CHANGING - Chapter 7/10
Title: CHANGING
Author: Leigh Ann Wallace
Rating: PG
Genre/pairing: Gen
Characters:Sam, Dean and Bobby
Word count: 2103
Summary: Sam is bitten by a shapeshifter. Are the legends true, will Sam change? How can Dean save him?
Spoilers: (if applicable) You're safe if you've season eps up to season five. Mention of Lucifer and the apocalypse
Warnings: (if applicable) Shameless Angst
Disclaimer: Pretty clear I don't own anything to do with Supernatural. Written out of love and passionate obsession.
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"Las Vegas is sort of like how God would do it if he had money."
Steve Wynn
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"Hit me."
"You have seventeen, sir," the dealer reminded Dean, smiling flirtatiously. Crystal didn't care if the guy was cleaning her clock. He was just too damned sexy!
Dean grinned at her. "My dad taught me how to count with a deck of cards, honey." His green eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Hit me."
The dealer laid out another card. Four of clubs.
She looked up at him, smiling. "Twenty-one."
Dean hooted with laughter.
Picturing him in her bed, Crystal dealt herself a King. "Twenty-three. The gentleman wins again."
"Told you so." Dean grinned drunkenly at Sam. "You're my good luck, little brother."
Sam yawned. "If that's true, you are totally screwed."
"Sammy, we walked in here tonight with less than fifty dollars," Dean said solemnly. "We now have just under three thousand!" He clapped his brother on the back. "That's called good luck, ya freaking moose!"
"Any chance we can take that good luck upstairs and hit the sack?" Sam asked hopefully.
"No hope at all," Dean answered, laughing. Scooping his winnings off the table, he tossed a couple of hundred dollar chips across the table to Crystal as a good-bye, and the two brothers walked across to the cashier's cage.
"However, there's an excellent chance of you and me hitting that strip club I saw down the street." He shoved his chips across the counter to the cashier.
"I'm surprised we even made it in to the casino," Sam said. "Why didn't we just stop at the club instead?"
Dean shook his head. "Sammy, Sammy - have I taught you nothing? How many girls could we make happy with just fifty bucks?" He took his winnings from the cashier and fanned the money out in a big green circle.
"Just think how many girls we can make happy with this."
Sam laughed, glad to see his brother so - well, happy. "Dean, man, you are drunk on your ass."
"This is true," Dean beamed. "But not too drunk to enjoy beautiful women taking their clothes off. I have never been that drunk. Let's go!"
When Dean's cell rang at about 6:00 in the morning, Sam grabbed it up off the bedside table before it could wake his brother. "Hello?"
"That you, Sam?"
"Hang on, Bobby," he whispered. He padded to the bathroom, clad only in a pair of worn sweat pants, shutting the door behind him so he wouldn't wake Dean.
Leaning against the bathroom sink, blinking against the room's harsh fluorescents, Sam yawned. "Hey, Bobby, what's up?"
"How you doing?"
"I'm great. I was up most of the night watching Dean stuff g-strings."
"Vegas?"
"Vegas," Sam confirmed.
Bobby chuckled, but there was about a ton of subtext underneath it. "What's going on, Bobby?" Sam asked warily.
A long sigh over the line. "Carl's dead. They found him out by the highway, close to my place. Shot."
Hazel eyes narrowed. "Bill."
"Bill."
"Son of a bitch."
"Just about what I said."
"Did you tell the sheriff he did it?"
"No."
"Do you want us to come back?"
Bobby smiled to himself. That's a Winchester for you. Never hesitate to put yourself between a friend and a bullet.
"No need. That asshole won't come back here again. Carl was just his little good-bye present. I expect he's out looking for you now."
Sam's head was starting to ache, and from more than just last night's whiskey. "Shit."
Okay. Enough time spent on freaking Bill, Bobby decided.
"You two take care of that Wendigo?"
"Yeah, no problem." Sam took a bottle of Advil from the medicine cabinet, tossed back three of them and swallowed them dry. "We're pulling out this morning. Heading out to San Diego. A haunting."
"How are you doing, physically?"
"You mean, do I feel like I'm going to turn furry?" Sam asked sardonically. "No, I'm good." He looked at the bottle of Advil and tried to decide if he should take some more. Give the first three a chance to work first, dummy.
"Sam -" Bobby tried to think how to say it diplomatically, then decided screw it, just say it. "I don't mean to keep on your ass about this, but I want you to be sure and tell your brother if something feels wrong. That way you two can figure it out together."
Head pounding now, wanting Bobby to just freaking drop it, Sam said, keeping his voice even, "I will. Listen, don't worry about us, just watch your ass. And call if you need us."
"The only reason that bastard got the drop on Carl is he didn't know how much of a whack job Bill really is. I do." Bobby's voice hardened. "He shows his face within ten miles of my place again, I'll know it. Either way, he's dead, once I catch up to him."
Or once Bill catches up to us, Sam promised himself silently.
"Okay, Bobby." He opened the bathroom door, looked out at his slumbering brother. "Listen, I'm gonna go wake up Sleeping Beauty. Want to be sure we have time to clean up and get some breakfast before we leave town."
"Do any gambling?"
"Dean cleaned up at blackjack. Took 'em for almost three thousand."
"You leaving Vegas with any of that?"
Remembering last night's breast fest, Sam laughed. "He only dropped about $500 on the strippers, so we're still ahead."
When he finally got off the phone, Sam leaned back against the bathroom counter, rubbing his face with his hands, head throbbing viciously.
Christ, he was tired.
He hadn't slept at all last night; had lain in bed for hours, thinking about the mountain - the snow on the ground, the brilliant blue sky - the air that made him feel so wonderfully alive.
He wanted to go back there, now. He wanted to stand in the middle of its wonderful emptiness and drink in the sounds, the smells; he wanted to run in that wildness until his heart exploded, to outrun the hell of his past and the terror of his future. He wanted to forget all of his disastrous screw-ups, the people he'd left behind - God, please, he wanted to forget the dead.
To live in the perfect space between now and the next second.
No guilt, no recriminations - no him.
Sam swayed and grabbed hold of the sink. He turned on the faucet, waited until it ran icy cold and then splashed it into his face.
When he raised his head and looked into the mirror, his eyes were still his own.
"I'm really tired of you," Sam said to his reflection.
He straightened up, steeled himself. "Just suck it up," he said coldly. "It's not like you don't deserve it."
"Sammy?" A sleepy voice from the other room.
"Yeah."
With a last hostile look in the mirror, Sam went back into the bedroom. "How's your head? You drank enough whiskey last night to put three men under."
"Three normal men, maybe." Dean grinned lazily, eyes still half-closed. "You been up long?"
Evading the casual question, Sam said, "Bobby called."
"Oh, yeah?" Luxuriating in the feel of the wonderfully soft mattress and clean sheets, and the knowledge that he still had a couple thousand dollars in his pants pocket, Dean stretched, almost purring with well-being. "Everything okay?"
"No."
At Sam's flat reply, Dean raised himself up on his elbows, frowning
"Shit. What?"
"Carl's dead."
Dean let out a harsh breath.
"Bobby thinks it was Bill."
"No kidding." Dean rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. "Does he need us to come back?"
"No. He says he's got it." Sam hesitated, shrugged. "He's pretty sure Bill's out hunting me."
"Knew we should have killed that fucker." Dean collapsed back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "Damn. I was feeling so good a minute ago."
"Yeah. Listen, why don't you go take a shower? I'll order breakfast. We can at least eat before we head out."
"Good idea." Kicking off the covers, Dean rose. "You sleep okay? No fever, nausea, or any other life-altering problems to report?"
Sam picked up the hotel phone and punched in the number for room service.
"You mean am I going to change into something furry and rip your throat out while you're naked in the shower?"
"Yeah, that."
"No, I'm good."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, okay, a little headache, but no big deal. I took some Advil." He turned away from Dean's searching eyes. "Yeah, room service?"
Four eggs, two short stacks, ten strips of bacon and four cups of coffee later, the brothers were on Highway 15, headed for San Diego. Soon after, Sam was fast asleep, his head pressed against the passenger window, dark hair falling down across his face.
Once he was sure his brother was under, Dean turned the tape deck down to a dull roar, knowing that to turn it off completely would wake Sam up quicker than the loud music.
He hadn't missed the fact that ever since they'd left Bobby's, Sam wasn't getting much, if any, sleep. These days, Sam was always up in the morning before Dean. And if Dean woke at night, Sam was either researching on his laptop, or lying in bed, pretending to be asleep.
Dean knew Sam. He knew the difference between Sleeping Sam and Pretending to Be Sleeping Sam.
He'd have to take a hand if things didn't change soon. Kid couldn't just sleep in the car between jobs.
He'd pick something up over the counter to knock his little brother out at night, if he had to. And if that didn't work, he'd find something stronger on the street.
I can always dope his latte, he snickered half-heartedly to himself
Talking might help vent some of what was eating his brother up. Sam had always been one to talk about what was bugging him and right now, he had enough guilt, anguish and remorse in his soul to kill any normal person.
A demon blood addiction, taking a demon lover, releasing Lucifer from hell - and then finding out that Lucifer wanted to claim him as his vessel; wanted to use Sam to destroy the Earth?
All that and the skinwalker bullshit on top of that?
It was a miracle his brother wasn't completely crazy, instead of just halfway.
The trouble was, Sam wasn't talking. And Dean had no idea how to get him started.
He drove on, chewing it over.
Beside him, Sam stirred uneasily.
He was happy.
He lay on the ground in the middle of a large clearing full of the scent and taste and feel of grass and flowers all around him. It was hot, deliciously so, and he stretched his legs contentedly.
He rubbed his head in the grass, chuffing, blew a few stray blades playfully into the air; rolled heavily over onto his back, limbs splayed, belly to the sun.
"Sam? What have you been up to?"
With a roar, Sam twisted over, leapt to his feet and faced the intruder, crouching, tail lashing back and forth, fangs bared.
Lucifer laughed with delight. "Sam, I had no idea!" He strolled forward, ignoring the cat's guttural growl.
"Dear one, would you mind saying yes now? I know, I know, you'd rather die, blah blah blah, but we both know it'll happen sooner or later, and I would so much love to share this with you!"
Claws digging into the earth, Sam screamed in defiance as the not-man stepped closer. He readied himself for a futile leap.
Lucifer reached for his head.
"No! No!" Panicked, Sam roared out of sleep, thrashing wildly as he tried to escape. "Get out of my head!"
"Shit!" Dean hung on to the steering wheel, trying to control the Impala, which was suddenly much too small for both him and his violently struggling brother.
"Sam, wake up!" Dean reached out, grabbed Sam's shoulder. At the touch, Sam pulled away and fell heavily back against the passenger door, which popped open.
Flailing, Sam managed to grab hold of the car with one hand, but his grip slipped and he started to fall back, eyes finally starting to wake up, stretched wide with panic and surprise.
"Dean!"
Cursing, Dean hit the brakes and pulled the Impala roughly over to the side of the road. Going too fast to stop immediately, the car slid over the shoulder of the road, skimmed over a small ditch and skidded hard over the dry desert floor, before finally coming to a teeth-rattling halt.