it likes to put on the appearance of a gentleman, it's old. It'd probably want something familiar to call home."
"Such as?"
"My best guess is something wooded. Remote. Nature is always the same. And some of the historical reports suggest that some attacks happened near the woods."
"Which means?"
"Here," Sam said, pointing to an area on the map. "It's sort of small but it's the closest thing to that description in the area. It would provide him a place to hide out during the day. And the kid who was taken reported seeing trees and wandered out of these woods."
And damn it all if the kid couldn't put it together. John had already suspected the woods, that was their usual MO, but he needed Sam to do it. Sam had a lot to learn, a lot to prove, so John was willing to take this one slow--for Sam's sake.
He couldn't forget, though, that no matter how well Sam put it together, this was still the rudimentary stuff. It shouldn't have taken this much pressure to make Sam figure it out. As far as he was concerned, this was still catch up for Sam.
"So what?" he prompted.
"We pick a night, take hand guns and a lighter, and comb the woods. If he's corporeal, he'll have real needs for shelters and food, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."
This was the plan he'd already discussed with Dean this afternoon, but Sam didn't need to know that. "Tomorrow then," he said. "We'll need to get the fake IDs finalized in case we run into trouble and we have to scope out any possible problems."
He could see the relief on Sam's face--for all the wrong reasons. The kid grinned, "So can I go do my homework now?"
John had been expecting as much, but it was just the wrong thing for the kid to ask for. The kid had only been enrolled in school one week and at this rate? They weren't going to be here more than two more weeks. Sam didn't need to worry about school. He needed to worry about this hunt, because no matter how simple a Jack seemed, Sam needed to assume the worst.
And Sam was worried about homework.
"No time for that," John said, giving Sam a steady look.
Sam didn't back away. "But I did the research," he said. "I figured it out."
As if it were that simple. Sam was getting pushed around by bullies, and he thought two hours of work was going to make it better. "You have training, don't you?"
"But I did my morning regimen," Sam protested. "And it's at least a two mile walk from school."
"Dean does so much more than that."
"But Dean's out picking up girls right now," Sam said.
Damn Dean and his bragging. "Your brother also isn't getting pushed around at school and passing out during mediocre hand to hand practice."
Sam's jaw just dropped.
"We need to get you back on track," he explained, not harshly, but sternly. There was no room for argument, no space for disparity.
"But--"
"No buts, Sam," he said, his voice hardening a bit. "You will be on top of your game for tomorrow night. Just a short run to top things off tonight, okay?"
A thousand protests flitted through Sam's eyes, but his face fell, resolved, before he said, "Yes, sir."
With that, he got up and moved stiffly past John to the bathroom. John could hear rustling before Sam reemerged and headed toward the main door.
"Two miles, no less," John ordered. "Then stretches."
The sound of the door closing behind Sam was the only answer he got.
And John was struck with another comparison. Where Dean was readily obedient, Sam was begrudgingly so, and it was so damn tiring to deal with.
part 1b here
Authors: faye_dartmouth and sendintheklowns
Summary: Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He'd figured wrong. Written for proj_nebula .
A/N (sendintheklowns ): I’ve been in a funk when it comes to writing lately but the mega talented and persuasive Faye kindly pulled me out of it by talking me into co-writing a story with her for Authoressnebula whose writing I absolutely adore (All Locked In is perfect in my book). Floralia, blueeyedliz and gidgetgal9 consented to beta for us and they did a wonderful job (scum-bug anyone?). I’m very lucky to be surrounded by such generous, talented people.
A/N (Faye): This fic is written for authoressnebula . I've always loved nebula's enthusiasm (and her love of limp!Sam!) so when we found out there was a plan to do something special for her, I was all over it. Much thanks to sendintheklowns , who is so much fun to write with. She is responsible for a large part of my participation at all these days--and she puts up with a LOT from me. I appreciate her not just as a fellow fan but as a very, very good friend. Also, thanks to our three betas Floralia, blueeyedliz , and gidgetgal9 . Also, personal thanks to my favorite lurker (who needs a username!) who gave this a once-over as well and assured me with her squee. Anyway, this one's for your, Nebula! You deserve it, for all the fic you've entertained others with, and just for being YOU.
Disclaimer: Not ours.
-o-
Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. After all, they were about to move--again. Which made their dad stonier and more difficult to talk to than usual, and it just made Dean hyper enough to make it impossible for Sam to focus on anything except what Dean wanted. And on top of that, they were picking up and leaving before Sam had a chance to finish out the term in school, which would make his transfer even more difficult when they finally settled again.
So yeah, this day had pretty much sucked from the start. Not much worse than all that, he’d figured.
He’d figured wrong.
Lying on his back, he could feel the dull throb of blood pulsing in his temples. He cracked his eyes open to find Dean, eyes wide and panicky, hovering over him, and then he remembered.
Dean had wanted to try some exotic submission hold on him before they left for their next gig in the morning. Sam had declined, his body had endured enough abuse for one day, but then his older brother had gotten surly. Dean, who never asked for much, wanted to do this so to keep the peace he'd finally agreed.
Everything had been fine until Dean applied pressure to Sam's neck; the same neck that was bruised because some hulking alpha jock at school had tried to shove him into the locker…by curling his hand around Sam's throat and squeezing. Another moment in his less than stellar day.
So when Dean had changed the position of his arm and it had scraped over his tender neck, he'd gasped. Dizziness left him reeling in Dean's arms and the next thing he knew, he was on the grass, blinking up at his brother.
His insanely protective, older brother who was about to flip out on him.
He knew the signs and symptoms and could forecast the gathering eruption. After all, he’d had sixteen years to learn everything there was to know about his brother. In fact, he could predict the upcoming tirade nearly verbatim in his mind. Sam couldn't take care of himself because he was too young, short, weak, naïve…fill in the blank. Sam needed a keeper, jail warden, full-time baby sitter, all of the above and then some to keep him safe.
And worst of all, Dean was going to dog Sam's every step for the next week to try to fulfill all those crazy responsibilities.
It wasn't that Sam wasn’t grateful to have a brother like Dean; his older sibling was pretty much his world since their dad was gone so much. Dean always made sure Sam had enough to eat, got to school, didn't get bullied, practiced his training moves. And it was nice to have someone there, someone who remembered that he existed at least--a familiar face from place to place and hunt to hunt.
Sam had always had to deal with more bad than good, so he could definitely appreciate Dean’s finer qualities even in the face of his more frustrating ones and the minor annoyances that only brothers could truly appreciate. After all, in addition to being over-protective and insanely obsessed with submission maneuvers, Dean also had poor taste in clothes--well, poor taste in clothes that Sam could steal, anyway.
A brutal growth spurt had left his jeans too short, unless the flood look was returning, so Sam had lifted a pair of Dean's jeans for his own use. Soft and broken in, they were way too loose around the waist but fit him in the legs. But his belt kept them from falling and he hoped Dean would never catch on; his brother was territorial when it came to his clothes. And playing his music. And driving the car.
But Dean was still awesome.
The thing was, Sam wasn't a little kid anymore. He could look out for himself. And that's why passing out like some girl and waking up to his looming, freaked out brother was so frustrating; it was hard to make an argument for being independent when you'd just blacked out.
So yeah. This day was about to get a whole lot worse and Sam was pretty sure there was nothing he could do about it.
-0-
It wasn't supposed to happen like this; the book had been very explicit about how to do the move and having your victim pass out wasn't the intended result. Preventing them from moving was the goal, not choking them out.
Especially when the victim was Sammy.
They were leaving tomorrow morning, which meant everything had to be packed up, and it was Dean's job to make sure it got done. But throwing crap in a bag was easy, and they had all night, and Dean had been cramped up in the house all day by himself. He needed to expend some energy, have some fun. So before he and Sammy started in on the task of packing, he just wanted to try out the Abdominal Stretch with Claw. He'd read about it in the book his dad had given him and he was excited to use it; he was totally into submission moves and who better to practice on then Sammy?
And who didn’t want to know a move that could be called the claw?
Only Sammy was quiet, more quiet than usual. He'd slunk into the house and headed straight for his room. Dean had cajoled and whined and was about ready to yank his shorter, lighter brother outside without his consent when Sam had finally capitulated.
Dean mentally reviewed the move. The attacker stands behind the victim, reaching around the victim's body with one leg so it is around the victim's side and between their legs, hooking the leg on the same side as the attacker's leg. The attacker wraps their arm which is closest to the victim's head around the victim's head or arm which is up. The attacker then uses their free hand to grab the victim's side/stomach and apply pressure. The victim should be forced to bend slightly to the side.
He quickly realized his mistake; he'd accidentally executed the straight forward Abdominal Stretch and put pressure on Sam's neck, pulling him upwards, instead of wrapping his arms around Sam's head and raised arm. A rookie mistake, one that would annoy Sam, but no harm, no foul. So why the hell was Sam imitating a rag doll all of a sudden?
One moment Dean had been shifting his grip, his arm inadvertently settling against Sam's throat, and the next his brother had been a sagging weight in his arms, Dean scrambling to hold him up.
Lying Sam on his back on the grass, Dean dropped to his knees next to him. "Sammy? You with me?"
His sibling was pale, his tan from training outdoors fading to white. Those expressive blue-green eyes were closed, mouth slack.
Dean picked up Sam's wrist and quickly found a pulse. It wasn't too strong or too thready or too slow or too fast; Goldie Locks would be proud, because Sam's pulse was just right. But why was Sam unconscious? He wasn't faking it, Dean knew that much. He could tell the difference between live and dead weight.
Only Sam wasn't dead.
The neck of Sam's hoodie looked a little restrictive so Dean tugged, loosening it. His eyes widened as he saw red marks circling Sam's throat. Marks in the shape of fingers.
Dean hadn't used his hand, he'd used his arm.
He was going to tear the bastard who dared touch his little brother limb from limb. Of course he had to wait until Sam told him which scum-bag had laid a finger on him.
Suddenly, Sam was blinking up groggily at him, glassy eyed. Dean watched as an impressive array of emotions played over his features, eyes widening, face flushing and then lips pulling into a mutinous straight line - surprise, embarrassment and finally frustration.
Dean got an arm behind Sam's back and supported him into a sitting position before his little brother swatted his arm away. "I'm fine."
He couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes in response. Sam exasperated him, there was no doubt about it. Claiming he was fine after he’d just passed the hell out in Dean’s arms. But, exasperation or not, Sam was also the most important thing in his life along with his dad and hunting.
Pushing too long bangs out of Sam's face, he noted that his brother’s eyes had cleared. And were staring at Dean with accusation in their sparkling depths. Dean put his hands up. "I didn't do anything! I mean I wasn't supposed to pin your throat but it shouldn't make you pass out! You're too--"
His brother pushed himself to his feet, glaring. "Forget it, Dean. Whatever you're about to say, just save it. I'm fine. I'll be in my room packing. For yet another move. Oh joy."
Dean hated when Sam was sarcastic. That was his own shtick, not his little brother. Sam was innocent and naïve and…stomping away, very pissed off. "Hey, I'm not done with you! Tell me who put their beefy hand around your throat! I’m going to go teach them a lesson…hey, Sammy!"
-0-
John had spent the day at the library, gathering information on Spring Heeled Jacks. He’d hunted one before, but only one, and it had been some years ago and his knowledge gained from that hunt had been sparse. He never approached a hunt unprepared, no matter how simple it seemed to be.
That didn’t make him relish it any more. Some research he didn’t mind. There was a certain beauty to it. The complicated mess of plotting patterns, of putting together clues and figuring out patterns. His note taking was extensive and his breadth of knowledge was expansive.
But a Spring Heeled Jack? Not high on his hit list of evil things to be eradicated. This was one he would have gladly pawned off, even to Sammy. Dean would have found a Jack boring even in his early days of hunting.
Too bad Sam had thrown a damn hissy fit and trudged off to school instead.
Sam was the strangest child. Unlike Dean, who John swore he knew better than himself; Dean liked fast women, fast cars, eating, drinking and hunting. His time was spent in the pursuit of these things. Except for when he was looking out for his little brother.
As he walked in the door, he could hear pounding within. Dean was yelling. "Open the freakin' door, Sam, or I'm going to kick it open...I’m not screwing around here!"
No one pushed Dean's buttons like Sam. Actually, no one pushed buttons in general quite as well as Sam did. He sighed heavily, throwing his backpack on the table before moving down the hallway. "What now?"
His oldest son whipped his head to the side to look at John, frowning heavily. "I tried the Abdominal Stretch with Claw except it was more like a regular Abdominal Stretch and Sammy passed out. And he's got marks on his neck, in the shape of fingers. And the little jerk won't tell me who did it and won't open the door."
Dean was so upset, he was out of breath. And true to form, it was because Sam's well being had been threatened - his youngest had passed out during a training maneuver and someone had dared manhandle him, probably at school.
He was pretty sure Dean viewed Sam as his own personal property and didn't take kindly to others abusing his brother; that was Dean's sole providence. From the moment John had placed Sammy in Dean's arms and told him to run, Dean had protected him fiercely.
John sighed again. He could understand Dean being worked into a froth; now he needed to see Sam, make sure his youngest was okay. "Why don't you pack up the kitchen? By the time you're done, I'll have this all sorted out."
His stubborn son stalked away, mumbling under his breath about stupid little brothers.
John knocked on the bedroom door that the boys shared. "Sammy, it's Dad. I need to talk to you."
He didn't need, or even want to talk to Sam; more times than not, all he got for his efforts was a quiet, sulky boy he didn't know how to communicate with. But he did need to see with his own two eyes that Sam was okay. His youngest had a way of getting into scrapes and if he didn't keep an eye on him, his injuries and illnesses tended to get out of hand. Despite Sam’s training, the kid seemed like a magnet for trouble, and his slight frame didn’t help matters. Though Sam had finally started to grow like a weed in the last year, it only made him even skinnier than John had imagined possible, which John knew made Sam look like an easy target.
Why Sam was so insistent on letting that image persist was another issue entirely.
The doorknob turned and the door swung open. Sam didn’t look him in the eye, but left the door open far enough for him to come in. "Hey, Dad," he muttered.
Sam moved back to his bed where his clothing sat in neat piles, waiting to be packed in the large duffle bag on the floor. Tension radiated from him, evident in the straight line of his back and shoulders and the way his head was held high.
John shuffled uncertainly inside. "So, um, Dean said he tried out a new move on you and didn't go as expected."
He heard a soft snort and then Sam turned to face him. "I'm fine. I'm not dizzy, my color is good…there was just too much pressure on my throat."
Those large, slanted eyes still wouldn't meet John's. He walked over, grasping Sam's chin in his hand, rotating the head up. He could see the marks Dean had mentioned. They were probably the reason Sam had passed out. Bruises on the neck were a bitch.
His son tolerated the scrutiny for a while and then stepped back, bumping the bed with his legs. Sam looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here, talking to his dad. "So what happened to your throat?"
Now he got the eye contact he wanted, Sam's eyes blazing. "Some jerk at school tried to shove me in a locker but I took care of it. I don't need Dean fighting my battles for me. I can take care of myself."
The doubt must have shown on his face even though John worked hard to keep a stony expression because Sam huffed before turning back to his project. Clearing his voice, John changed the subject. “We leave at daybreak."
His brain couldn’t abandon the subject but he kept his thoughts to himself. His youngest might think he could take care of himself but he hadn't proven that to John's satisfaction. Sammy had always been small for his age and was just now coming into his own, limbs lengthening and stretching. But he was still too slight and his coordination wasn't quite there. Maybe his training wasn’t going quite as well as John had thought.
For the moment, John knew enough to keep his mouth shut. But he knew he'd be watching Sam extra close on this hunt.
-0-
Minnesota. The land of lakes, Pastor Jim, and, apparently, Spring Heeled Jacks. Minnesota was one of their more frequent destinations it seemed. Though not really a convenient state for a stopover, Sam knew that his dad's list of friends were few and far between and not even John Winchester’s gruff form of agnosticism could alienate Pastor Jim. Which was fine with Sam. As far as the hunting buddies went, Pastor Jim was one of the best. Soft spoken and a keen listener, Sam had found it a bit of a refuge even when everything else was utterly crappy. In fact, Jim had been one of the few people Sam had ever really been able to talk to--about things like God and good and evil. Dean was usually pretty good at letting him ask about most things, but when it came to God or their mother, all bets were off, and it didn't take much to figure out that those two things were related somehow.
Pastor Jim had answers, that was what it came down to. Not the black and white directives his father gave him or the need-to-know crap Dean liked to try to pull, but actual answers, or at least more questions that got him thinking. So, really, Minnesota was actually a step up in the world for Sam, especially considering the hell hole they'd just left, even if they weren’t going to be visiting Pastor Jim right away.
Still, Sam was going to be the new kid. He was going to have to figure out his classes and his schedule all over again. And on top of all that, he was going to have to prep for the next hunt, because clearly Sam was past the age that he was allowed to opt out.
Which meant that getting ahead in trigonometry would have to wait another day. Right now he had to read up on Spring Heeled Jacks, which was his father's best guess at their latest hunt.
If he thought he could get away with a little free reading instead, he would. But his father's withering gaze had him pinned in the rearview mirror and Dean's haphazard quizzing of Sam's knowledge of supernatural beings kept him focused on the task at hand.
To be fair, this was a new one to Sam, and even to Dean. It wasn't the run of the mill spirit or a werewolf or anything that Sam had seen before, so the extra knowledge probably would be beneficial in the long run.
The fact that he had to believe that just made him think how completely screwed up his life was.
And to think most kids felt over-protected when their parents set a curfew at 10 PM. Sam couldn't even ride in the back seat of the car without an interrogation or plan for the future without considering what supernatural lore was native to the region.
"Where do they come from?" his brother asked.
Sam sighed. "The first recorded sightings were in England. As far as supernatural creatures go, this one's fairly new."
"Well, think about it," Dean chastised. "What does that probably mean?"
"Considering the reports are kind of distinctive, you'd think it was a ghost," Sam said.
Over the seat back, Sam saw his father shake his head and Sam felt himself shrink a little. So much for proving himself through his knowledge.
Because that was what this was about. It wasn't just prep work or passing the time. It was about Sam proving he could do it. About Sam showing them both that he was up to the challenge. It was a constant pressure, and after the incident with Dean's submission hold, Sam knew they were watching out for him more than ever. Just looking for a way that he could screw up, that they could correct him on the error of his ways, point out his weaknesses so he could never forget them.
They always assumed the worst. They assumed that Sam had gotten his butt kicked by bullies at school, not that Sam had done his best to not make a scene while still getting the goon off his back. They assumed that Sam was too weak to hold up under normal sparring conditions without considering that Dean’s constant experimentation was hard to keep up with, as was the constant changes in his body.
Dean clicked his tongue. "Too corporeal for that. I mean, ghosts flicker in and out, but this thing jumps around, touches people."
"And breathes some kind of fire," Sam added in. "I know that. You just asked me about the fact that it's new."
Dean nodded. "Well, it could also be a monster by another name. Some kind of older creature making a new name for itself. That's why you’ve got to look at the other characteristics, the descriptions, the method of attack. So you can figure out its origin."
Yeah, Sam could see that. And he could have figured that out--but they never gave him a chance. It seemed like everything was a set up for failure. Leading questions about the hunt that never let him reason out loud. Fighting sessions where he was paired again Dean, who was always faster and stronger, no matter what Sam did. He just couldn't win sometimes, and it was more than a little disheartening.
"Come on, Sammy," his brother said. "I'm just trying to get you to think like a hunter. We have to figure out what this thing really is in order to know how to kill it."
As if Sam needed to be reminded of that. Sighing, he knew an argument would get him nowhere. "Past reports have talked about its ability to leap. Like I said, its breath. Some reports make it seem less human, more, I don't know, demonic. Claws and oilskin and stuff."
"Keep it simple, Sam," his father lectured.
Sam resisted his urge to roll his eyes. It would be nice if he got more than two seconds to even talk things through before he was being treated like he couldn't figure it out. "So it's probably got some kind of demonic heritage," Sam said. "Some kind of demon incarnate? Which would explain its superhuman abilities. And its appearance."
Dean nodded approvingly, and he even seemed to be glowing. "Good," he said. "Recent reports are similar, though this one looks more human than not."
"Then how can we be sure it’s demonic?" Sam asked.
Dean looked sidelong at his father, who raised his eyebrows. "There aren't many modern cases around the country, but even with the cape and the flourish, these guys always leave behind traces of one thing: sulfur."
Well, gee, it might have been nice if they'd included that in the background they'd given him. Historical texts were helpful, but modern science certain did give them an advantage.
It was a continual test. Always trying to make him stronger, faster, smarter, better. Because he just wasn't good enough.
The fact that Sam didn't want to be better in that kind of way was clearly beside the point.
It just seemed too typical. Sam gets into a fight and they want to protect him and completely ignore that Sam handled it just fine, on his own, his own way. Because there was only one way in this family: the Winchester way.
Which was great for Dean, but made Sam miserable.
He'd have to work harder then. Not to make them happy, but to earn some space again. If he didn't, this next move would be worse than the last. And that was saying something, considering that the courses he'd been stuck in were filled with information he'd already learned and apparently being new, tall, and eager to please made him the target of every two-bit jock in the stupid place.
He shifted through the notes again, looking at the history, the mysterious presence, the gentlemanly facade. "So how is it attacking now? Back then it didn't even seem to kill people. Scared them, scratched a few. But there's little record of them actually murdering, so why is it our gig?"
Dean looked mildly impressed. "Well, death isn't the only supernatural inconvenience."
"But it's the kind we go after," Sam shot back.
"Reports started out minor," their father cut in. "The appearance of a mysterious figure unnerved a few people. Then he showed up in the middle of a traffic intersection. Caused a couple of accidents, one pretty bad. Then he swiped a teenager for a few hours. Kid made it back unscathed, but the pattern's clear."
Sam didn't need it spelled out for him. "He's stepping up the attacks."
"And so how long before he starts to kill? Maybe never, but it’s a chance we can’t take," his father agreed. "Besides. It's supernatural. We kill it."
It was so black and white. No margin for disagreement. "Silver bullet to the heart?" Sam asked.
"And then we torch the corpse," Dean added in, sounding far more excited than anyone should. "Can't go wrong with fire."
Sam shuddered a little involuntarily. Monsters. Fire. Not his favorite subjects. What kind of hunter would he be anyway?
Dean was grinning at Sam again. "See, Sammy," he said. "All it takes is some focus."
Great. That was so not the lesson Sam was taking away from this.
Still, Sam wasn't stupid. There were some battles to fight, some to let go, and some to fight in secret. The goal now was minimal conflict, proving himself, else he'd never be happy.
Because Sam wanted time to read. Books he liked. He wanted time to do his homework, to join a club or something. Maybe write for the school newspaper. Those were things he liked, things he enjoyed. Hunting was like chores, a requirement. He just wanted to do the bare minimum and make it through.
The balance was off, though. The more they doubted him, the tighter Sam’s leash would be.
So this Spring Heeled Jack? Better watch it. Because Sam didn't care so much about the Jack itself, but this was Sam's chance to prove himself and gain the freedom that he needed to do anything he liked at all.
-o-
Dean had to admit. This hunt sounded kind of boring.
Sure, he had to put on a good face. His father wasn't one to tolerate sulking, and in the end, that was just the kind of example Sammy didn't need right about now.
But a Spring Heeled Jack? That hadn't actually directly killed anyone? There had to be some kind of nasty poltergeist or a demonic possession that was more worthy of their time and more interesting to boot. Dean was all up for new challenges, so in that regard adding a Spring Heeled Jack to his list of conquests was good and all, but boring.
And not his father's style.
Then again, this probably wasn't about his father's style or Dean sharpening his skill set. This was about getting Sam back in the game, upping his game, giving Dean and their dad a chance to watch Sam in action and see if they could get the kid back on top of things again.
After all, Sammy was getting pushed around by bullies. Still. He'd sort of hoped they'd left that behind. Especially since Sam had finally hit a growth spurt. Now they just needed to bulk the kid up and no one would think twice about messing with Sam, because he'd look as dangerous as he was.
Because Sam was dangerous. He could kick any normal kid's ass any day of the week. So why was Sam pussyfooting it? Why was he getting pushed around? Didn't make sense.
Then again, Sam hadn't been making much sense lately. Something had changed in Sam. Sam had always been focused on hunts ever since his dad officially let him in on the family secret. Sam didn’t quite like it as much as Dean did, but the kid was good at the prep work even when he hadn't been allowed to participate in the kills. All good signs that his brother was ready to fall in line and be a part of the family business.
And then? Sam changed. Puberty made some kids horny and other kids emotional roller coasters. It made Sam distant and withdrawn. Wanting to spend more time at school. Still obsessed with making friends, doing homework, even extra-curriculars. Which might have been cute were Sam still an innocent eight year old who didn't know better. But Sam did know better. All that crap--it was getting him sidetracked and now they were all paying for it with some inane hunt with some wussy creature with quasi-demonic origins. The best part--the only good part--would be watching the thing go up in flames.
That hardly made the research phase any more fun. Because it wasn't enough to identify the thing, but they had to figure out where it was holed up. Otherwise, waiting for an attack would be foolish at best and just plain stupid at worst. The attacks were random and unpredictable. Spirits had patterns. Creatures of demonic origin? Just liked their kicks.
So they had to track the thing. Which meant talking to people about where they'd seen it, where it went. Clues from its appearance, from its methods.
Of course, it wasn't a coincidence that their father had given Dean the task of following up with the group or terrorized coeds. Sometimes being the good son? Really paid off.
Better yet. They were sorority chicks.
Now if there could just be a spur of the moment wet t-shirt contest, he'd be in heaven.
Business before pleasure. A cruel fact of the universe.
The girls were roommates, an elementary ed major and a communications major. A blonde and a brunette. Both juniors. Names Rachel and Mindy or Rebecca and Wendi or something like that.
They had invited him into the main room, which was sadly empty of other girls, though he could hear some in the kitchen, and he could only hope they'd walk by. If not, he could always feign hunger (which, man, was his stomach grumbling for real or what?).
Not that Renee and Cindie weren't quite enough, but fantasies and all that....
"So you're with the campus paper?" Rochelle asked.
"Uh, yeah," Dean said, turning his focus back to the task at hand. He scowled at his notebook. "Just, you know. Trying to stay on top of the student body."
Raquel (that had to be it) didn't seem to get it (communication major, what did Dean expect?) and Bindi looked vaguely intrigued.
"So the attack," Dean said.
"Wasn't so much an attack," Raquel said. "Just some weirdo."
"Probably some frat boy initiation," Lindy agreed (which, was Lindy even a name?).
"But you said the guy moved quickly? Like track star quickly or--?"
"No, that's the weird part," Raquel said. "The dude was, like, jumping. One second he was there then the next he was over there."
"Optical illusion," Sydney said (because Sydney sounded more plausible than Lindy). "Must have been. Some kind of freakish elaborate hoax to see if we'd scream."
"Did you?" Dean prompted, not sure why it was relevant, but the thought of them screaming made him get a little excited.
Raquel shrugged. "He was just some weird perverted underclassman, I'll bet," she said. "So skinny and all. And that costume. What a stupid costume!"
"What did it look like?"
"Like some freaky-ass old fashioned wedding or something," Raquel said. "Cape and a hat."
"And a trimmed mustache," Sydney added in.
"A mustache?"
"A super well cared for one," Raquel confirmed. "And he spoke all dignified like."
All dignified like was surely a very technical description. Perhaps Raquel could benefit from Sydney’s communication classes to help improve her clarity. "And what did he say?"
"Some crap about a lovely evening for a stroll and two lovely ladies should never walk alone," Sydney said. "Total freak all the way. I mean, who takes the time to set that kind of crap up?"
"What else did he do?"
The girls exchanged nonplussed looks. "Jump around, rattled on," Raquel said. "Tried to swipe at us a couple of times."
"Swipe?"
"Yeah, the freak was wearing some kind of claws or something. Didn't get close enough to do anything," Sydney said.
"Um, no," Raquel interjected. "He totally scratched my skirt. My leather skirt. That thing cost me, like, two hundred dollars."
Sydney nodded sympathetically. "I know, and you bought it in Chicago."
"And it's the only skirt that gets me free drinks when I'm at the bars."
"So you two were out drinking?"
Sydney shrugged. "On our way home. But you're not going to print that, are you? My mom would totally freak if she knew. She already is convinced I need to start carrying mace or something after this freak."
Well, that wasn't exactly encouraging. But still, these girls didn't have much to say. It fit the description of a Jack to a tee. The jumping, the monologuing, the clothes. Even the claws.
Raquel giggled. "Though we must have been pretty wasted," she said. "I swear, I saw the dude, like, breathe fire."
Sydney looked surprised. "Me, too! I thought I was totally tripping!"
Breathing fire, check. This was a Jack. And the lesson Dean had learned? That Jacks were the lamest supernatural dicks around, couldn't even scare a couple of half-drunk sorority girls.
The other lesson? That he had missed out on a lot by not going to college.
"Well, thank you, ladies," he said. "I have what I need."
"You sure?" Raquel asked.
Sydney looked somewhat concerned. "And you're not printing the part about the drinking."
"Or the miniskirt," Raquel said. "I put that on my mom's card and she doesn't know."
Dean grinned. "Ladies, I'm a journalist. I have my standards."
"Well, maybe you can, well, wave your standards," Sydney suggested. "Just this once."
Dean caught her drift. "Well, maybe," he said. "But I'll need your names and numbers. For, you know, any follow up interviews."
"I do love a man who’s on top of the story," Sydney said, and Raquel giggled.
Dean just bit his lip to hide his glee.
-o-
Mary had always told him not to compare his kids. To not think back to what Dean had done, to not think about how many dirty diapers a day Dean had had, or how soon Dean learned to crawl or sit up or any of that. She lectured him often that their boys were different, distinctive, and that it was detrimental to all of them to compare them.
Still, sixteen years later, it was hard advice to follow. Especially when his boys were so damn different.
Dean was eager and compliant. Damn near perfect. Brilliant on the hunt. Anything John asked, Dean did. There were a few missteps here and there, but Dean was the good little soldier that he needed to win this fight, to keep this family together.
Sam on the other hand--well, Sam was not. Sam was smart, thoughtful in a whole different way. He could see things, understand things. He was a perceptive kid, always knowing what questions to ask and how to ask them. And he had the perfect puppy dog eyes that could get him just about anything the kid damn well pleased.
But where Dean followed orders, Sam questioned them. And it wasn't that John didn't tolerate Sam's curiosity. It was his open insubordination and perplexing hesitance to act that pushed all his buttons. Where Sam used to ask why they moved around so much or why monsters wanted to kill people, now the kid asked why they had to hunt at all. Why they had to give up so many things, why they had to spend so many hours training. Those questions were counterproductive and indicative of a bigger problem with the kid.
Namely, he was distracted. He wasn't living up to his potential. He was whittling away his time on studies and friends and putting his life at risk. He wasn't even fighting back when he was supposed to, which was perhaps the biggest lapse in training John could see. He didn't encourage his boys to violence, but getting beat up? Letting bullies get the upper hand? Wasn't just stupid but dangerous. If Sam had been on a hunt and passed out like he did during his scuffle with Dean--well, that could be the difference between life or death.
So the Spring Heeled Jack? Sam's hunt. Sam would have to know every detail of it, he would have to be part of the kill. After all, he was sixteen. Time for him to step it up--a lot.
And one more comparison? Dean was fun to work with. Witty and engaged.
Sam just looked miserable.
Slumped at the lone desk in the motel room, skimming the text in front of him half heartedly in the dim light. Every now and then, John could see him longingly eye his discarded book bag on the couch.
The kid still wasn't getting it. They'd been in town for nearly a week, checking with the locals, talking to the victims, getting the low-down from the cops. He had consented to let Sam start school, but had insisted that his nights were all prep work and training, reading up on the interview notes, sorting through the police reports, then endurance training, hand-to-hand, some target practice. It was his hope that the kid would figure it out what he needed to be focusing on, but no such luck. John would just have to make it a little clearer.
"How's it going?" he asked, eyes steadily on Sam over the journal open on his lap.
Sam's shoulders sagged a little. "Fine," he mumbled.
"What have you learned?"
"Not much new," Sam said. "Same stuff I've learned all week. He jumps a lot. Gentlemanly approach but some weird features. Breathes fire. All the reports talk about the fire. And his cape."
"Then don't look for what we already know. Think about what we don't know."
"Location," Sam intoned.
"So what have you figured out about its lair?"
Sam sighed, shifting through the papers in front of him. "Well, he can move--fast. So he can scale a wide distance. But I plotted the attacks on a map."
"And?"
Sam turned, holding out the map. "And it looks like there's a general zone for the attacks. I figure he's holed up somewhere in the middle."
"So we know the general location," John agreed.
"And so then you think about its personality. For as much as it likes to put on the appearance of a gentleman, it's old. It'd probably want something familiar to call home."
"Such as?"
"My best guess is something wooded. Remote. Nature is always the same. And some of the historical reports suggest that some attacks happened near the woods."
"Which means?"
"Here," Sam said, pointing to an area on the map. "It's sort of small but it's the closest thing to that description in the area. It would provide him a place to hide out during the day. And the kid who was taken reported seeing trees and wandered out of these woods."
And damn it all if the kid couldn't put it together. John had already suspected the woods, that was their usual MO, but he needed Sam to do it. Sam had a lot to learn, a lot to prove, so John was willing to take this one slow--for Sam's sake.
He couldn't forget, though, that no matter how well Sam put it together, this was still the rudimentary stuff. It shouldn't have taken this much pressure to make Sam figure it out. As far as he was concerned, this was still catch up for Sam.
"So what?" he prompted.
"We pick a night, take hand guns and a lighter, and comb the woods. If he's corporeal, he'll have real needs for shelters and food, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."
This was the plan he'd already discussed with Dean this afternoon, but Sam didn't need to know that. "Tomorrow then," he said. "We'll need to get the fake IDs finalized in case we run into trouble and we have to scope out any possible problems."
He could see the relief on Sam's face--for all the wrong reasons. The kid grinned, "So can I go do my homework now?"
John had been expecting as much, but it was just the wrong thing for the kid to ask for. The kid had only been enrolled in school one week and at this rate? They weren't going to be here more than two more weeks. Sam didn't need to worry about school. He needed to worry about this hunt, because no matter how simple a Jack seemed, Sam needed to assume the worst.
And Sam was worried about homework.
"No time for that," John said, giving Sam a steady look.
Sam didn't back away. "But I did the research," he said. "I figured it out."
As if it were that simple. Sam was getting pushed around by bullies, and he thought two hours of work was going to make it better. "You have training, don't you?"
"But I did my morning regimen," Sam protested. "And it's at least a two mile walk from school."
"Dean does so much more than that."
"But Dean's out picking up girls right now," Sam said.
Damn Dean and his bragging. "Your brother also isn't getting pushed around at school and passing out during mediocre hand to hand practice."
Sam's jaw just dropped.
"We need to get you back on track," he explained, not harshly, but sternly. There was no room for argument, no space for disparity.
"But--"
"No buts, Sam," he said, his voice hardening a bit. "You will be on top of your game for tomorrow night. Just a short run to top things off tonight, okay?"
A thousand protests flitted through Sam's eyes, but his face fell, resolved, before he said, "Yes, sir."
With that, he got up and moved stiffly past John to the bathroom. John could hear rustling before Sam reemerged and headed toward the main door.
"Two miles, no less," John ordered. "Then stretches."
The sound of the door closing behind Sam was the only answer he got.
And John was struck with another comparison. Where Dean was readily obedient, Sam was begrudgingly so, and it was so damn tiring to deal with.
part 1b here