Lupo Mutaret (11/?)
“So, you’re thinking that it’s just a vengeful spirit?”
John nodded, thumbing distractedly through the records he’d pulled from the library earlier.
“Looks that way,” He offered, sending Sam an easy smile over the top of the papers. “All of the people killed were, in some way, close to her husband - who, by the looks of things, was the one that killed her. I’m thinking she’s going after everyone who knows what happened.”
Sam nodded, absently running a whetstone over the knife in his hand (which, Dean had sneakily checked before handing him, was not silver - the kid still had burns on the tips of his fingers from handling the silver bullets days before).
His hands moved with a practiced ease and Dean couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud as Sam expertly sharpened the blade without ever taking his eyes off their father. Whilst the kid hadn’t always loved their lives as hunters the way that Dean did, it was reassuring to know that he’d never not tried at anything. He was far better with knives than Dean or John, and Dean couldn’t recall the last time he’d missed a target (moving or otherwise).
“Wish you’d look at what you were doing.” John told his youngest son, and Dean bristled instantly at the reprimand before recognising that it hadn’t been said to annoy or scold, but with a faint exasperation that had his lips turning up at the corners despite himself. Mischief glinting in his eyes, Sam shifted the whetstone into his left hand and lightly - and expertly - twirled the blade around his fingers, keeping his eyes locked on his father.
John groaned, covering his eyes and peeking out from between his fingers like a small-child playing peek-a-boo.
Sam laughed, flipping the blade around his fingers once more - reversing the direction this time, because the kid was a little show off - before falling back into the easy rhythm of sharpening, making a point of dropping his eyes to the knife.
“One day,” John warned him, tone still as light. “You’ll cut yourself and wish you’d listened to me.”
Sam shrugged.
“Probably,” He admitted, with a small but decidedly cheeky grin. “But until then, I’ll continue to do it at every given opportunity if only just to piss you off.”
For possibly the first time Dean could remember, their father’s response to Sam’s comment was to throw his head back and laugh, an open carefree sound that appeared to almost startle his younger brother. Within moments, Sam’s own giggles were breaking through and Dean felt his face split into a wide, fond grin.
Perhaps it was possible to keep his family together, after all.
As it turned out, John was right about the small town’s problem being nothing more than a ticked-off ghost. He let himself into the room at five am the next morning with a wide grin on his face and not so much as a bruise, manoeuvring around the room with a practiced silence, as if not to awaken his sons.
It was a wasted effort.
Dean had been trained from a young age to wake at the slightest noise, wary of possible dangers even in sleep, and whilst it wasn’t something either of them had ever tried to train into Sam - perhaps in the naïve hope that it was a skill that the youngest Winchester would ever need to employ - Dean knew his brother did the same.
At the quiet snick of the door swinging shut, Dean’s eyes opened just in time to catch his brother rolling back onto his side facing away from the door, apparently noting that it was just their father - and that he was, by the looks of things, entirely uninjured - before curling himself back into a ball and drifting off into what appeared to be a peaceful sleep.
Perhaps for the first time ever in their lives, Dean found it harder to drop off again, watching their father as he made his way around the room. The older hunter carefully slipped a knife between the mattress and the bed frame and a gun under the pillow, taking a second Glock into the bathroom with him and tucking it onto the small shelf a few inches below the window.
He washed quickly and efficiently, the slightly ajar door providing Dean with enough light to watch his father clean the grave dirt from his face before stripping down to his boxers and leaving his clothes in a quasi-neat pile in the corner under the sink, alongside Sam’s own neat pile. Dean could just about make out his own jeans sticking out from the small gap between the toilet and the shower, the rest of his clothes nowhere to be seen.
Finally, the older hunter pulled the covers back and climbed gratefully into his bed, his lips quirking up in a surprised smile when his eyes met Dean’s.
“Everything alright?” He asked, voice carefully hushed. Next to Dean, Sam stirred briefly before settling again, brain registering and dismissing his father’s voice even in sleep.
Dean just nodded, allowing his eyes to drift shut and his body to relax into the mattress.
“-never sleeps this long!”
“It’s fine, Dad. It’s not like we’re in a rush - just leave him to sleep.”
Dean blinked awake, despite Sam’s hushed tone, and his bleary eyes immediately located the clock sat on the nightstand. He was more than a little surprised when his brain registered what the clock was telling him - that it was just gone one in the afternoon. Sam’s words came back to him, and he lazily ran a hand through his hair before dragging himself up into what was (technically) an upright position.
“Afternoon, son.” John greeted, mirth dancing in his eyes. “We wondered when you were finally gonna wake up. You feeling alright?”
Dean took a moment to internally assess himself, before nodding. “Never better. Coffee?”
Sam was already at the kitchen counter, adding milk to a steaming mug that had been left there - John must have made it, since Sammy was the only person who ever remembered that, whilst he usually preferred his coffee as black as tar, Dean loved nothing more than a coffee with a little milk in to wake him up.
The teenager fetched it over, settling happily onto the bed next to him and nearly making Dean spill the drink as he wriggled his way into a comfortable position.
“Watch it.” Dean groused, but his brother just rolled his eyes, wriggling for a few more prolonged seconds before settling back again.
“So,” Sam said conversationally after a long moment, pulling John once more from writing in his journal. Dean expected an exasperated comment about how ‘recording what we do is important damnit!’ for the disruption, but their father just glanced up.
“Pastor Jim’s today.” The youngest Winchester continued evenly, though Dean could see the way that his eyes flickered from his father’s face down to the journal and back again, as if worried that his father would be angry.
John - despite their obviously scared expectations - nodded amicably, tucking his pen inside the journal to keep his page.
“Unless you’d rather spend another night here?”
Sam shook his head, glancing up at his older brother. “I’m up for travelling, if that’s alright with Dean.”
“Fine by me.” Dean shrugged, carefully balancing his coffee mug on his knee with a hand wrapped lightly around it. “It’ll be nice to see Jim again.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, lets hope for your sake that he doesn’t still have Ivan - I’m not sure your pride can handle being taken down by a tiny little cat twice.”
“Hey!” The elder brother defended, tone indignant. “Ivan is vicious, and he’s crazy. Not to mention that he has claws and teeth! I was at a disadvantage!”
“It’s okay,” Sam grinned mockingly, placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder in what was clearly supposed to be a consoling manner. “I’ll protect you.”
Dean huffed loudly into his mug, shaking Sam’s hand off even as their father chuckled a little and turned back to his journal. The fell into an oddly comfortable silence as Dean drained the last dregs of coffee from the cheap mug, wincing a little at the acrid taste of coffee granules that hadn’t been fully absorbed by the water.
He couldn’t help but eye his little brother out of the corner of his eye as he drank, relieved to find that for the first time in weeks, Sam looked just as healthy as he had before that godforsaken witch hunt… perhaps even better. His skin was no longer pale, but had a healthy - almost tanned - glow to it, and the black bags under his eyes had all but disappeared.
Leaning back against the headboard, he looked relaxed - happy. It was startling to realise that Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of those words in relation to his brother. Even before the witch hunts, Sam had been floundering - fighting their dad about everything to do with hunting, bickering with Dean when the older Winchester tried to take their father’s side.
Dean knew that the kid had been thinking of taking off to college when he could; had found to brochures hidden in his sock drawer three states back and had spent three nights furious with his brother for trying to hide that from them… for even considering something as ludicrous as going away to school.
It wasn’t until he’d really looked at his brother, struggled to recall the last time he’d heard the kid really laugh that he’d changed his mind. It had hurt, of course, to think that one day in the not-so distant future he’d have to let go of the kid that he’d practically raised, but if it meant that Sam might have a chance at true happiness - something that, Dean had realised, he’d never achieve as a hunter - then he’d do it.
Now, Sam would never have that chance.
It was proof of how strong the kid was that he was still smiling and laughing with his father and brother. Dean knew with a sick certainty that Sam was more than well aware that everything he’d dreamed for was now beyond impossible; the witch’s curse had changed his life in more way than one, forever tying him to the supernatural and ruining the chance for the escape that he’d longed for.
Since the hunt, Sam had never once mentioned school. He’d missed nearly three weeks of term-time, something which had caused more than one argument in the past, and Dean knew that it wasn’t because he’d spent most of that time sick or injured. Hell, Sam had once suffered a blow to the stomach so bad that he’d needed surgery to repair his spleen and had been begging (fruitlessly) to go back to school within a few days.
Dean wondered if, whether their father broached the topic, Sam would even want to go back. There was nothing there for him now, not the way that there’d been the way before. Dean didn’t know quite what to make of that.
Sam’s eyes flickered towards him, a frown pulling the edges of his mouth down, and Dean realised belatedly that he was staring.
“Top up?” He asked with a cheeky grin, holding his mug up and ignoring his stomach’s protests at the thought of more coffee before food.
Sam rolled his eyes, but obediently grabbed the cup and headed back over to the kettle.
Perhaps the saddest part of the whole idea was the fact that some part of Dean, some part deep down that he liked to pretend didn’t exist, was glad that the opportunity to leave had been snatched away from his brother. He wasn’t sure what he’d have down if Sam had left, but he knew himself well enough to know that it wouldn’t have been pretty.
As if sensing his somewhat maudlin mood, Sam sighed loudly as he crawled back onto the bed and held another cup of coffee, - black, this time, and Dean fought to keep the grin off his face at just how well his brother knew him - out for his brother to take. He winced slightly, Dean presumed at the pull on the wound on his side, but settled quickly enough that the older man was happy enough to shrug it off.
“Don’t get used to this,” The younger brother warned. “I’m only serving as your personal slave this morning because I’m in a good mood.”
“Well, then,” Dean shot back. “I’d best make the most of it before my bitchy little brother makes his return. Breakfast, please, slave.”
Sam scowled.
Words: 2,110.
(A/N: Good news... I'm alive! And for the record, I'm also sorry about the ridiculously long wait for this chapter - don't worry, I've learnt my lesson! No more promising that I've got a handle on life and will be posting within a few days... as it turns out, that never works in my favor. I'm not too proud to admit that this story - and most of my others, if I'm honest - totally got a way from me for a while there.
I've had a lot to focus on in RL, and sometimes writing just has to take a back seat to other (decidedly more important stuff), you know? But what I can say (and hopefully without jinxing anything!) is that I currently have more muse that I've had a in a long time, and I'm itching to put it to good use! Thanks for sticking with me so far, you seriously can't understand how much each little comment means to me. Love you guys!
P.S. The one bonus of the long wait was that it gave me the opportunity to go through and fix some of the mistakes made in previous chapters, so I plan to go through and fix them on my LJ at some stage. I also managed to go through and fix all of the graphics, so... bonus!)