Come as You Are
Come as You Are
Summary: Unable to re-age Sam, Dean decides it's time to start hunting with his thirteen year old brother in tow. But things don't go according to plan. Sequel to Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Chapter Five
There's a knock, Dean's knuckles tapping out a familiar rhythm warning of his imminent intrusion, and Sam's bedroom door swings open. Dean steps inside, raising the keys to the Impala and an eyebrow.
“You wanna go for a drive?”
Sam looks back at the ceiling. Artemis Fowl rests beside him on the bed but he isn't even pretending to read. He can't focus. He keeps thinking about the look on Allison's face after she bit him, and the heavy silence that followed them home from the hunt. He keeps interrupting whispered arguments between Dean and Cas.
“No, thanks.”
Dean pauses, surprised by the refusal, maybe, or offended. Sam has never turned him down before. Sam isn't entirely sure why he's turning him down now. To avoid talking about what they both heard the vampire say about him, perhaps. Or maybe it's to punish Dean for avoiding talking about what they both heard the vampire say about him. Because it's obvious to Sam that Dean knows exactly why Allison described his blood as tainted. Castiel obviously knows as well, and they've been back in the bunker for two whole days and neither of them have let Sam in on the secret, which is annoying and confusing and a relief.
“Okay then,” Dean says but he doesn't leave. He crosses the room and casts the keys aside, dropping them onto Sam's bedside table. He sits down on the bed, an insistent hip nudging at Sam's leg until Sam huffs an exasperated sigh and pushes himself upright, resettling with his back against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest.
“I thought you would have asked by now,” Dean comments. An invitation.
“I don't know what to ask. Of if you'd tell me the truth if I did.” Sam watches through his bangs for Dean's reaction.
“That's fair.” Dean nods a little, thoughtful. “I don't know if I should.”
Sam should be mad that Dean would consider lying to him but he's not. He's scared.
“'cause it's bad?” he ventures.
“It's... complicated.” Dean has an infuriatingly prefect poker face and an unreadable tone. Complicated. What does complicated mean?
“There's something wrong with me.”
It's strange to finally give voice to the bleak suspicion that has nagged him his whole life, since long before a vampire spat out his blood. To put into words the gnawing certainty that something about him is off. It feels almost as if someone else is using his mouth to speak, spilling out a secret he was supposed to keep.
“I think I've always known it, since I was really little. There's always been something wrong with me.”
It says a lot that Dean doesn't immediately deny it. It says more that Dean can't hold his gaze, looking instead to the doorway, like he's checking his escape route.
“You told me that before, once,” Dean admits, wistful in the way that says he's thinking about a different Sam. The older Sam. “You were sick. Had a fever so high you were practically on fire.” He shakes his head at what obviously isn't a happy memory. Sam wishes he could remember it anyway. It never gets easier, being on the outside of memories that he and Dean used to share. “I wish you hadn't grown up feeling like that. I don't want you to grow up feeling like that.”
Right now, Sam feels numb. He breathes slowly, deliberately, because his body seems to have forgotten how to do so by itself. “But there is something wrong with me,” he concludes, more certain of it now than he ever has been. It isn't just a feeling anymore. It's a fact. Something is wrong with Sam. He knows it. Dean knows it. Cas knows it. “Did Dad know?”
Again, Dean's hesitation admits everything before he does. “I'm not sure what Dad knew, or when he knew it.”
Sam must be breathing too slow because the room is starting to spin. A fuzzy static buzzes in his ears. Maybe Dean notices because he continues in a rush.
“But I do know that Dad loved you, Sammy. Always. Even when you two were at each other's throats. There is nothing - nothing - that could change that.”
The buzz becomes a whine, like rushing wind or gushing water, threatening to overpower him, to press him flat and smother him. Somehow Sam knows where this is going. “Is it... is it something to do with the thing that killed Mom?”
Dean's face twists. His mouth opens. Closes. Wordless. His eyes flick towards the door again.
Sam can't get his voice to rise above a whisper. “Was it my fault?”
“No.” Dean's focus snaps back and he scoots closer, leaning in urgently. “No, Sam. None of it was your fault.”
Dean is lying. Whatever happened, it happened because of Sam. Mary Winchester died because of Sam. Dad started hunting because of Sam. Dean is still hunting because of -
“Ow!” Sam grabs his suddenly throbbing shoulder, staring reproachfully at Dean.
“Don't.” Dean shakes out his fist.
“Don't what?”
“You're making your 'everything bad in the world is entirely on me' face and if I have to beat that dumb idea out of you, I will.” Dean makes his point by punching Sam's shoulder again.
“Ow! Stop it! I'm not making a face!”
“You are.” Dean draws back his fist and Sam raises his hands to fend him off.
“Stop! I don't have an 'everything bad is on me' face.”
“You do and you're making it.” Dean's fist hovers. “This is exactly why this conversation should wait. Why Dad didn't tell you - or me - anything. It's complicated. And you're a kid and, more importantly, you're you so there's no way I can explain everything without you turning into an angsty little emo.”
“What's an emo?” Sam asks, which throws Dean off, like it always does when Sam asks for the meaning of modern slang.
“It's, uh...” Dean's fist loosens as he thinks. “Like... fuck, I dunno. It's one of those sad teenagers that hides in their room listening to romantic chemicals and falling in love with sparkly vampires.”
“It's... what?” Dean's definitions are often more confusing than they are helpful.
“Oh never mind.” Dean abandons the attempt at explanation, along with the threat of a third punch, dropping his fist completely. “I just mean... it's a lot to wrap your head around. I don't want you freaking out and blaming yourself for something that happened when you were a baby.”
“But what happened?” Sam presses. “Why does my blood taste bad? What's wrong with it? What does it have to do with Mom?”
Growing up, Dean used to get angry when Sam tried to talk about their mother. Dad used to get angry, too. Like the grief was sharp and spiked. Something jagged that shouldn't be touched. Asking for details was really just asking to be frozen out for the next few hours.
Dean's silence now isn't a barrier, constructed to push Sam away. Instead it's thoughtful, searching for words. He rubs his jaw.
“The thing that killed her,” Dean says finally. “I told you that it was a demon, right?”
Sam nods, his hand moving automatically to the anti-possession charm that hangs from a silver chain around his neck. Dean seems to have come across an alarming number of demons over the last two decades. Enough that he has a similar (and seriously cool, not that Sam will tell Dean that) sigil tattooed onto his chest to ward against possession. Sam used to have one, too, when he was older. Dean has floated the possibility of getting him re-inked, if they can find a tattoo artist dodgy enough to work on a thirteen year old.
“And I told you that I killed it,” Dean continues. “We killed it. You, me, and Dad. It's gone. Dead. So whatever I tell you, you don't need to be scared. It can't come after you or hurt you or carry out any plans-”
“The demon had plans?” Sam interrupts what is obviously supposed to be reassurance. “For me? What did it want?”
“It wanted...” Dean's shoulders rise as he sucks in a deep breath. Fall as he blows it out. He adjusts his position on Sam's bed. Bracing himself. “It wanted to feed you it's blood. Mom tried to stop it but... she couldn't.”
The room seems very silent all of a sudden. The anti-possession charm is cold against Sam's skin. He closes his fingers around it and grips it tight, feeling the ridges pressing groves into his palm. It doesn't make sense. What Dean is saying doesn't make sense.
“Why would it do that?”
Dean rubs his jaw again. “It needed something. A human with the powers of a demon, to open a gate to Hell.”
“I opened a gate to Hell?” The room is spinning again.
“No. No, there was this other guy. Other kids with powers. One of them did it. We couldn't stop him in time. It was...” Dean clears his throat and shakes his head, warding off memories that are undoubtedly dark and bloody. “It was a mess.”
A black haze is creeping into the edges of Sam's vision. In a blink, Dean's huge hand is wrapped around his arm, steadying him.
“Sam, are you okay?”
Is he okay? He isn't sure. “Did I have powers?”
“You're freaking out. You need to breathe.”
Sam does as he's told, sucking in a lungful of air. The haze recedes a little. “Did I?”
Dean releases Sam's arm but his hand hovers, ready to intercede. “You had visions.”
“Visions,” Sam repeats. The word feels strange in his mouth. Foreign and far-fetched.
“Of the future,” Dean clarifies, unnecessarily. “Mostly of people dying, actually, and they used to give you the worst headaches. You puked in my car once.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “That sounds like a lame superpower.”
“Yeah, it wouldn't be my first choice,” Dean agrees, a sympathetic smile quirking a corner of his mouth.
“Will I have them again?” Sam asks, feeling a stab of panic at the idea. He doesn't want to watch people die.
Dean shakes his head. “No, I don't think so. They stopped after the demon died. I told you, there's nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about. Just a little demon blood running through his veins.
Maybe this is some kind of insane prank. Do they still have prank wars? Dean used to love messing with him.
“I know it sounds bad-”
Sam barks out a laugh at the understatement. Dean looks at him like he's worried that Sam is losing his mind.
“It sounds bad but believe me, Sammy, it's not a big deal. It doesn't change anything.”
Sam looks down at his wrists, the thin blue veins. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest, beating out a harried rhythm as it pumps infected blood around his body. How could this not change things?
Sam swallows, closing his eyes. “I'm tired. I want to go to sleep.”
He can feel Dean's eyes on him but he doesn't look up. He waits, silently willing his brother to leave. He's not sure what will happen if Dean doesn't. Maybe he'll scream. Or throw a punch. Maybe he'll shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces.
“Okay.” The mattress shifts as Dean stands. “I'll be down the hall if you need me. For anything. Any time. Wake me up if you have to.”
“Okay.”
“It'll all be better when you wake up,” Dean says, just like he had on Christmas Eve, years ago, when Sam found out the truth about monsters. “Promise.”
Chapter Six
(A/N: Reviews will be wrapped in warm blankets and given marshmallows.)