The Other Son: Chapter Three
Title: The Other Son
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Three: DEAN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'.
A/N: AU. This is difficult to summarize fully without also spoiling fully.
Summary: A vision incites Sam to leave his father's side and head to Fitchburg. Without any clear notion as to what he is hunting, and no supernatural signs in the town of any kind as far as he can tell, Sam begins with what little he does know. But it doesn't take long before Sam begins to wonder if there might just be more than one mystery to be uncovered.
chapter three | DEAN
The morning of Sam’s third day in Fitchburg began with a thunderstorm louder than Sam had heard in over three years. He woke to a particularly vociferous rumble and had been unable to fall back into sleep. Sam didn’t mind rain much, except when it was cold rain, or when it was raining and he was trying to drive at night. Still, when he pulled aside the curtains the world was grey and wet, thick droplets of rain obscuring everything except the lighted signs of the motel which had been left on because it was so overcast.
Sam ventured far enough outside to contribute a pocketful of change to the motel’s vending machines in order to have some breakfast and was on his way back to his room when he saw a hunched figure running across the parking lot towards the motel office. The man was holding his leather jacket above his head, water sliding off the smooth surface and soaking into his jeans as he ran. Sam paused by his door to watch as the figure reached shelter and let his coat drop back around his shoulders, shaking his head like a dog would throw-off water. Dean wasn’t smiling when the motel owner’s son pushed open the door and waved him inside. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder, a frown pinching his slender brows as he surveyed the parking lot before he entered the motel.
“So this kid shows-up in unlikely places,” Bobby said, the shrug evident in his voice.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Just once, Sam wished that this were an exception, that there was no connection between Dean and the shtriga.
“You said yourself that your visions show you the victims.”
“Yeah, but they also used to come only when I was sleeping, and this one didn’t. It’s already different.”
“Look,” Bobby said. “You keep the option open, but you’re not going to go running out with a gun and shoot this kid on a hunch, okay? You’ve got time.”
“Yeah, time enough for my dad to get here,” Sam mumbled.
There was a pause, and then Bobby sighed. “Look, Sam. You might not remember but your daddy - he faced-off against a shtriga before.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. That was back when … well, when things were different for your daddy.”
“What happened?”
“He never talks about it much,” Bobby said. “It’s probably better if you spoke with him about it, but don’t go giving him a hard time with this. First with the vision, and now a shtriga - it’s too much to ask of the man, Sam. It’s got too much tied-up with it.”
“This is different,” Sam denied. “It’s not anything like then. I’m an adult, not a kid. I know more about hunting, I’ve got more experience.”
“Sam,” Bobby said. “Just - keep what I said in mind. And don’t go thinking you’re invincible, or that you’re different, or better.”
“I’m not saying I’m …” but it was what he had been saying. He was an adult, he knew what he was doing - or thought he did. He wanted his father to see him as an adult, but the man never could - for a reason that had little to do with him. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good man,” Bobby said. “Now, keep in mind what else I told you about that shtriga, and keep your eyes open. Just because you’re daddy doesn’t want you hunting it on your own, doesn’t mean you can’t figure out who it is, or where it will strike next.”
………………………………………………
Sam was never so aware of the time passing as he was sitting in his motel room listening to the rain coming down. Fitchburg might have been a small town, but it had a fair sized population, at least when considering how to locate a single shtriga posing as a citizen. Shtriga’s usually took the form of an older woman, but after laying-out the locations of each of the kids’ houses, Sam found them all in the radius of the hospital - which didn’t narrow the field as far as old women went. It also didn’t mean that this shtriga wasn’t masquerading as a man.
So Sam had little to go on, and his father was likely on the road at that moment heading to Fitchburg to help Sam on the hunt. The last thing Sam wanted was for John to come and complicate things. John had strict proceedings when it came to Sam’s visions, he was overbearing and strict and Sam was not prepared to take orders when it came to this. His vision had been vague, but the emotion attached to it had been intense. Sam was almost entirely at the mercy of his instincts and thus far they hadn’t led him wrong - but John was leery enough of Sam’s instincts as it was, he wouldn’t be prepared to tolerate Sam’s way of handling the hunt.
Migraines were not new to Sam, especially since his visions had started. They came with stress, so Sam wasn’t surprised when he felt that familiar dull throbbing ache in his head beginning. He was sitting on his bed, surrounding by weapons that he had been taking apart and cleaning, and the pain was steadily increasing. Pressing his fingers between his brow in a futile attempt to stave-off the impending migraine, Sam staggered to his duffel and searched for the painkillers that he always kept on hand - the bottle was there, but it was empty. “Fuck,” he muttered, whipping the plastic bottle across the room, then hissing when the ‘tock’ it made as it hit the wall echoed in his head.
Still cursing, Sam grabbed the keys to the impala and to the motel as he strode out of the room, letting the door slam behind him. The sound of the closing door was swallowed by the pelting rain, he ducked his head beneath his coat so he wouldn’t get as wet and jogged across the parking lot toward the main building of the motel. His boots made the water on the pavement jump, soaking his shoes and jeans, and Sam tried to focus on the movement - to dull the sound of the rain and his pounding head and his feet splashing through puddles on pavement - and maybe that was why he didn’t notice Dean. Not until they had collided and Sam had almost sent the shorter man sprawling into a puddle. Sam’s reflexes -- migraine or no -- were still quick, and he reached out, letting his coat drop back around his shoulders and he caught-hold of Dean before the man could fall.
“Hey, sorry Man, I didn’t see you,” Sam said, the words stumbling out because the rain was making the spicey scent of Dean’s shampoo more potent, and they were actually quite close. “Hey, are you okay?” Dean wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were unfocussed, his head tilted towards the ground and beneath Sam’s hands Dean’s body was entirely rigid. “Hey.” Sam ducked his head so he could meet the other man’s eyes, but Dean had squeezed them tight shut, his entire expression morphing into one of pain.
“No,” Dean said, his voice a soft exhalation of air, like he wasn’t speaking to Sam, like the word was meant for something else.
“Let me help,” Sam said. “Let’s get inside.” Dean jerked his body back, one arm hooking through Sam’s arms in a fighting manoeuvre that John had taught Sam when he was fourteen. But Sam wasn’t expecting it, and Dean effectively disengaged Sam’s grasp and backed away before Sam was even fully aware of what was happening. His hands flew-up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“What?” Dean asked, he winced a little and then shook his head as if to clear it.
“I won’t hurt you, okay? I just - look, maybe you should come inside, sit down for a bit.”
“Sit down?” Dean said, clearly confused. Sam might have begun to wonder if what he had seen had actually happened if he weren’t in the business of believing in the impossible. “I’m fine.” He had a hand up to his head and was frowning a little, he still hadn’t met Sam’s gaze. “Shit, it’s raining.”
Sam’s brows rose in surprise because the rain was hard to miss, especially when it had soaked them both through so thoroughly. “I think you need some help.”
Dean laughed a little, his eyes bitter and his expression oddly frozen. “You have no idea.” Sam held out a hand and nodded his head towards the main building of 2400 Court. Dean’s looked at the outstretched hand and backed-up a step. Sam watched as Dean made an effort to drag his eyes up to meet Sam’s and smile cockily. “See ya around.” And then Dean turned and was lost in the gloom.
Sam stood there a moment, wondering what had just happened. He’d only tried to help, just caught the man before he’d landed on his ass in a puddle. There had been nothing inappropriate in the gesture - and even if there were, Sam was certain that Dean had been flirting with him since he’d first walked into the Wyvern. Why the strange reaction?
“Can I help you?” a voice asked, and Sam realized he’d entered the main building and was standing by the front desk of the motel where motel manager’s eldest son was looking up at him.
“Uh,” Sam said, rubbing his brow and trying to remember why he’d been venturing out in such poor weather to begin with. The dull throbbing in his head was a not-so-welcome reminder. “Yeah, where is the nearest pharmacy?”
“It’s Luke’s place. Just around the corner,” the kid said, gesturing with his left arm to indicate.
“Thanks,” Sam said, already turning on his heel.
………………………
The best cure for a migraine, as Sam had come to discover (having tried them all), were three vaguely kryptonite-coloured painkillers, a small dark (and preferably warm) space, and the ability to pretend that the world did not exist.
He spent most of the day curled underneath his blankets immersed in his own pain as the migraine built and then began (thank god) to ebb. The absence of the blinding throbbing was almost an ache in itself, the relief being intense. He slept for a few hours and woke with his mind clear and focussed, already turning over his run-in with Dean in the early morning.
There was no way to know if Dean had been out-of-sorts from the beginning, because Sam had been intent on the pavement beneath his feet. Their collision replayed again and again in his mind’s eye and Sam remembered how Dean’s eyes had widened as he’d braced himself to fall, how his arms had stretched out to grasp something - anything to stop his descent - and Sam had been there, his hands grasping Dean’s upper arms, gripping worn leather … Sam frowned as he thought back. Dean had been wearing his worn brown leather coat as he’d jogged into the main building, but it hadn’t been on him as he’d left it again. Sam vaguely recalled seeing it hanging on the coat-rack by the door, water dripping off it and making a puddle on the floor. Dean had been out in the rain with only his T-shirt - Sam could recall how the cotton had clung to his body, the feel of the damp shirt and Dean’s slick skin beneath his fingers.
Sam sat-up in bed. Dean hadn’t shown any outward sign of pain until Sam had grasped his arms, and then his entire body had jerked and he’d become rigid with tension, and he’d been wincing. Whatever had happened, it had been a result of Sam making contact with Dean’s skin.
“Ugh,” Sam said, shaking his head as he scraped the fingers of both hands through his shaggy mass of hair. “Stop making so much of this.” Wishful thinking, maybe. But either way, one vaguely recalled incident was not going to solve the riddle that was Dean.
Kicking the blankets aside, Sam scooped his clothes up from where he’d tossed them on the motel chair, hurriedly tugging on his shirt and pulling on his jeans. He shoved his feet into his sneakers and grabbed the keys to the motel and the car from the desk. He’d wasted enough time with the damned migraine, now it was time to make some headway on the damned vision.
…………………………..
Dean didn’t look any worse for wear as he stalked down the street, his hands in his jean pockets and his head bent low. He wasn’t dressed to be working at the bar, although it was getting closer to evening. And though the rain had stopped, the streets were still wet, a dampness lurking in the air - still, Dean was walking in a pair of beat-up one-stars with his jeans picking-up rainwater and mud along the cuffs.
Sam ditched the impala, but there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to lose himself in a crowd. He kept a fair bit of distance between himself and the man he was following, pausing frequently to watch Dean’s reflection in a shop’s window from across the street.
Dean disappeared into Rosemary’s Diner, and Sam took the opportunity to duck into Burt’s and pick-up a large coffee before he continued passed the Diner in order to sit on one of the empty swings in the park. From there Sam had a clear view of the door.
Nighttimes in Fitchburg, as Sam was coming to learn, were cool but not overly so. The rain made the streets smell like fresh earth in a way that rainfall in cities never did. Twilight was always a quiet time, with people drifting between the bustle of the afternoon and the quietude of the night, and Sam sat and watched as the ‘Welcome’ signs were flipped-over and the fluorescent ‘Open’ signs came on in other stores. There were a surprising number of people strolling along the sidewalk. Sam tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a town like that. Nodding at neighbours and friends as you crossed each other on evening walks, where strangers passing-through were welcomed because they had new stories that hadn’t been shared and shared again. He imagined a house with a lawn to cut, pulling mail out of a personalized mailbox at the end of the driveway.
He thought of explaining his migraines to concerned neighbours. Of what excuse to give when a vision sent him sprawling while he was buying groceries, moving the lawn, walking down the street. He wondered what people would whisper when his father would pass-through - because no picture of the future, however imaginary it was, could exist without taking into account John’s frequent check-ins to make sure Sam was alive and well and accounted for. Sam could not picture the sleek impala parked in front of one of the friendly two-storeys he’d seen driving through the Shyres’ neighbourhood, the shining black of the car would clash with the soft warm greens and cheery yellows of the painted houses.
Sam finished-off the coffee and tossed it in the trash, the gesture taking him to the edge of the park, and it was hard to miss the four broad-shouldered men who had congregated by Rosemary’s. He checked the street but no one seemed to think the laughing and jostling group of boys was anything unusual, although most of the moseying crowd had moved along now that the sun was almost set. Sam caught-sight of Dean stepping out of the side door, his hands in his pockets - seemingly casual - except he bent forward, peered as far as he could around the corner. Rosemary had gotten-out her broom and was shooing the boys along with accompanying noises. There was a moment just as the boys were about to move along and Dean was turning to travel along the bikeway, that everyone just froze, eyeing each other like none of them had been expecting to see the others there. It was gone quickly, the group of boys lurching forward and Dean turning on his heals, sprinting into the darkness of the alley at a surprising speed. Sam took off after them.
He didn’t have to go far. He rounded a corner between the large green trash bin for the fancy restaurant, and the backdoor to one of Fitchburg’s many bookshops in time to see Dean hold his hands up in apparent surrender. “Don’t hurt me,” Dean said, his voice just bordering on taunting as he pouted and batted his eyes. “I’m all by myself. I can’t possibly fight all of you.”
“Son of a -“ but the other man’s retort - delivered along with a fierce upswing - was cut-off as Dean darted forward and in three swift moves had the man on his back. There was no pause between the man striking the ground and the others surging forward, and Sam stopped running towards the fight and instead watched it. Dean knew what he was doing - a strange mixture of attacks that merged more than one fighting style together. Sam was darkly pleased to note that Dean fought dirty, and when he finally turned his back and walked away, it was because all four of his opponents were neatly stacked one on top of the other in an ungainly heap of groaning pain and twitching limbs. Sam jogged to catch-up but when he reached a fork in the alley, he couldn’t see Dean anywhere.
…………………………..
Despite the fact that it had been Sam who had initiated the phone call, John greeted him with a gruff “Where were you?”
Which of course had the effect of putting Sam on the defensive, “Why?”
“I told you not to hunt that thing!”
“I wasn’t hunting it! And don’t pretend you know what I’m doing because you don’t. I had my cell phone, if you had wanted to reach me you could have!”
“I’m about two days away from you, Sammy.”
“Well, that’s great, dad. What do you want me to do? Sit tight and keep my head down?”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do!” John growled. “You keep your damned head down and salt every window and door where you’re staying.”
“I’m not hiding in some stupid motel until you get here! I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“If you have to do something, find me whoever the damned shtriga is masquerading as, but you don’t let on that you know what it is, got me?”
“Sir,” Sam bit out, and then flipped his phone closed, wishing he could fling it into a wall. He slumped onto the bed, running his hands through his hair and trying to shake-off his aggravation. Two day away meant Sam had two days to find the shtriga and kill it, and also, to figure-out what the hell was going on with Dean.
……………………………………
Dean’s house was blue with dark blue shutters. The garden was in full bloom and led Sam to believe that someone else was living with the man because Dean hadn’t seemed like the sort to tend tulips. Sam took it all in as he walked-up the stone pathway, standing in front of the red-painted door and waiting for someone to answer after his knock.
“Sam,” Sophia said, and then she stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come in. Don’t bother with anymore lies.” She waved him on when he didn’t immediately stepped forward.
“You called me Winchester, before,” he said, eyeing her cautiously. She grinned a little, mischief in her eyes.
From inside the house Sam could hear Dean’s call, “Who is it?”
“You know damned well who it is!” Sophia retorted before turning back to Sam and raising her eyebrows. “Well, are you coming in?” Sam stepped into the bright hallway and watched awkwardly as Sophia closed the door and gestured to the end of the hall. “Just in time for breakfast. You’re starting your day pretty early.”
It wasn’t that early, around ten o’clock. Sam had been up for well over four hours but hadn’t wanted to wake the whole house and make enemies by knocking on the door before it was even bright out. He followed her into the kitchen where Dean looked-up from chopping vegetables and frowned when he saw Sam standing framed in the doorway.
“What’s he doing here, Soph?”
“Don’t mess with me, Dean. I’m so not in the mood for it,” she said, joining him on the other side of the island and picking-up a knife. From what was laid-out, it looked like they were preparing omelettes. “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to Sam as if there were a stage she was inviting him to perform on.
“What happened the last time I saw you? At the motel?” Sam asked, surprised that it was the first thing that came to mind. There were plenty of other more important questions he had for the man.
“I had a migraine,” Dean answered quickly.
“A migraine?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, glancing up from where he’d returned to dicing peppers. “What, you’ve never had a migraine before?”
“I’ve had plenty of migraines. I’ve just never had one that looked like that.”
“Look,” Dean said, still holding the knife, and leaning forward across the island. “I don’t even know you. You’re not from here, you’ve lied to pretty much everyone I know, you’ve been following me since you came into town. The only reason you’re standing here at all, besides the fact that Sophia is an idiot, is that you haven’t lied to me - yet - and that’s all, Sammy. So cut the bullshit, Mr. Hunter, because you’ve got no one in this room fooled.”
“You called me Sammy.”
“What?” Dean asked, using the sleeve on the arm that was still grasping the knife to rub an itch on his nose.
“And you said I was a hunter.”
“Well, that’s what you are, isn’t it? Cheap motels, grizzled gun-toting dudes in flannel driving sweet-ass rides, oh, and black dogs, poltergeists, that kinda thing. That’s the package, right?”
“But how could you know that?”
Dean gestured with the knife towards Sam. “Judging from the cover, is all.”
“Right,” Sam said, smiling a little. “Because I haven’t worn flannel once since I got here, and I don’t have a beard.”
“Haven’t said anything about that gun, though, have you?”
“The fact that I’m carrying a gun does not explain how you knew it was there!”
“Wait, you’re carrying a gun?” Sophia asked.
“I told you he was,” Dean said.
“Yeah, but I thought that was a metaphor!” She turned to Sam and held-out an expectant hand. “Give it here.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you might shoot Dean! He has that effect on people sometimes!” Sam pulled his gun from the back of his pants where he usually stashed it and handed it over. It was simpler to comply until he knew what was going on. It also didn’t change the fact that he had a knife in his pocket. “Now would you stop pussyfooting around each other?”
Dean sniffed and went back to cutting the peppers, scraping his work into his palm so he could add it to the bowl of beaten eggs. Sam thought this was likely the time to go out on a limb. “I have visions, sometimes.” That didn’t seem to get any sort of reaction, so he continued. “I had one that brought me here, and it showed me you,” he nodded to Dean. “I’m a hunter - like you said - and usually the visions have something to do with a hunt. I asked around and I heard what’s been happening to the kids.”
Sam had Dean’s full attention. “You know what it is?”
“A shtriga,” Sam said. “It feeds-off the energy, or life-force, usually of kids.”
“How do you stop it?” Dean’s eyes were dangerous and intense, Sam thought-back to how he had considered Dean a possible suspect for the shtriga’s mask, but now he was forming a very different picture. He’d thought he’d flush Dean out - if the man was actually the shtriga, there would be some noticeable reaction to hearing it aloud, if he wasn’t, then maybe he would have some idea of what was going on. Sam had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Either way, he knew Dean was involved in this, that he had to be involved - his vision had made that clear.
“I don’t know how to stop it,” Sam admitted, though it tasted bitter in his mouth. Dean snorted and picked-up the bowl, turning to the pan he had waiting on the stove. Sophia barely had a chance to squawk and fling the ham she’d been slicing into the bowl.
“Well, it was nice talkin’ with you.”
“Dismissing me so quickly?” Sam asked. “I have contacts, I have weapons.”
“You have a deadline and something to prove,” Dean muttered, quiet, but loud enough for Sam to hear - Sam had been listening for muffled whispers since he was nine and his childish imaginings of there maybe being something in his closet had prompted his father to frown darkly and hand him a .45.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam said. “And if you’re going to keep doing that, you’re gonna explain it to me.” Dean looked like a recalcitrant child, turned partially away like he couldn’t quite voice it out loud.
“He’s psychic,” Sophia said. “Well, I mean, he’s a bit of an empathy too and he can …” Dean shuts her up with a ‘what the fuck?’ look that has Sam biting down on a smile. He wants to laugh, because there is something like relief coursing through him, something like coming home, like that moment on a rollercoaster when you’re climbing faster-higher and your stomach jumps. So Dean’s a freak - as much of a freak as Sam is. It’s like they’ve become some kind of united front as a result of this shared (fucked-up) perception that they never asked for but have just the same.
“So it wasn’t a migraine,” is the first thing that Sam thinks to say.
Dean turns around and quirks an eyebrow. “Hardly. You’ve gotta learnt to keep yourself to yourself, Man. You’re bleedin’ heart’s all over the place, just about anyone can step in it.”
“So if I touch you, you can what - read my mind?”
“A bit of this a bit of that,” Dean said with a shrug. “I pick-up things sometimes, same with objects, too. A thought, a hurt, a memory. With people, if I’m not careful, and they’re not focussed, it’ll go on until they let me go.” It was what happened out in the parking lot, only Sam hadn’t known to let go, and Dean had likely had to swim-up from whatever memories Sam had been drowning him in and break the hold.
“That’s what you were doing in the Shyre place,” Sam said.
“Yeah, touching things,” Dean joked. “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on these kids and no matter what the doctors say, it’s not a sickness. It’s a thing, with long fingers and a black cloak.”
“You’ve seen the shtriga?”
“Not exactly,” Dean admitted, sharing a look with Sophia. “Michael has.”
“Michael?”
“You should know him, you see him everyday at the motel,” Sophia said. “Joanna’s kid. Well, one of them.”
“Asher got sick just last night,” Dean says, his tone different, quieter.
“This demon, it works it’s way through siblings. I mean, I was trying to find some sort of pattern, but this is better. Tonight, it will be coming for Michael…”
“So all we need to do is figure-out how to kill it, and we’ll be set,” Dean said. Sophia was smirking a little at them.
“We?” Sam asked. “You’re gonna help?”
“Help?” Dean asked. “The way I see it, this is my town, and Soph and I were tracking this thing before you got here. You’re gonna help us.” Dean had hefted Sam’s gun into his hand with a casual familiarity that let Sam know just how skilled the man likely was with the weapon, then Dean changed his grasp, offered the handle of the gun towards Sam. “That sit fine with you, Mr. Hunter?”
“That works,” Sam said with a smile.
<< END CHAPTER >>
[MASTER POST]
Waco Cash Advance
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Three: DEAN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'.
A/N: AU. This is difficult to summarize fully without also spoiling fully.
Summary: A vision incites Sam to leave his father's side and head to Fitchburg. Without any clear notion as to what he is hunting, and no supernatural signs in the town of any kind as far as he can tell, Sam begins with what little he does know. But it doesn't take long before Sam begins to wonder if there might just be more than one mystery to be uncovered.
chapter three | DEAN
The morning of Sam’s third day in Fitchburg began with a thunderstorm louder than Sam had heard in over three years. He woke to a particularly vociferous rumble and had been unable to fall back into sleep. Sam didn’t mind rain much, except when it was cold rain, or when it was raining and he was trying to drive at night. Still, when he pulled aside the curtains the world was grey and wet, thick droplets of rain obscuring everything except the lighted signs of the motel which had been left on because it was so overcast.
Sam ventured far enough outside to contribute a pocketful of change to the motel’s vending machines in order to have some breakfast and was on his way back to his room when he saw a hunched figure running across the parking lot towards the motel office. The man was holding his leather jacket above his head, water sliding off the smooth surface and soaking into his jeans as he ran. Sam paused by his door to watch as the figure reached shelter and let his coat drop back around his shoulders, shaking his head like a dog would throw-off water. Dean wasn’t smiling when the motel owner’s son pushed open the door and waved him inside. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder, a frown pinching his slender brows as he surveyed the parking lot before he entered the motel.
“So this kid shows-up in unlikely places,” Bobby said, the shrug evident in his voice.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Just once, Sam wished that this were an exception, that there was no connection between Dean and the shtriga.
“You said yourself that your visions show you the victims.”
“Yeah, but they also used to come only when I was sleeping, and this one didn’t. It’s already different.”
“Look,” Bobby said. “You keep the option open, but you’re not going to go running out with a gun and shoot this kid on a hunch, okay? You’ve got time.”
“Yeah, time enough for my dad to get here,” Sam mumbled.
There was a pause, and then Bobby sighed. “Look, Sam. You might not remember but your daddy - he faced-off against a shtriga before.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. That was back when … well, when things were different for your daddy.”
“What happened?”
“He never talks about it much,” Bobby said. “It’s probably better if you spoke with him about it, but don’t go giving him a hard time with this. First with the vision, and now a shtriga - it’s too much to ask of the man, Sam. It’s got too much tied-up with it.”
“This is different,” Sam denied. “It’s not anything like then. I’m an adult, not a kid. I know more about hunting, I’ve got more experience.”
“Sam,” Bobby said. “Just - keep what I said in mind. And don’t go thinking you’re invincible, or that you’re different, or better.”
“I’m not saying I’m …” but it was what he had been saying. He was an adult, he knew what he was doing - or thought he did. He wanted his father to see him as an adult, but the man never could - for a reason that had little to do with him. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good man,” Bobby said. “Now, keep in mind what else I told you about that shtriga, and keep your eyes open. Just because you’re daddy doesn’t want you hunting it on your own, doesn’t mean you can’t figure out who it is, or where it will strike next.”
………………………………………………
Sam was never so aware of the time passing as he was sitting in his motel room listening to the rain coming down. Fitchburg might have been a small town, but it had a fair sized population, at least when considering how to locate a single shtriga posing as a citizen. Shtriga’s usually took the form of an older woman, but after laying-out the locations of each of the kids’ houses, Sam found them all in the radius of the hospital - which didn’t narrow the field as far as old women went. It also didn’t mean that this shtriga wasn’t masquerading as a man.
So Sam had little to go on, and his father was likely on the road at that moment heading to Fitchburg to help Sam on the hunt. The last thing Sam wanted was for John to come and complicate things. John had strict proceedings when it came to Sam’s visions, he was overbearing and strict and Sam was not prepared to take orders when it came to this. His vision had been vague, but the emotion attached to it had been intense. Sam was almost entirely at the mercy of his instincts and thus far they hadn’t led him wrong - but John was leery enough of Sam’s instincts as it was, he wouldn’t be prepared to tolerate Sam’s way of handling the hunt.
Migraines were not new to Sam, especially since his visions had started. They came with stress, so Sam wasn’t surprised when he felt that familiar dull throbbing ache in his head beginning. He was sitting on his bed, surrounding by weapons that he had been taking apart and cleaning, and the pain was steadily increasing. Pressing his fingers between his brow in a futile attempt to stave-off the impending migraine, Sam staggered to his duffel and searched for the painkillers that he always kept on hand - the bottle was there, but it was empty. “Fuck,” he muttered, whipping the plastic bottle across the room, then hissing when the ‘tock’ it made as it hit the wall echoed in his head.
Still cursing, Sam grabbed the keys to the impala and to the motel as he strode out of the room, letting the door slam behind him. The sound of the closing door was swallowed by the pelting rain, he ducked his head beneath his coat so he wouldn’t get as wet and jogged across the parking lot toward the main building of the motel. His boots made the water on the pavement jump, soaking his shoes and jeans, and Sam tried to focus on the movement - to dull the sound of the rain and his pounding head and his feet splashing through puddles on pavement - and maybe that was why he didn’t notice Dean. Not until they had collided and Sam had almost sent the shorter man sprawling into a puddle. Sam’s reflexes -- migraine or no -- were still quick, and he reached out, letting his coat drop back around his shoulders and he caught-hold of Dean before the man could fall.
“Hey, sorry Man, I didn’t see you,” Sam said, the words stumbling out because the rain was making the spicey scent of Dean’s shampoo more potent, and they were actually quite close. “Hey, are you okay?” Dean wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were unfocussed, his head tilted towards the ground and beneath Sam’s hands Dean’s body was entirely rigid. “Hey.” Sam ducked his head so he could meet the other man’s eyes, but Dean had squeezed them tight shut, his entire expression morphing into one of pain.
“No,” Dean said, his voice a soft exhalation of air, like he wasn’t speaking to Sam, like the word was meant for something else.
“Let me help,” Sam said. “Let’s get inside.” Dean jerked his body back, one arm hooking through Sam’s arms in a fighting manoeuvre that John had taught Sam when he was fourteen. But Sam wasn’t expecting it, and Dean effectively disengaged Sam’s grasp and backed away before Sam was even fully aware of what was happening. His hands flew-up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“What?” Dean asked, he winced a little and then shook his head as if to clear it.
“I won’t hurt you, okay? I just - look, maybe you should come inside, sit down for a bit.”
“Sit down?” Dean said, clearly confused. Sam might have begun to wonder if what he had seen had actually happened if he weren’t in the business of believing in the impossible. “I’m fine.” He had a hand up to his head and was frowning a little, he still hadn’t met Sam’s gaze. “Shit, it’s raining.”
Sam’s brows rose in surprise because the rain was hard to miss, especially when it had soaked them both through so thoroughly. “I think you need some help.”
Dean laughed a little, his eyes bitter and his expression oddly frozen. “You have no idea.” Sam held out a hand and nodded his head towards the main building of 2400 Court. Dean’s looked at the outstretched hand and backed-up a step. Sam watched as Dean made an effort to drag his eyes up to meet Sam’s and smile cockily. “See ya around.” And then Dean turned and was lost in the gloom.
Sam stood there a moment, wondering what had just happened. He’d only tried to help, just caught the man before he’d landed on his ass in a puddle. There had been nothing inappropriate in the gesture - and even if there were, Sam was certain that Dean had been flirting with him since he’d first walked into the Wyvern. Why the strange reaction?
“Can I help you?” a voice asked, and Sam realized he’d entered the main building and was standing by the front desk of the motel where motel manager’s eldest son was looking up at him.
“Uh,” Sam said, rubbing his brow and trying to remember why he’d been venturing out in such poor weather to begin with. The dull throbbing in his head was a not-so-welcome reminder. “Yeah, where is the nearest pharmacy?”
“It’s Luke’s place. Just around the corner,” the kid said, gesturing with his left arm to indicate.
“Thanks,” Sam said, already turning on his heel.
………………………
The best cure for a migraine, as Sam had come to discover (having tried them all), were three vaguely kryptonite-coloured painkillers, a small dark (and preferably warm) space, and the ability to pretend that the world did not exist.
He spent most of the day curled underneath his blankets immersed in his own pain as the migraine built and then began (thank god) to ebb. The absence of the blinding throbbing was almost an ache in itself, the relief being intense. He slept for a few hours and woke with his mind clear and focussed, already turning over his run-in with Dean in the early morning.
There was no way to know if Dean had been out-of-sorts from the beginning, because Sam had been intent on the pavement beneath his feet. Their collision replayed again and again in his mind’s eye and Sam remembered how Dean’s eyes had widened as he’d braced himself to fall, how his arms had stretched out to grasp something - anything to stop his descent - and Sam had been there, his hands grasping Dean’s upper arms, gripping worn leather … Sam frowned as he thought back. Dean had been wearing his worn brown leather coat as he’d jogged into the main building, but it hadn’t been on him as he’d left it again. Sam vaguely recalled seeing it hanging on the coat-rack by the door, water dripping off it and making a puddle on the floor. Dean had been out in the rain with only his T-shirt - Sam could recall how the cotton had clung to his body, the feel of the damp shirt and Dean’s slick skin beneath his fingers.
Sam sat-up in bed. Dean hadn’t shown any outward sign of pain until Sam had grasped his arms, and then his entire body had jerked and he’d become rigid with tension, and he’d been wincing. Whatever had happened, it had been a result of Sam making contact with Dean’s skin.
“Ugh,” Sam said, shaking his head as he scraped the fingers of both hands through his shaggy mass of hair. “Stop making so much of this.” Wishful thinking, maybe. But either way, one vaguely recalled incident was not going to solve the riddle that was Dean.
Kicking the blankets aside, Sam scooped his clothes up from where he’d tossed them on the motel chair, hurriedly tugging on his shirt and pulling on his jeans. He shoved his feet into his sneakers and grabbed the keys to the motel and the car from the desk. He’d wasted enough time with the damned migraine, now it was time to make some headway on the damned vision.
…………………………..
Dean didn’t look any worse for wear as he stalked down the street, his hands in his jean pockets and his head bent low. He wasn’t dressed to be working at the bar, although it was getting closer to evening. And though the rain had stopped, the streets were still wet, a dampness lurking in the air - still, Dean was walking in a pair of beat-up one-stars with his jeans picking-up rainwater and mud along the cuffs.
Sam ditched the impala, but there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to lose himself in a crowd. He kept a fair bit of distance between himself and the man he was following, pausing frequently to watch Dean’s reflection in a shop’s window from across the street.
Dean disappeared into Rosemary’s Diner, and Sam took the opportunity to duck into Burt’s and pick-up a large coffee before he continued passed the Diner in order to sit on one of the empty swings in the park. From there Sam had a clear view of the door.
Nighttimes in Fitchburg, as Sam was coming to learn, were cool but not overly so. The rain made the streets smell like fresh earth in a way that rainfall in cities never did. Twilight was always a quiet time, with people drifting between the bustle of the afternoon and the quietude of the night, and Sam sat and watched as the ‘Welcome’ signs were flipped-over and the fluorescent ‘Open’ signs came on in other stores. There were a surprising number of people strolling along the sidewalk. Sam tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a town like that. Nodding at neighbours and friends as you crossed each other on evening walks, where strangers passing-through were welcomed because they had new stories that hadn’t been shared and shared again. He imagined a house with a lawn to cut, pulling mail out of a personalized mailbox at the end of the driveway.
He thought of explaining his migraines to concerned neighbours. Of what excuse to give when a vision sent him sprawling while he was buying groceries, moving the lawn, walking down the street. He wondered what people would whisper when his father would pass-through - because no picture of the future, however imaginary it was, could exist without taking into account John’s frequent check-ins to make sure Sam was alive and well and accounted for. Sam could not picture the sleek impala parked in front of one of the friendly two-storeys he’d seen driving through the Shyres’ neighbourhood, the shining black of the car would clash with the soft warm greens and cheery yellows of the painted houses.
Sam finished-off the coffee and tossed it in the trash, the gesture taking him to the edge of the park, and it was hard to miss the four broad-shouldered men who had congregated by Rosemary’s. He checked the street but no one seemed to think the laughing and jostling group of boys was anything unusual, although most of the moseying crowd had moved along now that the sun was almost set. Sam caught-sight of Dean stepping out of the side door, his hands in his pockets - seemingly casual - except he bent forward, peered as far as he could around the corner. Rosemary had gotten-out her broom and was shooing the boys along with accompanying noises. There was a moment just as the boys were about to move along and Dean was turning to travel along the bikeway, that everyone just froze, eyeing each other like none of them had been expecting to see the others there. It was gone quickly, the group of boys lurching forward and Dean turning on his heals, sprinting into the darkness of the alley at a surprising speed. Sam took off after them.
He didn’t have to go far. He rounded a corner between the large green trash bin for the fancy restaurant, and the backdoor to one of Fitchburg’s many bookshops in time to see Dean hold his hands up in apparent surrender. “Don’t hurt me,” Dean said, his voice just bordering on taunting as he pouted and batted his eyes. “I’m all by myself. I can’t possibly fight all of you.”
“Son of a -“ but the other man’s retort - delivered along with a fierce upswing - was cut-off as Dean darted forward and in three swift moves had the man on his back. There was no pause between the man striking the ground and the others surging forward, and Sam stopped running towards the fight and instead watched it. Dean knew what he was doing - a strange mixture of attacks that merged more than one fighting style together. Sam was darkly pleased to note that Dean fought dirty, and when he finally turned his back and walked away, it was because all four of his opponents were neatly stacked one on top of the other in an ungainly heap of groaning pain and twitching limbs. Sam jogged to catch-up but when he reached a fork in the alley, he couldn’t see Dean anywhere.
…………………………..
Despite the fact that it had been Sam who had initiated the phone call, John greeted him with a gruff “Where were you?”
Which of course had the effect of putting Sam on the defensive, “Why?”
“I told you not to hunt that thing!”
“I wasn’t hunting it! And don’t pretend you know what I’m doing because you don’t. I had my cell phone, if you had wanted to reach me you could have!”
“I’m about two days away from you, Sammy.”
“Well, that’s great, dad. What do you want me to do? Sit tight and keep my head down?”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do!” John growled. “You keep your damned head down and salt every window and door where you’re staying.”
“I’m not hiding in some stupid motel until you get here! I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“If you have to do something, find me whoever the damned shtriga is masquerading as, but you don’t let on that you know what it is, got me?”
“Sir,” Sam bit out, and then flipped his phone closed, wishing he could fling it into a wall. He slumped onto the bed, running his hands through his hair and trying to shake-off his aggravation. Two day away meant Sam had two days to find the shtriga and kill it, and also, to figure-out what the hell was going on with Dean.
……………………………………
Dean’s house was blue with dark blue shutters. The garden was in full bloom and led Sam to believe that someone else was living with the man because Dean hadn’t seemed like the sort to tend tulips. Sam took it all in as he walked-up the stone pathway, standing in front of the red-painted door and waiting for someone to answer after his knock.
“Sam,” Sophia said, and then she stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Come in. Don’t bother with anymore lies.” She waved him on when he didn’t immediately stepped forward.
“You called me Winchester, before,” he said, eyeing her cautiously. She grinned a little, mischief in her eyes.
From inside the house Sam could hear Dean’s call, “Who is it?”
“You know damned well who it is!” Sophia retorted before turning back to Sam and raising her eyebrows. “Well, are you coming in?” Sam stepped into the bright hallway and watched awkwardly as Sophia closed the door and gestured to the end of the hall. “Just in time for breakfast. You’re starting your day pretty early.”
It wasn’t that early, around ten o’clock. Sam had been up for well over four hours but hadn’t wanted to wake the whole house and make enemies by knocking on the door before it was even bright out. He followed her into the kitchen where Dean looked-up from chopping vegetables and frowned when he saw Sam standing framed in the doorway.
“What’s he doing here, Soph?”
“Don’t mess with me, Dean. I’m so not in the mood for it,” she said, joining him on the other side of the island and picking-up a knife. From what was laid-out, it looked like they were preparing omelettes. “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to Sam as if there were a stage she was inviting him to perform on.
“What happened the last time I saw you? At the motel?” Sam asked, surprised that it was the first thing that came to mind. There were plenty of other more important questions he had for the man.
“I had a migraine,” Dean answered quickly.
“A migraine?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, glancing up from where he’d returned to dicing peppers. “What, you’ve never had a migraine before?”
“I’ve had plenty of migraines. I’ve just never had one that looked like that.”
“Look,” Dean said, still holding the knife, and leaning forward across the island. “I don’t even know you. You’re not from here, you’ve lied to pretty much everyone I know, you’ve been following me since you came into town. The only reason you’re standing here at all, besides the fact that Sophia is an idiot, is that you haven’t lied to me - yet - and that’s all, Sammy. So cut the bullshit, Mr. Hunter, because you’ve got no one in this room fooled.”
“You called me Sammy.”
“What?” Dean asked, using the sleeve on the arm that was still grasping the knife to rub an itch on his nose.
“And you said I was a hunter.”
“Well, that’s what you are, isn’t it? Cheap motels, grizzled gun-toting dudes in flannel driving sweet-ass rides, oh, and black dogs, poltergeists, that kinda thing. That’s the package, right?”
“But how could you know that?”
Dean gestured with the knife towards Sam. “Judging from the cover, is all.”
“Right,” Sam said, smiling a little. “Because I haven’t worn flannel once since I got here, and I don’t have a beard.”
“Haven’t said anything about that gun, though, have you?”
“The fact that I’m carrying a gun does not explain how you knew it was there!”
“Wait, you’re carrying a gun?” Sophia asked.
“I told you he was,” Dean said.
“Yeah, but I thought that was a metaphor!” She turned to Sam and held-out an expectant hand. “Give it here.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you might shoot Dean! He has that effect on people sometimes!” Sam pulled his gun from the back of his pants where he usually stashed it and handed it over. It was simpler to comply until he knew what was going on. It also didn’t change the fact that he had a knife in his pocket. “Now would you stop pussyfooting around each other?”
Dean sniffed and went back to cutting the peppers, scraping his work into his palm so he could add it to the bowl of beaten eggs. Sam thought this was likely the time to go out on a limb. “I have visions, sometimes.” That didn’t seem to get any sort of reaction, so he continued. “I had one that brought me here, and it showed me you,” he nodded to Dean. “I’m a hunter - like you said - and usually the visions have something to do with a hunt. I asked around and I heard what’s been happening to the kids.”
Sam had Dean’s full attention. “You know what it is?”
“A shtriga,” Sam said. “It feeds-off the energy, or life-force, usually of kids.”
“How do you stop it?” Dean’s eyes were dangerous and intense, Sam thought-back to how he had considered Dean a possible suspect for the shtriga’s mask, but now he was forming a very different picture. He’d thought he’d flush Dean out - if the man was actually the shtriga, there would be some noticeable reaction to hearing it aloud, if he wasn’t, then maybe he would have some idea of what was going on. Sam had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Either way, he knew Dean was involved in this, that he had to be involved - his vision had made that clear.
“I don’t know how to stop it,” Sam admitted, though it tasted bitter in his mouth. Dean snorted and picked-up the bowl, turning to the pan he had waiting on the stove. Sophia barely had a chance to squawk and fling the ham she’d been slicing into the bowl.
“Well, it was nice talkin’ with you.”
“Dismissing me so quickly?” Sam asked. “I have contacts, I have weapons.”
“You have a deadline and something to prove,” Dean muttered, quiet, but loud enough for Sam to hear - Sam had been listening for muffled whispers since he was nine and his childish imaginings of there maybe being something in his closet had prompted his father to frown darkly and hand him a .45.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam said. “And if you’re going to keep doing that, you’re gonna explain it to me.” Dean looked like a recalcitrant child, turned partially away like he couldn’t quite voice it out loud.
“He’s psychic,” Sophia said. “Well, I mean, he’s a bit of an empathy too and he can …” Dean shuts her up with a ‘what the fuck?’ look that has Sam biting down on a smile. He wants to laugh, because there is something like relief coursing through him, something like coming home, like that moment on a rollercoaster when you’re climbing faster-higher and your stomach jumps. So Dean’s a freak - as much of a freak as Sam is. It’s like they’ve become some kind of united front as a result of this shared (fucked-up) perception that they never asked for but have just the same.
“So it wasn’t a migraine,” is the first thing that Sam thinks to say.
Dean turns around and quirks an eyebrow. “Hardly. You’ve gotta learnt to keep yourself to yourself, Man. You’re bleedin’ heart’s all over the place, just about anyone can step in it.”
“So if I touch you, you can what - read my mind?”
“A bit of this a bit of that,” Dean said with a shrug. “I pick-up things sometimes, same with objects, too. A thought, a hurt, a memory. With people, if I’m not careful, and they’re not focussed, it’ll go on until they let me go.” It was what happened out in the parking lot, only Sam hadn’t known to let go, and Dean had likely had to swim-up from whatever memories Sam had been drowning him in and break the hold.
“That’s what you were doing in the Shyre place,” Sam said.
“Yeah, touching things,” Dean joked. “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on these kids and no matter what the doctors say, it’s not a sickness. It’s a thing, with long fingers and a black cloak.”
“You’ve seen the shtriga?”
“Not exactly,” Dean admitted, sharing a look with Sophia. “Michael has.”
“Michael?”
“You should know him, you see him everyday at the motel,” Sophia said. “Joanna’s kid. Well, one of them.”
“Asher got sick just last night,” Dean says, his tone different, quieter.
“This demon, it works it’s way through siblings. I mean, I was trying to find some sort of pattern, but this is better. Tonight, it will be coming for Michael…”
“So all we need to do is figure-out how to kill it, and we’ll be set,” Dean said. Sophia was smirking a little at them.
“We?” Sam asked. “You’re gonna help?”
“Help?” Dean asked. “The way I see it, this is my town, and Soph and I were tracking this thing before you got here. You’re gonna help us.” Dean had hefted Sam’s gun into his hand with a casual familiarity that let Sam know just how skilled the man likely was with the weapon, then Dean changed his grasp, offered the handle of the gun towards Sam. “That sit fine with you, Mr. Hunter?”
“That works,” Sam said with a smile.
<< END CHAPTER >>
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