If you could only see -- Part 05
Soft rustling in the bushes to his right draws John's attention to a small clearing.
A quick flash of grey fur and two furry ears pricked in his direction appear. Sam stays visible for a moment, golden-brown eyes staring at him through the leaves, waiting for John to acknowledge his location before the head disappears and what he can see of the shaggy body slinks back into the shadows of the trees. Everything around him falls silent again.
The muddy path in front of him sneaks through the forest and he follows it, hand playing absentmindedly with the snap of the leash draped over his shoulders. To anyone watching he would appear to be on his own, a lone wanderer, no indication at all that his son is covering his back. That, after everything that happened on the side of the road and all the physical pain and tension of the last day, Sam is still focused enough on the hunt to remember their rules and follow him. For a moment he is proud of him, relieved that Sam has grown up enough to be able to put stuff aside and deal with it later.
And apparently he's better at it than his old man since John's thoughts insist on flashing back to the moment the hunt had gone all wrong, the moment, when Sam had told them he couldn't sense the damned thing anymore. They couldn't hunt what they couldn't find and without Sam's sensing it, they couldn't get even a hint of a direction, let alone pick up a trail.
And that had scared him, knowing something was out there, that something could be watching them at this very moment, that it could attack them at any time, and that he had no way of knowing, no way of keeping his son safe. It set his teeth on edge, and he'd missed most of the conversation with Bobby until Bobby had stepped in and sent what was left of his nerves to join his teeth. And it had pissed him off, what Bobby had said, how he'd said it; being such a smart-ass. He'd tried to control the anger, but Bobby had been intentionally pushing his buttons, and it made him furious that the old man could still do that after all these years. So his self-control had snapped… and he'd pulled Sam right over the edge with him
Again.
Sam needed to get better at this. Oh, Sam always tried hard to keep that aspect of the spell under control; the part that kept him attuned to his 'master's' moods. But the truth was that Sam couldn't totally block them, any more than he could block the commands. And he couldn't stop them from affecting his own reactions. He knows that Sam fights against them every second of every day, but more often than not, John would find himself in the middle of an argument with Sam breathing down his neck, growling and fixing him with wild eyes, on the edge of letting go and giving in and letting the beast finally attack the source of its distress. And as much as he knows it's not Sam's fault, it's hard not to blame the kid for how much anger and pain that fill the eyes that turn in his direction
They both know that Sam can't hurt him; in either form. No matter how much the beast desires it. He couldn't attack him even if his life depended on it.
And it is John's fault.
Four years ago the witch had turned Sam into a wolf, an animal, with no sense of his original self left; not even the slightest flicker of awareness of the person he'd once been. His son, his boy, had faded out, given way to that animal. And after each turning, it seemed like less and less of Sam made it back.
They all knew Sam couldn't go on that way. John would never forget the first months when the wolf would simply take off whenever Sam had been forced through a change, run away from them, following his natural instincts to get as far away from humans as he could - the way his blood ran cold as the sleek grey shape disappeared into the night and he'd been left wondering if they'd ever see Sam again. The terror that Sam would just be gone one day, waking up too lost to find his way back to them, or hurt because the wolf lost a fight with a car, or a train, or another wolf. The dread of those long nights still shuddered John at odd times. And he'd had to find a way to fix it. The spell John had found two long months later had seemed like a workable solution. It put Sam back into control, it made sure that, even in his animal form, it was Sam, he was still able to do what he wanted.
At least as long as he could ignore the wolfish instincts and keep the wolf back. And Sam had fought hard to be strong enough, not to give in to whatever his new senses were telling him.
And it had worked for a few nights. Giving Sam some peace.
Until John ordered him to come back and Sam stopped in his tracks. Each and every time.
That was part of the control spell, too. A sometimes useful side-effect, no matter what Sam thought. Sam was no longer able to ignore a direct order. The wolf, or rather his body, was bound to John. The beast, and Sam too, would obey his commands without hesitating. The original spell John had found had been used by witches and shamans throughout the centuries to call their familiars or spirit guides to their sides and create a bond with them. It had been rewritten for their special situation and it worked- it even saved their lives a couple of times.
But they paid a price for it. The effects of the spell had driven Sam away from him, farther then he'd ever thought possible. The more he ordered Sam to stay, to heel, to behave, the more Sam retreated from him. Their relationship, which had never been the best to begin with, had pretty much crumbled to dust now. He'd lost his son, though, ironically, Sam hadn't been able to leave his side for four years now.
The fucking witch who had started all this, she'd known they were coming for her. She'd known they would stop her. That they would kill her. That's what they did, and they faced her kind for a living. Stopping that kind of corrupt magic was what their lives were all about.
And she'd used that knowledge against them; she'd changed the curse so it would do the most damage possible to them. It wouldn't just turn Sam into a wolf, oh no. That would have been too easy. No, she'd created a trigger for the conditions under which the curse would activate: Whenever Sam was in the presence of a supernatural being or came across a magical effect of any kind the curse would hit and he would transform, rendering him pretty much useless as a hunter.
At first.
Over the years they'd adapted.
Sam couldn't stop the change, but he had found a way to delay the impulse for a few moments so that he could at least try to hide somewhere close by and wouldn't switch forms in the middle of the street anymore. He learned. Eventually he never went into a hunt in his human form anymore, he stayed wolf until it was over so he wouldn't be defenseless during the time his body was forced to undergo the transformation. They had developed their own communication; it was all about body language now. John had learned to read the wolf like an open book, every flick of his ears, every twist of his nose, every possible way he would hold his tail. And he was good at it, almost as good as Sam could read him now. They barely needed words anymore. And, strangely enough, they worked better together now than they ever had before.
Outside their hunts, though, it is tearing them apart. Both of them. They couldn't talk anymore, not even the tense, yet somehow civil conversations they'd had before the curse. Most of the time Sam was so tense he exploded at the weirdest things John said. He was always bitchy, always moody in a way John had never seen his son before. It often would get so bad that John would just snap, barking an order at Sam without thought: shut the fuck up, Sam! Just to make him stop shouting, just to make him quit, just for a second. And the silence that followed would be instant and hollow and aching. And Sam would be glaring at him with hurt accusation in his eyes, his forced quiet screaming louder at John than his angry words ever could.
And still, whatever the spell does to them, however it drives them apart and rips its claws into their lives, it is still the one reason Sam is still alive, still with them. He would be gone now; the wolf would have taken off and just disappeared. Or he'd still be locked down in Bobby's kennel, a dead man walking his prison on furry paws, day after day, while his family would be looking for a cure they'd never find.
Their life now isn't ideal; it isn't what he wanted for them. He knows he has failed as a father when it comes down to his youngest. It's a parent's job to raise their child and set them free, watch them bloom as they grow up into their own lives. He knows he did pretty good with that on Dean, given the circumstances; his oldest is grown, off on his own, basically happy. He's one of the best hunters there are out there and he loves it.
Sam, on the other hand… he isn't just hobbled because of the curse, he is literally caught in a leg-trap, hurt and bleeding, starving to death like any ensnared wolf. Sam's slowly losing himself, his personality, because he is too bound to John. His son can't get a beer without permission, he can't be free. Though John can occasionally order Sam to stay in the room and have a night to himself, Sam can't be allowed to wander. He can't find a girl and go off with her. Not even for a night. He can't hunt on his own, like Dean. Can't sleep in his own room. He can't even take a vacation without John, the risk that the curse would strike is just too great.
Anybody forced into a situation like this would crack under the pressure of being completely dependent on somebody else. And he knows that Sam is growing closer to that point every day. And it hurts. It fucking hurts - to see his kid suffer like that. To watch the proud, rebellious, clever, independent son he'd had fading away by inches, in agony. He feels it like broken glass deep down in his gut every time he is forced to watch him change from one form into the other, every time he sees the wistful look in Sam's eyes when he watches Dean leave the room to go on a hunt on his own.
He can't change it, though. He has no choice but to see this through. He has to do what he must to keep his child alive-
A branch snapping in the distance pulls him out of his thoughts so abruptly he almost stumbles. Once he finds his balance he curses himself for allowing himself to get sidetracked. He scans the area around him but it stays silent. They are scouting the Northern area of where they know the vampire nest must be. They need to find out the numbers of vamps in the nest before they go in with guns-machetes blazing and find themselves outnumbered. The plan is to split up, approach the nest from two different sides. So far all they've come across were the path and fresh tire tracks that follow it further into the woods. They've been on the muddy trail for over half an hour by now, him walking slowly next to it and Sam hidden in the bushes beyond it.
From what he has seen on the not so detailed map of the forest they'd found online he figures it cannot take them much longer to reach the house they have identified as the vampires' hideout and he slows his step. Next to him Sam falls completely silent and he is pretty sure he can feel his son's attentive gaze watch his every movement. A subtle move of his hands (stay hidden) and he's walking faster again, pretending to be lost in thought and completely unaware of his surroundings.
The hunt is on.
*** *** ***
Stay silent, stealthy, slipping through the shadows of the trees.
A fresh breeze blows through fur, ruffling the thick mane at neck and shoulder level, and cooling the warm skin beneath. There's a strange scent on that wind. Stop, figure it out... sniffing. The weather is changing, there's a trace of raindrops in the air. A rabbit trail right there, crossing the well-used path beneath and disappearing under a bush.
Hunger.
No time. Pack is right there, too.
Focus.
It's a struggle. Familiar, now, though.
It pulls again, tugs horribly, deeper. It gets stronger and it is wrong, so wrongwrongwrong. Hackles rise and a growl follows, head snapping to the side as sharp fangs try to sink into a leash that isn't there.
Free to go, unable to leave.
Because of him, a constant pressure in the background. As long as he is near it doesn't hurt, doesn't tug, isn't there. He needs to be close, within sight. It's easy, even without smell, even without sound he can always be found.
Gunpowder and oil.
Sharp words.
Slow, deliberate moves.
Orders.
He moves his hand, a command. (Stay hidden.)
Obedience.
Well-known, expected and too much, too loud. Fake.
There is a pack (family) and there is a leader (father), but no alpha, no natural order. The leader is older, wiser, but not stronger. He needs to be challenged, there needs to be a fight to settle the order, to establish who is strong enough to rule the pack.
It's wrong to follow just because.
It's hard to trust for the reason that it has always been this way.
It's impossible to obey a leader who never has to fight to defend his position.
Who never has to prove himself.
Wrong.
Wrongwrongwrong.
Son, don't ever attack me.
It's a command, one of many which cannot be ignored. As long as it has to be obeyed there will never be order, never be respect. It will never feel right.
Sharp eyes settle on the familiar face for a heartbeat, study the tense posture. He smells of anger, worry.
Fear.
That can't be right, he is never afraid.
Suddenly, a sharp scent. The head comes up. Sniffing, trying to figure it out, stopping. The wind is carrying a trail now, hidden beneath the scents of the forest, an 'imprint' left by a presence passing through. Thick, almost mealy, otherworldly, strange.
Familiar.
A voice invading the mind, the thoughts, the self.
Again.
Calling, enticing, demanding to be heard, to be obeyed.
Get there, follow, give up.
It's not as strong, it's not as real as before, it's not even there. And it still pulls, tears into the insides every time it is resisted.
Don't listen, it can't hurt.
Come to me.
Phantom pain but real fear, panic getting stronger.
Out, now, not again!
The head sinks down, tail hiding between trembling legs. Lips peel back and fear forces its way out in a low, miserable whine.
Run!
"Sammy, be quiet."
Ears turn to the side, listening to the familiar voice. It provides peace, calm. It's close, it protects, keeps safe. Father, not leader.
The scent is gone, it has never been there, no trail to follow, no one to come to.
Silence.
Smells a rabbit, hunger growling. No time.
Protect the pack.
Footfalls.
Familiar close by, unknown movement in the distance. Smell, faint, getting stronger. Sharp, sweet, blood, human blood. Dead. Dead but moving. Moving toward the pack. Someone is coming.
Danger!
Warn him!
A low growl, fighting back the angry, loud warning bark that wants to break free.
Stay silent, warn him.
The hunt is on.
chapter 6