Bite Chapter 2/10
In this chapter:
Ew, I think I'm going to be sick, Dean loves the furries, and good old Marine buddies.
Runner up at Sensue.net
Chapter Two
Sam woke up to the sound of his brother vomiting. The deep gasps and hoarse choking had Sam shooting out of bed, standing perfectly still in the dark, taking in the situation. It was still the middle of the night, maybe a little past two in the morning, and the room was lit only by the faint moonlight drifting in through the curtains. He held his breath and when he was certain no demon or apparition was floating around their room, waiting to pounce, he let his tensed muscles relax. He glanced over at Dean’s bed, the empty sheets confirming that it was in fact his brother who was now in the bathroom getting sick.
Running a hand over tired eyes, Sam forced himself to wake up fully as he walked quietly over to the bathroom door. It was ajar and the lights were off. Sam guessed that Dean had realized just on time that he was going to be sick and had made a mad dash for the bathroom. He didn’t like seeing his brother sick. Although he’d rib him about it sometimes, it still didn’t seem right to Sam. His brother was one of the strongest people he knew. To see him weak and sick just felt…dirty.
Rubbing his arms, Sam leaned against the frame of the door and peered inside the darkened bathroom. He could see Dean crouched in front of the toilet, clutching each side, his head hanging over it. He had his eyes closed and was taking deep breaths in through his nose. He looked pale, even in the darkness of the room. Dean didn’t seem to noticed he was there, which made Sam worry because Dean always knew when he was around.
Dean suddenly coughed deep in his chest and it quickly changed into another bout of sickness. By the time it had passed, one of Dean’s arms was stretched across the toilet seat, his forehead resting there. Panting from the exertion, Dean tried to clear his throat and spit.
“Dean?” Sam called softly. His brother lifted his head a bit, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe his face off before he turned his head to Sam.
“Go back to bed, Sam,” Dean commanded, but his voice lacked his normal authority. It was scratchy and deep. Sam didn’t like it at all.
When Dean laid his head back down, Sam asked, “Are you okay?”
That earned him a grunt, only a hint at his brother’s normal humor. “Peachy,” was the smarmy response. Sam could see his brother was shaking, but not because he was cold. His body was exhausted at the task of being sick. Sam didn’t move from his spot against the door as Dean rolled to the side and sat on the tiled floor, leaning himself back against the wall next to the toilet. He closed his eyes for a second, taking a breath, determining if he was done being sick. He must not have known because he didn’t move from that spot.
“Want me to get Dad?” Sam offered quietly.
Dean’s eyes shot open at that and he gave a strangled, “No.” Dean turned his head and looked at his brother sternly, trying to give off the air of health that he was most definitely not feeling at the moment. “I’m fine, Sammy. Just a cold or something. I’ll be okay in the morning.” Sam wasn’t buying it. He thought about ignoring Dean’s claims and going to get their father, but what good would that do? John would probably give Dean an aspirin and call it a night. “Go back to bed, Sam,” Dean said again, leaning his head back against the wall, fighting off another wave of nausea that was passing through him.
“Do you need anything?” Sam asked.
Dean’s head lifted slightly and he looked at his brother, a slight smile crossing his face. “A million dollars and a date with Tyra Banks,” he said flatly. Sam just sighed loudly and crossed his arms over his chest. He leaned forward a bit, showing Dean that he was unimpressed with the joke. Dean’s smile grew and he leaned back again. “I’m good, Sam.”
“Whatever,” Sam answered. He walked over to the dresser and took a plastic cup from beside the ice bucket. Sam unwrapped it and walked into the bathroom, flicking on the light as he did. Dean let out a grown and closed his eyes. Sam filled the cup with water and then held it out to Dean. “Here,” he said.
Dean opened one eye and glared at the cup as though it were the devil. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead closed his eye again and gave a small shake of his head. His brow furrowed slightly and Sam could tell that Dean was going to be sick again. He sat the cup down on the side of the tub and watched his as his brother turned sharply, grasped the toilet, and wretched again, though by now it was mostly dry heaving. Sam stood there for a moment, not really knowing what he should be doing. When Dean was done and started clearing his throat and spitting again, Sam could see the glossy remains of tears around Dean’s eyes. His brother wasn’t crying, but the strain of being sick brought the reaction automatically. Sam made an executive decision.
“I’m getting Dad,” he announced and turned to leave.
“No!” Dean protested, his head still over the toilet. “Sam, I’m fine,” he called and Sam stopped to gawk at him. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“Dean, you’re barfing up everything you’ve eaten in the past four years!” Sam exaggerated and stared at his brother like he’d grown an extra head. “You’re sick.”
Dean sighed, flushed the toilet and leaned to wipe his face again. “So I’ll get some Tums in the morning,” Dean spat and looked back at his brother. “It’s nothing, Sam. Don’t ruin Dad’s weekend.”
“Ruin his weekend?” Sam cried, starting to get angry with his brother. God, how could Dean be so stubborn about something like this. He was sick, nothing to get all defensive about. “I don’t think Dad’s going to care about his weekend more than he cares about you.”
Dean looked utterly desperate when he said, “Just don’t tell him.” Sam stared back at his brother, waiting for some sort of compromise from him. He couldn’t just not tell him. Their Dad would know something was wrong, he always knew when something was wrong. It was an infuriating ability of his, both as a hunter and a father. “Look, I’ll tell him I don’t feel good and I’ll take it easy, but just don’t tell him I got sick, okay?” When Sam only stared back at him, Dean shoved his jaw out, trying to look intimidating. “Okay?” he demanded again.
“Fine,” Sam growled and trudged back into the bathroom, grabbing the cup and holding it out to Dean again, who looked at it awkwardly and then glanced back up at his brother. “But he’s going to find out sooner or later.”
Taking the cup with a shaky hand, Dean put it to his lips and took a sip, testing to see if it would stay down. When after a few seconds it had, he took another one. “I’d prefer later,” Dean muttered after he’d sipped a few more times at the water. It seemed to help a little. “Much later, like after this hunt is over.”
“How are you going to hunt if you’re sick?” Sam asked, taking the cup from Dean when it looked like his shaky hand couldn’t hold it anymore. Dean laid his head back down on the toilet and sighed.
“I’ve done it before,” he whispered, voice muffled by his arm.
Sam just gaped at him. “What? When?”
“Remember that Phantasm me and Dad went after two years ago? The one in Duluth?” Dean asked, rolling his head so he could see Sam’s face. Sam nodded his head, wondering if he was going to like what he was about to hear. Probably not. “Remember what happened after we came back?”
Sam thought for a moment. “Yeah, three days later you had your appendix removed…Dean!” Sam yelled, suddenly realizing what his brother was saying. “You had appendicitis that whole weekend and you didn’t say anything?” When Dean merely smiled, Sam felt like reaching out and punching him but reminded himself that Dean was sick. Deserving of a punch, but still sick. “You’re an idiot!” Sam yelled. “Your appendix could have burst.”
Dean sat up, the smile still on his face. “Yeah, but it didn’t,” he gave lamely, picking himself up off the ground. He stayed hunched over for a minute, testing to see if his stomach would revolt against the movement or finally let him alone for a while. Sam watched him, a million different insults running through his head. Did his brother have a death wish? No, of course not, he was just too stupid to put himself before a hunt. “Besides, this isn’t anything like that,” Dean said, standing all the way up, hands on his stomach, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he grinned and turned to look at Sam. “The flu is nothing to worry about.”
“People can die from the flu, you know,” Sam said, stepping aside and letting his brother wash his face in the sink. He ran cold water and splashed it over his eyes, rubbing them before he turned off the faucet and brushed past Sam to go back to his bed. Sam followed him out, but stopped at the foot of his own bed, watching his brother crawl back under the covers with a groan of satisfaction.
“Not this people,” Dean joked. Sam stood there for a moment, holding back the urge to keep yelling at his brother. Stubborn ass, he thought and finally gave up, climbing into bed. Dean lay on his side, back facing Sam, so he couldn’t tell if his brother was asleep or not. He assumed he wasn’t, but didn’t want to keep hounding him. If Dean wanted to be hunt sick, then fine, who was he to stop him? But when Dean came crawling back to Sam for help, he only had himself to blame. Sam sighed and immediately took back the thought. He knew that if Dean ever needed his help, he wouldn’t hesitate to give it to him. Even if it was something as stupid and childish as recovering from the flu. But if Dean could be stubborn, the so could he.
So Sam didn’t say anything the next three times his brother got up during the night to puke.
The morning came much too quickly, and as much as Sam wanted to ignore his brother’s sickness, he found that he couldn’t quite keep his mind from racing. At five in the morning, Sam decided that sleep wasn’t going to be an option anymore this night and got up to try and start that Civics essay he knew he had to write. He’d brought a couple of books along that could help, and he’d always be able to insert more stuff later on. But really, at this point, the essay was just an excuse to get his mind off other things.
When six rolled around, the door to their motel room opened and John came in, looking strangely fresh for a man who had finished off a pack of beer the night before. He gave Sam half a smiled but it quickly turned into a frown when he glanced at Dean still asleep on his bed. Sam couldn’t help but squirm. He never had been a good liar. God, his Dad was going to see right through this. And then there would be hell to pay.
“He’s not feeling well, is he?” John asked and Sam sat surprised for a moment. Great, no need to lie, John already guessed it.
“I don’t think so,” Sam said, hoping his father wouldn’t ask if he’d been sick or not. Sam was already reciting the words in his head, willing himself to say them just right, like lines in a script, rehearsed, not a lie. But fortunately for him, because he knew he’d cave in if John just asked, his father didn’t say anything further. Instead, he walked over to where Dean still slept on his side, one arm beneath his head, legs curled up with a pillow between them. The strange sleeping position was probably what gave him away. Dean was usually a sloppy sleeper, sprawled out with limbs hanging all over the place. He didn’t usually curl in on himself like that.
John bent over his son and looked down at his face. When Dean didn’t wake up, John confirmed that Dean wasn’t feeling well. For his son not to sense someone was standing over them, either he had to be sick, or they needed to spend some more time training. John reached a hand out and placed it on Dean’s shoulder. That got the response he wanted. Dean jerked, bringing a hand around to grab John’s wrist in a death grip, the other arm ready to follow up with a fist, but John intercepted it and held Dean’s arms for a second, looking his son straight in the face. Dean’s eyes looked wild for a moment before he managed to croak out a surprised, “Dad?”
“Easy, killer,” John said, though his voice was unamused. Dean groaned and pulled away from his father, running his hands over his face in an attempt to wipe away the remains of a continuously interrupted sleep. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, but didn’t rise, instead he bent over, still rubbing his eyes.
“What time is it?” he slurred and John didn’t answer, just reached a hand out and put it on Dean’s forehead. That got the response that Sam had expected. Dean pulled away, frowning and looked up at his Dad. “What are you doing?” he asked, now awake a little more. Sam guessed that Dean realized his cover would be blown if he didn’t wake up and turn on those impressively expert lying skills of his.
“You feel hot,” John commented, voice dry. Thanks for the concern, Dad, Sam thought. “Are you sick?”
Dean hesitated for only a second before he said, “I think it’s just my throat.” And to accentuate his point, he started coughing. Whether he meant to or not, Sam didn’t know. He could only sit quietly by the table, watching the whole thing with hope that he wasn’t actually witnessing a train wreck. It wasn’t often that Dean and their Dad duked it out, but this was definitely something they could come to auditory blows over.
“Uh huh,” John said, eyeing Dean closely. John highly doubted that his eldest son was telling him the truth, but he wasn’t going to push it. He’d trust Dean to tell him if anything was seriously wrong. The truth of the matter was that John needed Dean on this hunt. Not just as backup, but also because Sam was here and it usually took two pairs of eyes to watch over his youngest. Sam had a knack for getting into trouble. And Dean had a knack for bailing him out. “I’m going to get coffee,” John announced and then added, “Shit, shower and shave and we’re out of here.” Dean snorted at the comment and Sam just rolled his eyes. Gross.
John left the room and Dean glanced over at Sam, who was watching him closely. “See?” Dean said, getting to his feet and trudging towards the bathroom. “I’m feeling better already.” Sam highly doubted that, but decided to let Dean get away with it.
Half an hour later, the Winchesters were on the road, heading towards Marshall McAdams’s house. Sam didn’t know much about John’s Marine days, but he’d met a few of the men he’d served with before. All of them had been nice enough, and whenever John was around one of them, Sam got to see a different side of his father. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. It was like his Dad somehow forget the past twenty years of his life and all the emotional baggage that came along with them. The joking, laughing, happy John Winchester was almost like a stranger. He lost that hard look in his eyes. Sure, John joked with Dean and Sam well enough, but this was different. It was like Sam was looking at the man that had been his father before Mary’s death.
“So what did Marshall say was going on?” Dean asked from the front seat, where he sat slouched in a chair, head pressed against the window, looking as uncomfortable as he’d ever looked. The flu wasn’t exactly the most comfortable illness to have. Sam had had it a couple times and he remembered how tired and achy he’d been. How Dean was even awake and not complaining was beyond him.
John turned the car onto a gravel road that headed into the woods. “There’ve been several disappearances the past four months,” John said nonchalantly, keeping an eye out for Marshall’s cabin. Sam could say one thing about all of John’s Marine buddies; they all liked their privacy. “No one’s found any bodies.”
“It could just be a serial killer,” Sam quipped from the backseat. His Dad glanced at him in the rearview mirror for a second. Sam could see the scowl on his face. Oh, he forgot, he wasn’t allowed to have a mind of his own.
“Some people from town said they’d been hearing howling,” John said crossly. “And there have been some strange symbols carved into the front doors of the people who’ve gone MIA.”
Dean cleared his throat, but his voice still came out raspy. “You think it’s a werewolf?” he asked. Sam perked up at that. He’d never gone up against a werewolf before. John had kept the hunts that Sam went on pretty easy; apparitions, poltergeists, and the occasional possession, but only because Sam’s Latin was starting to get better than Dean’s. Sam couldn’t help but feel excited, and a little scared, that this was something new. Although werewolves scared the crap out of him, he felt he was up for the challenge. It was one thing to be told that they exist, it was another thing to actually see one for yourself.
“That’s what I was thinking,” John said, though there was hesitation in his voice. “But something doesn’t feel right about it. We’ll have to keep our possibilities open, but for right now, that’s what we’ll prepare to go up against.”
“Great,” Dean said, leaning his head back against the window, clearly not excited. “I love the furries.”
John snorted and ducked his head forward as he spotted Marshall’s cabin. “Maybe this time you’ll remember to cock your gun,” he said it in a voice where Sam couldn’t tell if his father was joking or reprimanding. Dean apparently didn’t take offense as he sat up and looked at his father with determination on his face.
“Hey, I did cock that gun,” he said, trying to sound confident, but the weakness of his voice ruined that thought. “It jammed.”
“Sure,” John said as he pulled up next to the cabin and turned off the car. Sam leaned over to get a look at Marshall’s house. He was impressed by it. The log cabin was huge, with a wrap around porch and a fine stone chimney connected to the side. It looked aged, but only added to the Home and Garden feel of it all.
As they were climbing out of the car, the front door opened and a tall man with a slight gut stepped out, a brilliant grin on his face. He looked taller than John and his hair was graying slightly at the edges. He had a scruff of a dark beard on his chin. John stepped around the car and held his hands out to the side, trying to hold back the smile he had on his face.
“John fucking Winchester,” Marshall said, shaking his head. He jogged down the steps and came immediately over to them. Sam was surprised when John held out a hand, but Marshall pulled their father into a hug. John chuckled and returned the gesture with a pat on the back. Marshall pulled away and put his hands on John’s shoulders, looking him square in the eye. “Where the hell have you been the past twenty five years? Staying out of trouble I hope.”
John was quiet for a second, hesitant almost, but then he finally shrugged and said, “Trying to.”
Marshall let out a cheerful, hearty laugh and clapped John on the arm. “What’s life without a little trouble, huh?” John just grinned, some inside joke passing between them. “Sure as hell caused enough in our day.” The two had a quick chuckle before Marshall looked towards Sam and Dean. “These belong to you?” he asked, though his tone was still joking.
John turned and held his hand out to them. “Yeah, I’ll claim them. My son, Sam,” he said and Sam nodded to the man, who grinned back. “And my oldest, Dean.”
“Pleasure to meet you boys,” Marshall said. “My son’s off spending the weekend with some friends, so I’m afraid you won’t meet him. But hey, what are we standing out here for? Come on inside, have a beer. I think June has some peach pie made up.”
“I’ll take that beer,” John said as the two of them started walking towards Marshall’s house. “But we should get started. Finish this as soon as possible.”
“Always down to business,” Marshall nodded and they disappeared inside.
“Do you think we’re really going up against a werewolf?” Sam asked mutedly as they slowly followed John inside.
Dean shrugged, clearing his throat again and leaning over the railing to spit. Sam wrinkled his nose at it, but waited for his brother to answer. “I hope not,” he said at last.
“Why not?” Sam asked.
“I’m allergic to dogs.” Dean grinned and walked inside.
Sam didn’t know whether his brother was joking or not.
Go to Chapter Three
Ew, I think I'm going to be sick, Dean loves the furries, and good old Marine buddies.
Runner up at Sensue.net
Chapter Two
Sam woke up to the sound of his brother vomiting. The deep gasps and hoarse choking had Sam shooting out of bed, standing perfectly still in the dark, taking in the situation. It was still the middle of the night, maybe a little past two in the morning, and the room was lit only by the faint moonlight drifting in through the curtains. He held his breath and when he was certain no demon or apparition was floating around their room, waiting to pounce, he let his tensed muscles relax. He glanced over at Dean’s bed, the empty sheets confirming that it was in fact his brother who was now in the bathroom getting sick.
Running a hand over tired eyes, Sam forced himself to wake up fully as he walked quietly over to the bathroom door. It was ajar and the lights were off. Sam guessed that Dean had realized just on time that he was going to be sick and had made a mad dash for the bathroom. He didn’t like seeing his brother sick. Although he’d rib him about it sometimes, it still didn’t seem right to Sam. His brother was one of the strongest people he knew. To see him weak and sick just felt…dirty.
Rubbing his arms, Sam leaned against the frame of the door and peered inside the darkened bathroom. He could see Dean crouched in front of the toilet, clutching each side, his head hanging over it. He had his eyes closed and was taking deep breaths in through his nose. He looked pale, even in the darkness of the room. Dean didn’t seem to noticed he was there, which made Sam worry because Dean always knew when he was around.
Dean suddenly coughed deep in his chest and it quickly changed into another bout of sickness. By the time it had passed, one of Dean’s arms was stretched across the toilet seat, his forehead resting there. Panting from the exertion, Dean tried to clear his throat and spit.
“Dean?” Sam called softly. His brother lifted his head a bit, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe his face off before he turned his head to Sam.
“Go back to bed, Sam,” Dean commanded, but his voice lacked his normal authority. It was scratchy and deep. Sam didn’t like it at all.
When Dean laid his head back down, Sam asked, “Are you okay?”
That earned him a grunt, only a hint at his brother’s normal humor. “Peachy,” was the smarmy response. Sam could see his brother was shaking, but not because he was cold. His body was exhausted at the task of being sick. Sam didn’t move from his spot against the door as Dean rolled to the side and sat on the tiled floor, leaning himself back against the wall next to the toilet. He closed his eyes for a second, taking a breath, determining if he was done being sick. He must not have known because he didn’t move from that spot.
“Want me to get Dad?” Sam offered quietly.
Dean’s eyes shot open at that and he gave a strangled, “No.” Dean turned his head and looked at his brother sternly, trying to give off the air of health that he was most definitely not feeling at the moment. “I’m fine, Sammy. Just a cold or something. I’ll be okay in the morning.” Sam wasn’t buying it. He thought about ignoring Dean’s claims and going to get their father, but what good would that do? John would probably give Dean an aspirin and call it a night. “Go back to bed, Sam,” Dean said again, leaning his head back against the wall, fighting off another wave of nausea that was passing through him.
“Do you need anything?” Sam asked.
Dean’s head lifted slightly and he looked at his brother, a slight smile crossing his face. “A million dollars and a date with Tyra Banks,” he said flatly. Sam just sighed loudly and crossed his arms over his chest. He leaned forward a bit, showing Dean that he was unimpressed with the joke. Dean’s smile grew and he leaned back again. “I’m good, Sam.”
“Whatever,” Sam answered. He walked over to the dresser and took a plastic cup from beside the ice bucket. Sam unwrapped it and walked into the bathroom, flicking on the light as he did. Dean let out a grown and closed his eyes. Sam filled the cup with water and then held it out to Dean. “Here,” he said.
Dean opened one eye and glared at the cup as though it were the devil. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead closed his eye again and gave a small shake of his head. His brow furrowed slightly and Sam could tell that Dean was going to be sick again. He sat the cup down on the side of the tub and watched his as his brother turned sharply, grasped the toilet, and wretched again, though by now it was mostly dry heaving. Sam stood there for a moment, not really knowing what he should be doing. When Dean was done and started clearing his throat and spitting again, Sam could see the glossy remains of tears around Dean’s eyes. His brother wasn’t crying, but the strain of being sick brought the reaction automatically. Sam made an executive decision.
“I’m getting Dad,” he announced and turned to leave.
“No!” Dean protested, his head still over the toilet. “Sam, I’m fine,” he called and Sam stopped to gawk at him. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“Dean, you’re barfing up everything you’ve eaten in the past four years!” Sam exaggerated and stared at his brother like he’d grown an extra head. “You’re sick.”
Dean sighed, flushed the toilet and leaned to wipe his face again. “So I’ll get some Tums in the morning,” Dean spat and looked back at his brother. “It’s nothing, Sam. Don’t ruin Dad’s weekend.”
“Ruin his weekend?” Sam cried, starting to get angry with his brother. God, how could Dean be so stubborn about something like this. He was sick, nothing to get all defensive about. “I don’t think Dad’s going to care about his weekend more than he cares about you.”
Dean looked utterly desperate when he said, “Just don’t tell him.” Sam stared back at his brother, waiting for some sort of compromise from him. He couldn’t just not tell him. Their Dad would know something was wrong, he always knew when something was wrong. It was an infuriating ability of his, both as a hunter and a father. “Look, I’ll tell him I don’t feel good and I’ll take it easy, but just don’t tell him I got sick, okay?” When Sam only stared back at him, Dean shoved his jaw out, trying to look intimidating. “Okay?” he demanded again.
“Fine,” Sam growled and trudged back into the bathroom, grabbing the cup and holding it out to Dean again, who looked at it awkwardly and then glanced back up at his brother. “But he’s going to find out sooner or later.”
Taking the cup with a shaky hand, Dean put it to his lips and took a sip, testing to see if it would stay down. When after a few seconds it had, he took another one. “I’d prefer later,” Dean muttered after he’d sipped a few more times at the water. It seemed to help a little. “Much later, like after this hunt is over.”
“How are you going to hunt if you’re sick?” Sam asked, taking the cup from Dean when it looked like his shaky hand couldn’t hold it anymore. Dean laid his head back down on the toilet and sighed.
“I’ve done it before,” he whispered, voice muffled by his arm.
Sam just gaped at him. “What? When?”
“Remember that Phantasm me and Dad went after two years ago? The one in Duluth?” Dean asked, rolling his head so he could see Sam’s face. Sam nodded his head, wondering if he was going to like what he was about to hear. Probably not. “Remember what happened after we came back?”
Sam thought for a moment. “Yeah, three days later you had your appendix removed…Dean!” Sam yelled, suddenly realizing what his brother was saying. “You had appendicitis that whole weekend and you didn’t say anything?” When Dean merely smiled, Sam felt like reaching out and punching him but reminded himself that Dean was sick. Deserving of a punch, but still sick. “You’re an idiot!” Sam yelled. “Your appendix could have burst.”
Dean sat up, the smile still on his face. “Yeah, but it didn’t,” he gave lamely, picking himself up off the ground. He stayed hunched over for a minute, testing to see if his stomach would revolt against the movement or finally let him alone for a while. Sam watched him, a million different insults running through his head. Did his brother have a death wish? No, of course not, he was just too stupid to put himself before a hunt. “Besides, this isn’t anything like that,” Dean said, standing all the way up, hands on his stomach, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he grinned and turned to look at Sam. “The flu is nothing to worry about.”
“People can die from the flu, you know,” Sam said, stepping aside and letting his brother wash his face in the sink. He ran cold water and splashed it over his eyes, rubbing them before he turned off the faucet and brushed past Sam to go back to his bed. Sam followed him out, but stopped at the foot of his own bed, watching his brother crawl back under the covers with a groan of satisfaction.
“Not this people,” Dean joked. Sam stood there for a moment, holding back the urge to keep yelling at his brother. Stubborn ass, he thought and finally gave up, climbing into bed. Dean lay on his side, back facing Sam, so he couldn’t tell if his brother was asleep or not. He assumed he wasn’t, but didn’t want to keep hounding him. If Dean wanted to be hunt sick, then fine, who was he to stop him? But when Dean came crawling back to Sam for help, he only had himself to blame. Sam sighed and immediately took back the thought. He knew that if Dean ever needed his help, he wouldn’t hesitate to give it to him. Even if it was something as stupid and childish as recovering from the flu. But if Dean could be stubborn, the so could he.
So Sam didn’t say anything the next three times his brother got up during the night to puke.
The morning came much too quickly, and as much as Sam wanted to ignore his brother’s sickness, he found that he couldn’t quite keep his mind from racing. At five in the morning, Sam decided that sleep wasn’t going to be an option anymore this night and got up to try and start that Civics essay he knew he had to write. He’d brought a couple of books along that could help, and he’d always be able to insert more stuff later on. But really, at this point, the essay was just an excuse to get his mind off other things.
When six rolled around, the door to their motel room opened and John came in, looking strangely fresh for a man who had finished off a pack of beer the night before. He gave Sam half a smiled but it quickly turned into a frown when he glanced at Dean still asleep on his bed. Sam couldn’t help but squirm. He never had been a good liar. God, his Dad was going to see right through this. And then there would be hell to pay.
“He’s not feeling well, is he?” John asked and Sam sat surprised for a moment. Great, no need to lie, John already guessed it.
“I don’t think so,” Sam said, hoping his father wouldn’t ask if he’d been sick or not. Sam was already reciting the words in his head, willing himself to say them just right, like lines in a script, rehearsed, not a lie. But fortunately for him, because he knew he’d cave in if John just asked, his father didn’t say anything further. Instead, he walked over to where Dean still slept on his side, one arm beneath his head, legs curled up with a pillow between them. The strange sleeping position was probably what gave him away. Dean was usually a sloppy sleeper, sprawled out with limbs hanging all over the place. He didn’t usually curl in on himself like that.
John bent over his son and looked down at his face. When Dean didn’t wake up, John confirmed that Dean wasn’t feeling well. For his son not to sense someone was standing over them, either he had to be sick, or they needed to spend some more time training. John reached a hand out and placed it on Dean’s shoulder. That got the response he wanted. Dean jerked, bringing a hand around to grab John’s wrist in a death grip, the other arm ready to follow up with a fist, but John intercepted it and held Dean’s arms for a second, looking his son straight in the face. Dean’s eyes looked wild for a moment before he managed to croak out a surprised, “Dad?”
“Easy, killer,” John said, though his voice was unamused. Dean groaned and pulled away from his father, running his hands over his face in an attempt to wipe away the remains of a continuously interrupted sleep. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, but didn’t rise, instead he bent over, still rubbing his eyes.
“What time is it?” he slurred and John didn’t answer, just reached a hand out and put it on Dean’s forehead. That got the response that Sam had expected. Dean pulled away, frowning and looked up at his Dad. “What are you doing?” he asked, now awake a little more. Sam guessed that Dean realized his cover would be blown if he didn’t wake up and turn on those impressively expert lying skills of his.
“You feel hot,” John commented, voice dry. Thanks for the concern, Dad, Sam thought. “Are you sick?”
Dean hesitated for only a second before he said, “I think it’s just my throat.” And to accentuate his point, he started coughing. Whether he meant to or not, Sam didn’t know. He could only sit quietly by the table, watching the whole thing with hope that he wasn’t actually witnessing a train wreck. It wasn’t often that Dean and their Dad duked it out, but this was definitely something they could come to auditory blows over.
“Uh huh,” John said, eyeing Dean closely. John highly doubted that his eldest son was telling him the truth, but he wasn’t going to push it. He’d trust Dean to tell him if anything was seriously wrong. The truth of the matter was that John needed Dean on this hunt. Not just as backup, but also because Sam was here and it usually took two pairs of eyes to watch over his youngest. Sam had a knack for getting into trouble. And Dean had a knack for bailing him out. “I’m going to get coffee,” John announced and then added, “Shit, shower and shave and we’re out of here.” Dean snorted at the comment and Sam just rolled his eyes. Gross.
John left the room and Dean glanced over at Sam, who was watching him closely. “See?” Dean said, getting to his feet and trudging towards the bathroom. “I’m feeling better already.” Sam highly doubted that, but decided to let Dean get away with it.
Half an hour later, the Winchesters were on the road, heading towards Marshall McAdams’s house. Sam didn’t know much about John’s Marine days, but he’d met a few of the men he’d served with before. All of them had been nice enough, and whenever John was around one of them, Sam got to see a different side of his father. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. It was like his Dad somehow forget the past twenty years of his life and all the emotional baggage that came along with them. The joking, laughing, happy John Winchester was almost like a stranger. He lost that hard look in his eyes. Sure, John joked with Dean and Sam well enough, but this was different. It was like Sam was looking at the man that had been his father before Mary’s death.
“So what did Marshall say was going on?” Dean asked from the front seat, where he sat slouched in a chair, head pressed against the window, looking as uncomfortable as he’d ever looked. The flu wasn’t exactly the most comfortable illness to have. Sam had had it a couple times and he remembered how tired and achy he’d been. How Dean was even awake and not complaining was beyond him.
John turned the car onto a gravel road that headed into the woods. “There’ve been several disappearances the past four months,” John said nonchalantly, keeping an eye out for Marshall’s cabin. Sam could say one thing about all of John’s Marine buddies; they all liked their privacy. “No one’s found any bodies.”
“It could just be a serial killer,” Sam quipped from the backseat. His Dad glanced at him in the rearview mirror for a second. Sam could see the scowl on his face. Oh, he forgot, he wasn’t allowed to have a mind of his own.
“Some people from town said they’d been hearing howling,” John said crossly. “And there have been some strange symbols carved into the front doors of the people who’ve gone MIA.”
Dean cleared his throat, but his voice still came out raspy. “You think it’s a werewolf?” he asked. Sam perked up at that. He’d never gone up against a werewolf before. John had kept the hunts that Sam went on pretty easy; apparitions, poltergeists, and the occasional possession, but only because Sam’s Latin was starting to get better than Dean’s. Sam couldn’t help but feel excited, and a little scared, that this was something new. Although werewolves scared the crap out of him, he felt he was up for the challenge. It was one thing to be told that they exist, it was another thing to actually see one for yourself.
“That’s what I was thinking,” John said, though there was hesitation in his voice. “But something doesn’t feel right about it. We’ll have to keep our possibilities open, but for right now, that’s what we’ll prepare to go up against.”
“Great,” Dean said, leaning his head back against the window, clearly not excited. “I love the furries.”
John snorted and ducked his head forward as he spotted Marshall’s cabin. “Maybe this time you’ll remember to cock your gun,” he said it in a voice where Sam couldn’t tell if his father was joking or reprimanding. Dean apparently didn’t take offense as he sat up and looked at his father with determination on his face.
“Hey, I did cock that gun,” he said, trying to sound confident, but the weakness of his voice ruined that thought. “It jammed.”
“Sure,” John said as he pulled up next to the cabin and turned off the car. Sam leaned over to get a look at Marshall’s house. He was impressed by it. The log cabin was huge, with a wrap around porch and a fine stone chimney connected to the side. It looked aged, but only added to the Home and Garden feel of it all.
As they were climbing out of the car, the front door opened and a tall man with a slight gut stepped out, a brilliant grin on his face. He looked taller than John and his hair was graying slightly at the edges. He had a scruff of a dark beard on his chin. John stepped around the car and held his hands out to the side, trying to hold back the smile he had on his face.
“John fucking Winchester,” Marshall said, shaking his head. He jogged down the steps and came immediately over to them. Sam was surprised when John held out a hand, but Marshall pulled their father into a hug. John chuckled and returned the gesture with a pat on the back. Marshall pulled away and put his hands on John’s shoulders, looking him square in the eye. “Where the hell have you been the past twenty five years? Staying out of trouble I hope.”
John was quiet for a second, hesitant almost, but then he finally shrugged and said, “Trying to.”
Marshall let out a cheerful, hearty laugh and clapped John on the arm. “What’s life without a little trouble, huh?” John just grinned, some inside joke passing between them. “Sure as hell caused enough in our day.” The two had a quick chuckle before Marshall looked towards Sam and Dean. “These belong to you?” he asked, though his tone was still joking.
John turned and held his hand out to them. “Yeah, I’ll claim them. My son, Sam,” he said and Sam nodded to the man, who grinned back. “And my oldest, Dean.”
“Pleasure to meet you boys,” Marshall said. “My son’s off spending the weekend with some friends, so I’m afraid you won’t meet him. But hey, what are we standing out here for? Come on inside, have a beer. I think June has some peach pie made up.”
“I’ll take that beer,” John said as the two of them started walking towards Marshall’s house. “But we should get started. Finish this as soon as possible.”
“Always down to business,” Marshall nodded and they disappeared inside.
“Do you think we’re really going up against a werewolf?” Sam asked mutedly as they slowly followed John inside.
Dean shrugged, clearing his throat again and leaning over the railing to spit. Sam wrinkled his nose at it, but waited for his brother to answer. “I hope not,” he said at last.
“Why not?” Sam asked.
“I’m allergic to dogs.” Dean grinned and walked inside.
Sam didn’t know whether his brother was joking or not.
Go to Chapter Three