Lupo Mutaret (Interlude, part one)
Jim Murphy sighed, resting his pen down on his notepad to once more shake the cramp from his hand. His body was growing old on him, and it wasn’t long before he’d be forced to give into young Samuel’s suggestion that he type his sermon notes, rather than write them by hand. It was strange to recall, sometimes, that these same hands that ached after a page full of notes had once been so competent in delivering the world from evil.
Still, those days were long behind him, though he wasn’t too proud to admit that some days he yearned fiercely for the company of other men - and women - who knew the same things that he did, had fought in the same war. He loved his congregation dearly, but there was something limiting in looking each one of them in the face and realising that they had no real concept of the horrors that lay in wait for them.
Perhaps that was why his mood had picked up so much since John Winchester had phoned to say that he and his boys were on their way. It was unusually formal for a man who usually turned up on his doorstep entirely unannounced and left his boys - or, usually, boy - there for days at a time with no prior warning.
Still, it wasn’t like Jim had ever minded the surprise visits. For all of the times that the Pastor had been forced to struggle to keep his temper in hand whilst dealing with their father, and he needed more than two hands to count those, Jim loved the man’s boys as dearly if they were his own.
Both of them were remarkable young men, particularly given the unusual manner in which John had raised them (or, more correctly, they’d raised each other). Moreover, the bond between them was like nothing Jim had ever seen before; he’d seen close siblings before, had been one many years ago, but Sam and Dean were truly something else.
The rumbling of a familiar engine pulled Jim from his reverie, and he hastily tucked his pen between the pages of a weather-worn Bible, flicking the book shut and resting his notepad on top. He swung the kitchen door open with a small grin that he couldn’t help, leaning on the door frame and taking care to gently nudge Ivan out of the way as he did so.
The ginger cat mewled pitifully, blinking up at Jim innocently, but the hunter knew better than to be fooled - whilst the cat had taken to Sam within a heartbeat, he’d reacted in an entirely opposing manner to the other Winchester brother. Jim was pretty sure that Dean still had scars from their last encounter.
“You stay here,” He told the cat sternly, nudging it further into the kitchen. “And when Dean comes in, you had better be polite, you understand me?”
The cat blinked evenly, mewling once more, and Jim shook his head with a sigh as he stepped out into the cool late afternoon air.
John was already half-way up the porch steps, his boys trailing slightly behind. Jim counted five duffels and couldn’t help but roll his eyes; John was a paranoid man, had been for as long as the Pastor could remember, and despite Jim’s reassurances he still insisted on bringing his own stash of weapons into the house. The boys, as ever, had followed where their father led - their own weapons duffel tossed over Dean’s shoulder.
“John,” The Pastor greeted warmly. “Boys. It’s nice to see you all again - it’s been far too long since you last swung by this place.”
“It has indeed,” John acknowledged, patting his friend on the shoulder, unable to keep the warm grin from his face. Jim was one of the few people that John could call a friend, and the only one whom he’d never once fallen out with, the elder man having proven immune to all of John’s fits of temper; as a result, John considered him possibly the best friend that he had. “How have things been around here, old man?”
“Uneventful.” Jim laughed, greeting the two younger hunters with a warm embrace. As always, Dean patted his back awkwardly, but Sam was happier with the hug, his muscles relaxing in the older man’s hands. “I imagine that the same can’t be said for the three of you. I learnt very early on that life is never uneventful for a Winchester - why don’t you come in and tell me all about it?”
Dean tensed a little, and Sam ducked his head, and the Pastor had the distinct impression that he’d somehow plucked a nerve. John, as always, was frustratingly void of a discernible emotion, his face carefully blank as he turned and led the small group into the kitchen.
Jim let the boys in ahead of him, watching the terse way in which Dean held himself, the way that he didn’t kick his boots off as soon as he was inside - as was customary - and the way that dropped his duffel next to the door, rather than heading through the house to drop it into the bedroom that he and Sam shared.
“Oh, dear.” The Pastor muttered to himself, following the small family into the kitchen and hoping - praying - that whatever unfortunate events had lead to Dean preparing to take off at a moment’s notice weren’t as bad as Jim feared.
Jim’s stomach flipped sickeningly.
On the table, Sam’s fingers lightly and reverently traced over the leather binding of the Holy Book; fingers tracing the words ‘Bible’ over and over as if searching for courage or, perhaps, benediction.
For a brief moment, Jim found himself scrambling for an excuse to get them all out of this situation - some chore or errand that he could fabricate to save them all from the tension of the current moment. He didn’t, handing out the steaming mugs instead, before settling into a chair of his own.
Sam folded his hands into his lap, and Jim faltered openly.
“I’m assuming that I was correct in thinking that things haven’t been as uneventful for the three of you as they have for me?” He asked carefully, sipping from his steaming mug and eyeing the three men before him through the steam of the hot drink.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Dean snorted, a rough and bitter sound. Next to him, Sam shifted uncomfortably and dipped his head further - Dean’s eyes rested resolutely on the Pastor, even as he shifted to drop an arm around the back of his brother’s chair, fingers brushing the younger man’s shoulder in a casual display of affection. Sam relaxed a little.
“We had a bit of a mishap on a witch hunt.” John offered after an extended pause, and Jim winced. It was common knowledge in the hunting community that witch hunts were one of the worst; not, perhaps, in regards to the witches themselves, but of the extended (and frankly terrifying) list of potential consequences of a hunt going bad where spells and magic were involved.
Witches could do more than just hurt a person; could do much worse than make them bleed. It was a lesson that many a hunter had learnt the hard way before the Winchesters, and one that the elder hunter had hoped the three of them would never have to learn.
“Mishap?” He queried, unsure if he really wanted to know any more details.
Surprisingly, it was Sam who responded, lifting his eyes from the table for the first time. The hazel was as breathtaking as ever, a colour unlike any other that Jim had ever seen, and yet the young hunter looked somehow lost.
“I got myself cursed.” He said, tone flat and even. “The witch was turning kids into puppies, and when she realised that she was trapped she threw the spell at me as a defence. Turns out that it wasn’t intended to keep the kids as puppies, but to give them the ability to shapeshift.”
Jim blinked, in what - he reflected - was probably a somewhat dumb manner.
“In short,” Sam concluded. “I can now shapeshift into a lovely canine form. I have to turn about once a week otherwise I get sick, I can communicate with other shapeshifters in my head and - apparently - silver burns me. Surprise!”
His tone was somewhat bitter, but he seemed at least a little relieved to get the entire thing off his chest.
“And it’s permanent?” Jim found himself asking, sounding surprisingly calm even to his own years.
Eyes widening, Sam just nodded mutely.
“As far as we can tell,” Dean acknowledged. “The witch is dead and her grimoire was toasted. Bobby can’t find any other way to reverse it.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully, running things through in his head. Finally, he offered the youngest of the three Winchester men a small smile.
“So, Sam, what exactly is it that you shift into?”
“Erm,” Sam faltered. “Excuse me?”
Jim laughed. “What do you shift into?”
“A wolf,” Sam admitted. “Wait, you’re okay with all of this?”
Jim frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be? Of course, I understand that it must have been distressing, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still the same person, Samuel.”
On the other side of the table, John frowned.
He knew that the small family shared that loyalty, and that Winchester loyalty was nothing to be taken lightly. When the small family loved, they did it just as fiercely as they did everything else in their lives.
There were few hunters on the earth that Jim trusted even half as much as he trusted the Winchesters, and even them he kept a safe distance. There was a huge risk in staying in one place like Jim did, in involving other people so much in his life, and he’d long since accepted that it was usually better for everyone that he kept his distance from the hunting community unless there a situation arose in which there was simply nobody else to help.
The small family were the only hunters that he’d ever invited into his home, and perhaps the only other hunter that Jim could ever see himself extending that invitation to would be Bobby Singer - who had a nice little home, and a life, of his own. He knew that the other man shared his affection for the Winchesters, and it was one of many reasons that the two of them had found themselves friends.
They ate dinner in a comfortable silence, trading the occasional story about what they’d been up to in the months since they’d last seen each other with a fairly happy atmosphere, save for a brief altercation between Dean and Ivan, who had finally managed to sneak past Jim and had gone straight for the young hunter’s ankles.
Thankfully, Sam had been quick to intervene, scooping the cat up into the air. Like always, Ivan seemed to almost collapse into the youngest Winchester’s arms with a loud rumbling purr, tucking his head under the Sam’s chin and rubbing his head back and forth there affectionately.
“Stupid thing,” Dean muttered under his breath, eyes flittering longingly across the room to where he’d kicked his boots off next to the door, as if debating the merits of slipping them back on. “What the hell have I ever done to you, huh?”
“I wouldn’t take it personally,” The Pastor offered. “I give him two meals a day, as well as a roof over his head and a warm bed, and he barely tolerates me.”
Sam mock-glared at them both, smoothing over the cat’s ears.
“You’re just misunderstood,” He soothed, tickling the small animal under the chin and smiling as the ginger tom’s purrs increased in volume. “Aren’t you, Ivan?”
The cat, who always had been a master of good timing, mewed loudly.
Chuckling, Jim couldn’t help but to once again regret that the youngest Winchester had been raised in the kind of lifestyle where this kind of domesticity, the kind of life that the kid evidently thrived in, was always just beyond his reach.
Whilst both he and Dean were truly spectacular hunters, better in many ways then much older men who had been training for decades, it was clear to anyone who took the time to look that hunting wasn’t the same passion for Sam as it was for John and Dean.
Frankly, it was understandable - whilst both John and Dean had made it their life’s work to seek revenge for Mary, to seek vengeance for the life that had been snatched from them so cruelly in the fire, Sam had never known his mother. He didn’t have the memories of a happy family life with her to drive him onwards.
All Sam had ever known was the hunt.
He had been raised in a world of perpetual fear, and until that afternoon Jim could have sworn that - sometime in the future - Sam was destined to break all of their hearts and leave. Now, like the normal childhood he had longed for, that escape was just one more thing that their lifestyle had stolen from the young man before him.
And yet, he was still sat across the wooden table, smiling and joking and vehemently refusing to roll over and give up.
Jim was sure that he’d never loved the boy more than in that moment.
The young hunter sunk into his usual chair, which Jim had pulled up to the rickety desk out of habit, in silence. Almost in an automatic gesture, his hand dropped to the Bible that Jim had left there, fingers once more following the familiar pattern of the gold lettering.
Jim didn’t talk, didn’t acknowledge the young man’s presence other than to offer him a small smile as Ivan leapt into his lap and curled up, purring contentedly.
“I’d kind of talked myself into thinking that he wouldn’t like me anymore.” Sam muttered after a while of silence, eyes locked on the bundle of fur in his lap, fingers lightly tickling behind the animal’s ears.
ldquo;Animals are more intuitive than we often give them credit for.” Jim acknowledged with a soft smile, leaning back into his chair, settling comfortably against the cushy surface. “Regardless of the fact that you now have a few extra… abilities, it’s still you, Sam.”
“Is it?” Sam whispered, hazel eyes lifting reluctantly to lock with the Pastor’s. “Because I wonder sometimes.”
Jim frowned.
“And what reason do you have to worry about such things?” He asked, unable to keep the concern from your voice. Sam seemed to pale a little.
“Dad thinks I’m a freak.” He confessed bitterly, voice timid, as if he expected Jim to announce that he felt the same way. “He swapped his normal knife out for a silver one, wears strapped to his leg as if I wouldn’t notice. Some part of him, at least, thinks I’ll go bad… and what if I do? What if I hurt someone? Hurt one of them?”
Not for the first time, Jim felt a surge of anger towards his old friend. John had always been easily the most paranoid hunter that Jim had ever met, but he rarely stopped to consider the implications of his actions. Sam was an observant young man, and how John had overlooked the possibility that his son might notice the change in weaponry was beyond Jim.
“You would never hurt your family, Sam.” Jim said firmly. “Everyone who knows you knows that much, at least. Even if your dad doesn’t always act like it.”
Sam nodded wordlessly, clearly unconvinced.
“I keep having this nightmare.” He confessed a few moments later. “Over and over. It’s like, I shift and something happens and I’m not in control. Sometimes I kill my dad, and sometimes its Dean.”
Jim’s heart ached for the young man before him.
“Sounds to me that you’re scared.” Jim prompted quietly, continuing when Sam didn’t deny it. “That wouldn’t happen, Sam, and even if it did, your father and brother can take care of themselves.”
“That just it, though.” A bitter laugh forced itself free from Sam’s chest, and when his eyes met Jim’s they glistened with tears. “Dad would, I guess. But Dean? He’d never lay a hand on me, even to save his own skin.”
“You’re right,” Jim admitted. “But you know I wouldn’t lie to you, and I genuinely can’t see it ever coming down to that. Please don’t dwell on this.”
Sam sighed, wordlessly sinking back into his seat and Jim frowned.
Not for the first time, he truly didn’t know how to help or comfort for the young boy before him, and in the silence that followed the only he could do was to wordlessly press the bible into the younger boys hands, hoping that he could find that answers that he was looking for in its passages.
He wasn’t hopeful.
(A/N: for anyone who's interested, this is how I picture Ivan... deceptively innocent just about sums it up!)
