Fic: Wild By Skye (16/27)
They didn't talk about Dad. They didn't talk about him, but his shadow seemed to cast itself over them wherever they went. No place was far enough to outdistance the presence of John Winchester. Sam and Dean were both tense and uncomfortable, as though their father's reaction to the truth about his oldest son had unleashed a cancer. It lingered between the brothers, a silent wrong in a strange new existence that had become so right.
For two weeks, Dean refused to change. It was as though he thought John would somehow know and be disappointed if Dean gave into the wolf. Without allowing himself time to be the wolf, Dean's mood suffered. He stopped smiling. Sam tried to cajole him into forgetting about Dad, tried to convince him into running, but Dean wouldn't do it. The look in his eyes told Sam why.
On the next full moon, Dean opted not to go outside. He stayed in the motel room with his brother, as though it might actually make a difference to be locked up and unable to see the moon. It was like a form of torture for Sam to have to watch what their father had done to Dean (and had done with no more than a few words).
Dean couldn't escape the wolf that night. It would rise up against the refrain Dean had been exercising for weeks and there would be nothing Dean could do to stop it. He couldn't best the beast on that night, and he knew it.
As night approached, Sam stayed on his bed and out of the way. Dean was a walking thunderstorm, pacing the room like a madman, his energy levels in overdrive. Dean was clearly agitated. He looked fit to climb the walls.
Night fell and Dean began to sweat. And still he paced.
Sam didn't say a word. There was nothing to say. Sam had been trying to talk Dean into this for weeks and Dean hadn't budged. It would happen tonight, whether Dean wanted it to or not. There seemed no reason to point out what they both already knew.
Testament to the stubborn streak in Dean Winchester, knowing the futility of fighting didn't stop Dean from doing just that. The fever was the first sign of the wolf struggling to wrest control of the body. In little time, Dean's shirt was drenched and sticking to his body. And still he paced. Still he fought the change.
Sam wanted to hit John all over again. Punch him and demand to know how he could do this to Dean.
After a drawn-out bout of pacing and perspiring, Dean lost his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it aside with a piteous scowl, a hated and painful concession to the inevitable. He was already barefoot, padding on the balls of his feet. Already moving like the wolf, even if the human form was holding on for all its worth.
Sam felt Dean's pain as if it were his own. 'Change,' he silently begged his brother. 'Please, Dean, just change.'
Dean's stride faltered as his body began to lose the battle. Dean bared his teeth in a grimace but still he would not give in to the transformation.
He was dripping sweat. Finally, the last of his clothes were shed. Sam didn't even consider making a joke about Dean's rampant nudity this time. Dean continued an agonized, restless circuit around the room. As though he could outpace the wolf.
In the corner of the room, Dean just crumpled. His hands came out to catch himself on the intersecting walls and his back bowed. His head drooped and he began to sink to the floor.
Sam's hair stood on end. This was it.
For the fight Dean had put up, the change happened with so little fanfare. It was a crouching human one minute, wolf the next.
For a heartbeat after the change, Sam held his breath and watched. He didn't know what Dean would do now that the thing he'd fought so hard had overcome him.
Dean sat in the corner, head hanging low. His ears were cast to either side miserably, his tail disturbingly still against the garish carpet.
The wolf was a creature full of life and energy. Dean was still as stone, resigned and ashamed as the wolf never was. Should never be. Self-pity did not become such a noble creature.
Hesitant, Sam got off his bed and moved toward Dean.
There was no flicker of movement from the wolf to indicate he even heard Sam approaching, though Sam knew Dean's senses were now incredibly acute. He couldn't not hear him.
When Sam was alongside the wolf he knelt, eyes locked on the animal.
The listlessness of the wolf was so ungodly wrong Sam wanted to scream. Instead, he whispered, "Dean?"
Dean looked over at him slowly with solemn golden eyes.
Sam settled himself more comfortably on the floor then began to reach out a hand. Just short, he paused. He had never petted Dean before. His brother wasn't a dog. He was still Dean inside, and his brother wouldn't take kindly to being coddled like he was the family retriever.
Dean saw Sam's hand come close and stop, hanging in midair. He knew what his brother meant to do. Instead of indignant or annoyed, Dean looked up into Sam's eyes desperately.
The wolf made the next move. With a small shift, he sidled in closer to Sam and ducked his head beneath Sam's hand. He lifted his muzzle to lightly rest his chin on Sam's shoulder. Sam's hand had fallen on the wolf's shoulder in the process.
Sam gently hugged the wolf, both hands threading into the animal's fur. Sam could feel the amulet at Dean's throat pressed into his chest.
There were so many things Sam wanted to say. So many things he thought Dean needed to hear. Needed to hear, but Sam knew better. Dean wouldn't listen. He rarely did when it came to unkind opinions of John Winchester. Instead of trying to impress all his feelings upon his distressed brother, Sam simply muttered into the wolf's coat, "He has no right… no right to make you feel like this."
Dean pulled his chin away from Sam's shoulder, and Sam was afraid even that little comment had been saying too much. Instead of moving away, Dean ducked his face and rested his forehead against Sam's chest, burying his face in his brother and hiding from the world.
Seventeen
For two weeks, Dean refused to change. It was as though he thought John would somehow know and be disappointed if Dean gave into the wolf. Without allowing himself time to be the wolf, Dean's mood suffered. He stopped smiling. Sam tried to cajole him into forgetting about Dad, tried to convince him into running, but Dean wouldn't do it. The look in his eyes told Sam why.
On the next full moon, Dean opted not to go outside. He stayed in the motel room with his brother, as though it might actually make a difference to be locked up and unable to see the moon. It was like a form of torture for Sam to have to watch what their father had done to Dean (and had done with no more than a few words).
Dean couldn't escape the wolf that night. It would rise up against the refrain Dean had been exercising for weeks and there would be nothing Dean could do to stop it. He couldn't best the beast on that night, and he knew it.
As night approached, Sam stayed on his bed and out of the way. Dean was a walking thunderstorm, pacing the room like a madman, his energy levels in overdrive. Dean was clearly agitated. He looked fit to climb the walls.
Night fell and Dean began to sweat. And still he paced.
Sam didn't say a word. There was nothing to say. Sam had been trying to talk Dean into this for weeks and Dean hadn't budged. It would happen tonight, whether Dean wanted it to or not. There seemed no reason to point out what they both already knew.
Testament to the stubborn streak in Dean Winchester, knowing the futility of fighting didn't stop Dean from doing just that. The fever was the first sign of the wolf struggling to wrest control of the body. In little time, Dean's shirt was drenched and sticking to his body. And still he paced. Still he fought the change.
Sam wanted to hit John all over again. Punch him and demand to know how he could do this to Dean.
After a drawn-out bout of pacing and perspiring, Dean lost his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it aside with a piteous scowl, a hated and painful concession to the inevitable. He was already barefoot, padding on the balls of his feet. Already moving like the wolf, even if the human form was holding on for all its worth.
Sam felt Dean's pain as if it were his own. 'Change,' he silently begged his brother. 'Please, Dean, just change.'
Dean's stride faltered as his body began to lose the battle. Dean bared his teeth in a grimace but still he would not give in to the transformation.
He was dripping sweat. Finally, the last of his clothes were shed. Sam didn't even consider making a joke about Dean's rampant nudity this time. Dean continued an agonized, restless circuit around the room. As though he could outpace the wolf.
In the corner of the room, Dean just crumpled. His hands came out to catch himself on the intersecting walls and his back bowed. His head drooped and he began to sink to the floor.
Sam's hair stood on end. This was it.
For the fight Dean had put up, the change happened with so little fanfare. It was a crouching human one minute, wolf the next.
For a heartbeat after the change, Sam held his breath and watched. He didn't know what Dean would do now that the thing he'd fought so hard had overcome him.
Dean sat in the corner, head hanging low. His ears were cast to either side miserably, his tail disturbingly still against the garish carpet.
The wolf was a creature full of life and energy. Dean was still as stone, resigned and ashamed as the wolf never was. Should never be. Self-pity did not become such a noble creature.
Hesitant, Sam got off his bed and moved toward Dean.
There was no flicker of movement from the wolf to indicate he even heard Sam approaching, though Sam knew Dean's senses were now incredibly acute. He couldn't not hear him.
When Sam was alongside the wolf he knelt, eyes locked on the animal.
The listlessness of the wolf was so ungodly wrong Sam wanted to scream. Instead, he whispered, "Dean?"
Dean looked over at him slowly with solemn golden eyes.
Sam settled himself more comfortably on the floor then began to reach out a hand. Just short, he paused. He had never petted Dean before. His brother wasn't a dog. He was still Dean inside, and his brother wouldn't take kindly to being coddled like he was the family retriever.
Dean saw Sam's hand come close and stop, hanging in midair. He knew what his brother meant to do. Instead of indignant or annoyed, Dean looked up into Sam's eyes desperately.
The wolf made the next move. With a small shift, he sidled in closer to Sam and ducked his head beneath Sam's hand. He lifted his muzzle to lightly rest his chin on Sam's shoulder. Sam's hand had fallen on the wolf's shoulder in the process.
Sam gently hugged the wolf, both hands threading into the animal's fur. Sam could feel the amulet at Dean's throat pressed into his chest.
There were so many things Sam wanted to say. So many things he thought Dean needed to hear. Needed to hear, but Sam knew better. Dean wouldn't listen. He rarely did when it came to unkind opinions of John Winchester. Instead of trying to impress all his feelings upon his distressed brother, Sam simply muttered into the wolf's coat, "He has no right… no right to make you feel like this."
Dean pulled his chin away from Sam's shoulder, and Sam was afraid even that little comment had been saying too much. Instead of moving away, Dean ducked his face and rested his forehead against Sam's chest, burying his face in his brother and hiding from the world.
Seventeen