If you could only see -- 10/?
A/N: Uhm... Sorry it took so long, this has been a bitch to write and have fun reading it. That's it, I guess. Comments are more than welcome, they totally make my day! :)
Thanks go to my beta ghostfour *does happy dance because she is BACK* for once again holding my hand, clearing my messes and being the awesome person that she is. I would have stopped working on this story ages ago if it wasn't for her, she brought me back on track when I totally lost my way and couldn't even remember how I had planned to end this story. I know I did that before, but I'm doing it again because her help really means a lot to me, so... this story is dedicated to my Ghosty. With love and hugs and the biggest THANK YOU I've ever given to anybody. I love you, hun.
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When he wakes up and opens his eyes, he feels… well. Not fit or pulling-trees-out-with-his-bare-hands-strong, but well. Rested. Relaxed.
Safe.
The cabin had been a good idea. It’s the first time in ages he could enjoy the luxury of sleeping in a bed that had actually been built to provide comfort and rest. And since there’s nothing left for him to do but rest and heal, he’d taken advantage of that for the past few nights without feeling guilty about it. His body seems to agree with that decision, he had slept away most of the three days they had stayed at the cabin. The rest has done wonders for his concussion, for the first time ever since the attack his head doesn’t pound in protest when he opens his eyes. It even readjusts his vision properly so he can finally make out the finer details of the room.
Not that there is much see, a bed, a nightstand, a lone chair in the corner, some of his clothes strewn over the back of it, a floral painting on the wall and an antique closet at the far wall. Small but comfortable, just what he needs.
John takes a deep breath and stretches cautiously, blinking in the sunlight that is streaming through the window next to the bed. His skin is warm where the beams crawl across it and he enjoys the feeling, he feels no urge to move while he works on organizing his thoughts and memories.
He doesn’t remember much about the time they had spent back at the motel. Dean and Singer had organized enough backup to finish the hunt, digging up three additional hunters who would work with them on the case. One of them was a vampire expert John met years ago who agreed to help. While they were waiting for the hunters to arrive at the motel, they’d checked the layout of the house, again, and the current number of bloodsucker that were hiding there.
John’s contribution to those preparations had been to stay out of their way and do his best to not pass out, while Sam had spent most of the time in bed. His son had been alternating between lying curled around his ribs and trying to sleep through pain that even their strongest pills couldn’t numb completely- or being bored by crappy daytime television that had him dozing off on a regular basis. He had never stayed asleep for long, though, on more than one occasion John had watched him come awake with a panicked gasp and blink wildly around the room as if he was expecting an attack. Sam was having nightmares and John is willing to bet that they were about the fight with the vampire.
Physically and mentally neither of them was in any shape for a hunt.
When John could remember his middle name again without having to think about it too hard, he had called in a favor from an old friend and found a remote cabin where he and Sam could lay low, lick their wounds and recover. Dean and Bobby had driven them, the older man taking John’s truck since driving on his own had been out of the question, leaving the boys to follow in the Impala. The drive to the place had been hell for both John and Sam. John’s concussion had flared so badly, Dean wouldn’t even consider leaving them alone for the first night. Especially not after a white-faced Sam had limped straight to the bathroom as soon as they had arrived and hadn't been seen again for the rest of the evening.
But things had looked up after the first night of restful sleep. They had both survived it intact, and had shooed Dean and Bobby back to the motel on the next morning, reminding them that they had work to do. And then John and Sam had spent the following days doing pretty much nothing at all.
The cabin is a cozy two-story-house at the edge of a forest. Two bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom and a large living-area-slash-open-kitchen on the ground floor- complete with a fire place John has every intention of using as soon as he masters the stairs. His first try at getting himself something to eat had ended with him almost crashing down the stairs when his head started to spin crazily the moment he took the first step. Sam had barely managed to catch him in time to avoid the fall- then had ordered him to stay in bed. John had protested at first, but when Sam had snapped at him that he wouldn’t be able to carry him back up the stairs should John take a header, he had relented and grudgingly accepted that his son would have to bring him food.
Sam has been quiet so far. They don’t talk much, except for asking each other about their injuries. All in all they are kind of a matching pair. John’s head had taken the most damage, slowing him down and causing him to feel dazed and out of synch with his environment all the time, but his ribs weren’t plaguing him that much once the pain medication had dulled the pain to a constant, tolerable throbbing. Sam is the opposite, his head is fine, but he is moving like a man twice his age, hobbling through the house with less than graceful movements, one arm permanently curled around his ribs protectively. The upside of this is the fact that they don’t have enough energy for an argument since both of them keep dozing off from the pain medication all the time.
Keeping in contact with Dean and Bobby is quite the adventure, the cell reception in the house is on and off in a weird inch-by-inch scale- you have a crystal clear connection if you are standing in the doorway to the kitchen, but as soon as you move into either direction your phone will drop the call immediately. John had talked to Dean the night before, and he’d said that the hunters were moving in for the kill today. And God knows John hates not being there, he hates leaving an unfinished hunt behind, but going with them in their condition would only put all of them in danger. Even Sam had given in to reason without too much grumbling about it and that tells him pretty clearly that they both aren’t up for it.
His side starts to throb as if agreeing to him and John sighs softly, stretching his tired bones as best as he can before slowly getting out of bed. He grits his teeth when his cramped muscles seize up on him as soon as he is vertical and forces himself to keep moving through the first painful steps. Changing into his jeans and a shirt takes him longer than he is used to, but once he is dressed he feels stable enough to leave the room in search for caffeine. He pads across the small floor silently, concentrating on making as little sound as possible in order not to wake Sam. John passes his son’s room and finds the door left ajar and the room empty, Sam is already up. Chances are pretty good then that there will be coffee waiting for him downstairs. Or, rather, whatever Sam tries to pass off as a decent imitation of it, no matter how his son keeps arguing about it, it’s not supposed to taste like that…
The stairs are cold beneath his bare feet and he descends them slowly, extra-carefully to avoid angering his sore ribs. He is halfway down when he hears a soft noise coming from the living room. He turns the corner to see the TV running, some show he doesn’t recognize. There’s movement on the couch and a tousled head appears over the back of it. Sam blinks at him groggily, before he disappears again without saying a word. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a bright, warm light and creating a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere. John lets his tired gaze wander across the room and feels something deep in his chest relax and settle down. This break had been the right idea.
He walks over to the kitchen, pours himself a cup of something black and steaming and walks toward the living room, taking a sip and watching his son sleep on the couch. Sam is sprawled on his back across the length of it, dressed in a hooded jacket and faded sweats, face completely relaxed in sleep. The remote is resting on his chest and he shifts slightly, opening his eyes and staring blankly at John when he snatches it and sinks down into the armchair next to the couch. Sam blinks at him, once, and then closes his eyes again. Sipping his coffee, John settles in comfortably and starts switching the channels to find a news show. He leans back and listens to stories about a world that will never know the truth.
It’s been too long since they’ve had a chance to take a break, he hasn’t noticed it before-or flat out refused to acknowledge it-but the past few days (weeks) have made it pretty clear that they need a chance to rest and regroup. His gaze wanders toward the couch and he watches Sam sleep.
A high-pitched scream shocks him out of his observation and he flinches, gaze snapping to the TV-screen where a woman is screaming her head off while a sorry excuse for a monster is trying to kill her. Next to him, Sam comes awake with a soft gasp and blinks at the TV for a moment. When nothing happens, Sam blinks again and grunts, turning his head toward John and mumbling a question John can’t really decipher.
“Morning,” he says instead, taking a sip of his coffee and watching Sam take a look around the room. His son seems lost for a moment until his gaze drops to the fire place and he seems to remember where he is. Sam frowns and curls an arm around his ribs, then stretches cautiously, running a hand over his face, yawning. When he realizes he is being watched he looks at John.
“What?” he mutters and sits up slowly, rearranging his legs.
“How are your ribs?” John asks calmly, watching the slow, cautious movements.
“Better. How’s the head?” Sam asks back and John feels his lips curl into a soft grin behind the mug. What a pair of invalids they are…
“Better,” he echoes, watching as Sam stretches again, joints popping softly in protest.
“Dean called yet?”
“No.”
Sam’s not happy about that, but lets it go, leans back against the couch and watches the screen for a moment. A silence settles between them, but it’s the first time in months it’s not heavy with anger or tension. John has almost forgotten what that feels like.
A few minutes later Sam gets up and heads for the kitchen, getting himself a cup of coffee and adding whatever it is that turns it into the sweet drink he loves so much. John expects him to disappear into the room upstairs and is mildly surprised when he doesn’t but comes to the couch and sits down. They lapse back into the comfortable silence and watch the program.
He doesn’t know where it comes from, but suddenly he finds himself thinking about how much he misses this, how much he longs to have his son back, the funny, confident, more or less care-free kid he lost the day the witch dug her claws into him. Their lives hadn’t been ideal back then, but he would change back to those days without thinking about it. It’s moments like this when he misses the old Sam almost as much as his wife. When he needs someone on his side for once, when he wants to give up responsibility for some time and just sit back and watch TV, talk about grandchildren and do whatever normal people do to have fun-
“Are you okay?”
The soft voice has him jerk his head up in surprise. Sam is looking at him, his expression closed and worried. John flinches inwardly, fighting hard to suppress a weary sigh. This is the reason he never thinks about this, this is exactly why he struggles so hard to keep it down and out of his head. Because he knows Sam will pick up on it, thanks to the curse, he knows his son will be able to sense how he is feeling; he can’t hide that part of him anymore, not from Sam. And that pisses him off since it’s none of Sam’s business, he doesn’t need to know how John feels about things, that’s not something he is supposed to know.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Sam sees through the lie easily, and why wouldn’t he, John has a pretty good idea what his son is picking up from him right now. Damned curse…
“What is it?“
Sam slowly sits up on the couch, crossing his arms in front of his chest. John shakes his head slightly and makes to get up, then hesitates when he sees Sam tense.
“I know this is about me.” It’s not a question. John doesn’t need this right now and gets up.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, he just keeps staring at him, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing slowly. Getting ready to fight.
John doesn't have the slightest idea why the mood is turning from relaxed to tense all of a sudden. And, frankly, he doesn’t really care, not now.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Maybe that will help against the tension-headache he can already feel creeping up on him.
Sam mutters something under his breath that he doesn’t quite catch.
“What?”
“I won’t do this anymore,” Sam growls between clenched teeth and starts to turn away from him.
“What the hell is your problem?”
Sam freezes, turns back to him, eyes glaring. “You. You are my problem, this whole we’re not talking about this because you don’t want to deal with it.”
“I don’t want to deal with what?”
“Anything. Everything. That you screwed up.”
“I-what? What are you talking about?”
“The hunt, I’m talking about the hunt, Dad, about how you almost died because you think you know what’s best for me.” Sam would be gesturing by now, it’s irritating to see him sitting almost motionless as his voice rises in agitation.
“The hunt? The hunt is over, Sam, it’s done.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it isn’t, it isn’t done just because you say so. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I don’t need this right now…” He starts to walk toward the stairs, but Sam’s angry words stop him.
“How convenient.”
”What?” The word low, the tone dangerous, but John can’t help it.
Sam snorts. “That you can just walk away whenever you want. That whatever you don’t want to deal with you can leave behind. But guess what, Dad? I can’t. And for once, I’m not going to let you either. You can’t just walk away from this, not this time, it isn't over-“
“It is, Sam, it is over, it’s done, I did what I had to do because I didn’t want you to get hurt-more than you already were… I didn’t want you to get killed!”
Sam huffs, straightens his back, thrusts his chin out defiantly. “That’s not your decision to make!”
“Yes, Sam, it is, you are my son. I won’t stand by and watch you get killed if I can help it-”
“That goes both ways, Dad- I can’t get out there with you if you keep ordering me around like that… if you don’t trust me-“
“I trust you!”
“No, you don’t,” Sam says tiredly, “you don’t trust me enough to let me make my own decisions. And I can’t-I won’t live like that anymore. I can’t let you make my life even worse than it already is...”
“And what then?” he shoots back at his son. “What are you going to do? We can’t change it.”
And that is the sad truth of it, that no matter how miserable either of them is, both of them are, this is their life now.
“Then I’ll stop hunting… with you.”
It’s the first time Sam has actually said that, though John has suspected he’s been thinking it for months. But saying it… is new. And a thin twist of fear winds through his gut.
“And then?” John hears himself ask angrily. Sam stops for a moment, he clearly has not been expecting that question and John stares at him. “And then what, Sam? Settle down? Give up everything? Get a normal life?”
One look at Sam’s face tells him that’s exactly what his youngest wants and they both know that it’s never going to happen. Sam’s face changes almost brutally, all hope is pushed aside and what’s left is a tired, lost expression.
“I know that’s not going to work. But this… this doesn’t work either, I can’t be like this for the rest of my life. I won’t. You have to let me go, you have to let me make my own decisions.”
“Like hell I do-you can’t be on your own, Sam, and you know it. It’s not your fault, but it’s my responsibility and you’re not going anywhere until you’re safe!”
“Don’t you get it, that’s never going to happen, this is never going to go away, there is no cure, no easy fix-“
“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t, but right now we don’t have one so you’re staying with me. Understood?” John barely keeps himself from turning this into an order and turns, walking out of the room and away from his son. He refuses to look back. He can’t change it, there is no reason to dwell on it.
*** *** ***
They spend the rest of the morning avoiding each other and John dozes off somewhere around midday. He’s dimly aware of Sam leaving the house at some point- hears him mutter something about going for a walk- but when he wakes up later he can hear Sam move around in his room. He decides to fix himself something to eat and scrounges the kitchen for the supplies Bobby and Dean had left them.
As he waits for the water to boil, he can’t help flashing back on the argument. Now, while he’s alone, he can admit it scares him. It’s not the first time he’s thought about where this situation might eventually lead, where he and his sons might end up. If he is honest with himself, which he actually tries to be sometimes, he is pretty sure that they won’t ever find a way to break the curse- you can’t lift it without the witch and every psychic they had talked to had told them the same thing, they couldn’t lift it with her dead. Back when it had first happened, when they were still looking hard for a solution, even Missouri had told him Sam would have to find a way to live with it. But John had not wanted to hear that, too overcome by guilt to accept the fact that Sam might have to suffer for his fault forever. He’d sworn to her that he would find a way to save his son, had stomped out of her house with the boys trailing silently behind him. She hadn’t tried to stop him, had watched them leave without saying a word, watching them from her open door with a sad smile on her face. John hasn’t talked to her ever since, he can’t stand the thought of her empathic glances, and, to be honest, he doesn’t want to listen to her telling him to shut up and swallow his guilt and think about his son first-
“Dad?”
The strained voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he turns to look at Sam-and freezes.
Something is wrong. Sam is standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms curled around his chest, hunched over as if he is in pain, face pulled into a miserable frown. He’s wearing jeans and his hair is dripping water into his face. Before John can say anything Sam flinches and gasps softly, curling a little more into himself.
“It’s calling me again…” he gasps out.
John’s stomach turns to ice. “Son of a bitch…” he grounds out, then reaches for his boy as Sam suddenly doubles over with a miserable groan and starts to pant softly. “What’s it saying?” he asks urgently, resting his hands on top of Sam’s shoulders to keep him upright.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and leans toward him with a long groan when the first spasms hit.
“Come… to me…” he forces out between clenched teeth, then cries out and goes down hard when his knees buckle. “Sonofa-“ Sam starts miserably, but his throat closes up on him and he twists into a tight ball on the floor, shivering violently.
John scans the room, but can’t find anything amiss, the only sounds are Sam’s increasing gasps for breath and miserable sounds of pain and the TV still running at a low volume. He can’t do anything about the oncoming change, and so John hurries over to the front door and locks it, remembering Sam trying to get away the first time this happened. He closes the windows as well, wincing when Sam’s sounds of pain stop abruptly and the awful sound of bones breaking fill the room. He can’t see his son from where he is standing, Sam’s hidden by the couch he had been sprawling on so peacefully only hours ago. John closes his eyes, jaw working to keep the curse back that wants to slip out. He runs through a mental list of what to do now and moves toward the doorway in the kitchen where his cell is lying on the counter. Carefully avoiding the twisting body he can see out of the corner of his eye, he grabs it and stares hard at the glowing display, waiting for the sign of reception to show up on the screen.
It doesn’t. No matter where he turns and holds the phone he can’t find it.
Crap.
Behind him the room suddenly falls silent for a moment, then there is the soft rustling of clothes, followed by claws clicking over the wooden floor. John turns to find the wolf limp around the couch, tail hanging down listlessly, eyes scanning the room slowly.
“Stay in the house, okay?” he says and the wolf eyes him for a second, then snorts and turns, limping toward the couch. As an afterthought John adds, “And don’t keep changing back all the time, you hear me?”
The wolf doesn’t react, just keeps moving toward the couch, goes around and sits down in front of the fireplace, tired eyes settling on John.
He tries to get reception a few more times, but there is no such luck, the cell stays annoyingly useless. He barely resists the urge to throw it on the floor and puts in on the counter instead.
They have no idea what is after Sam, they still don’t know how it is able to influence him besides mental calls only Sam can hear and they have no idea how it found them, if it is even close, what it is, what it wants … They have nothing. And from the experience they’ve made earlier it’s most likely going to get worse. Too soon Sam won’t be able to sit down as relaxed as he is now.
“I’m gonna go and put down some salt lines upstairs,” he says and Sam watches him silently, ears twitching in his direction but otherwise unmoving. John moves up the stairs as fast as he can and his head and the ribs allow, fetches the bag of salt they keep with the weapons and makes quick work of the lines.
He has just finished the line in Sam’s room when the soft sound of claws clicking on the floor has him turn toward the door. Sam is standing in the doorway, body rigid, back and head lowered with the tail hanging down between the legs. His ears are laid back in a clear sign of distress and he doesn’t really focus on John but seems to stare off into space as if he is concentrating on listening. The fact that the wolf actually climbed the stairs with broken ribs to come after him and be close to him is the clearest indication that he is worried.
“Is it getting closer?” John asks worriedly and the wolf eyes him briefly, before he gives a soft whine and flattens his ears against his head for a second, then goes back to listening. That’s as close to a yes as John can hope to get.
He runs a nervous hand over his face. They have to find a way to protect Sam. He leaves the room and goes downstairs, salt-bag still in his hand, sensing the wolf following him closely. John puts down the remaining salt lines and when he steps back from the window he almost trips over the wolf as Sam is standing so close to him he is almost touching his leg. Not good.
With the house warded as best as he can there is nothing left to do but wait. There is no internet he can use, they are too far out in the woods for that, he knows the books they’re currently driving around in the truck by heart and none of them mention something like this. He remembers the friend Bobby mentioned a few days ago, but they haven’t heard anything from her ever since.
Suddenly, and without any warning, Sam starts to growl so deeply it immediately sets John’s nerves on edge. The wolf had been standing next to him, but now he starts stalking toward the front door. His body language changes, all of a sudden he seems to grow bigger, stiff, his head is rising, tail coming up, fur puffing up all over the lean body. His ears flatten so tightly against his head they practically disappear from his profile and he bares his fangs. Sam is staring at the door, the head dropping lower-
Before John can do anything, the front door is suddenly ripped open, crashing against the wall with enough force to make the windows rattle in their frames.
chapter 11
Thanks go to my beta ghostfour *does happy dance because she is BACK* for once again holding my hand, clearing my messes and being the awesome person that she is. I would have stopped working on this story ages ago if it wasn't for her, she brought me back on track when I totally lost my way and couldn't even remember how I had planned to end this story. I know I did that before, but I'm doing it again because her help really means a lot to me, so... this story is dedicated to my Ghosty. With love and hugs and the biggest THANK YOU I've ever given to anybody. I love you, hun.
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When he wakes up and opens his eyes, he feels… well. Not fit or pulling-trees-out-with-his-bare-hands-strong, but well. Rested. Relaxed.
Safe.
The cabin had been a good idea. It’s the first time in ages he could enjoy the luxury of sleeping in a bed that had actually been built to provide comfort and rest. And since there’s nothing left for him to do but rest and heal, he’d taken advantage of that for the past few nights without feeling guilty about it. His body seems to agree with that decision, he had slept away most of the three days they had stayed at the cabin. The rest has done wonders for his concussion, for the first time ever since the attack his head doesn’t pound in protest when he opens his eyes. It even readjusts his vision properly so he can finally make out the finer details of the room.
Not that there is much see, a bed, a nightstand, a lone chair in the corner, some of his clothes strewn over the back of it, a floral painting on the wall and an antique closet at the far wall. Small but comfortable, just what he needs.
John takes a deep breath and stretches cautiously, blinking in the sunlight that is streaming through the window next to the bed. His skin is warm where the beams crawl across it and he enjoys the feeling, he feels no urge to move while he works on organizing his thoughts and memories.
He doesn’t remember much about the time they had spent back at the motel. Dean and Singer had organized enough backup to finish the hunt, digging up three additional hunters who would work with them on the case. One of them was a vampire expert John met years ago who agreed to help. While they were waiting for the hunters to arrive at the motel, they’d checked the layout of the house, again, and the current number of bloodsucker that were hiding there.
John’s contribution to those preparations had been to stay out of their way and do his best to not pass out, while Sam had spent most of the time in bed. His son had been alternating between lying curled around his ribs and trying to sleep through pain that even their strongest pills couldn’t numb completely- or being bored by crappy daytime television that had him dozing off on a regular basis. He had never stayed asleep for long, though, on more than one occasion John had watched him come awake with a panicked gasp and blink wildly around the room as if he was expecting an attack. Sam was having nightmares and John is willing to bet that they were about the fight with the vampire.
Physically and mentally neither of them was in any shape for a hunt.
When John could remember his middle name again without having to think about it too hard, he had called in a favor from an old friend and found a remote cabin where he and Sam could lay low, lick their wounds and recover. Dean and Bobby had driven them, the older man taking John’s truck since driving on his own had been out of the question, leaving the boys to follow in the Impala. The drive to the place had been hell for both John and Sam. John’s concussion had flared so badly, Dean wouldn’t even consider leaving them alone for the first night. Especially not after a white-faced Sam had limped straight to the bathroom as soon as they had arrived and hadn't been seen again for the rest of the evening.
But things had looked up after the first night of restful sleep. They had both survived it intact, and had shooed Dean and Bobby back to the motel on the next morning, reminding them that they had work to do. And then John and Sam had spent the following days doing pretty much nothing at all.
The cabin is a cozy two-story-house at the edge of a forest. Two bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom and a large living-area-slash-open-kitchen on the ground floor- complete with a fire place John has every intention of using as soon as he masters the stairs. His first try at getting himself something to eat had ended with him almost crashing down the stairs when his head started to spin crazily the moment he took the first step. Sam had barely managed to catch him in time to avoid the fall- then had ordered him to stay in bed. John had protested at first, but when Sam had snapped at him that he wouldn’t be able to carry him back up the stairs should John take a header, he had relented and grudgingly accepted that his son would have to bring him food.
Sam has been quiet so far. They don’t talk much, except for asking each other about their injuries. All in all they are kind of a matching pair. John’s head had taken the most damage, slowing him down and causing him to feel dazed and out of synch with his environment all the time, but his ribs weren’t plaguing him that much once the pain medication had dulled the pain to a constant, tolerable throbbing. Sam is the opposite, his head is fine, but he is moving like a man twice his age, hobbling through the house with less than graceful movements, one arm permanently curled around his ribs protectively. The upside of this is the fact that they don’t have enough energy for an argument since both of them keep dozing off from the pain medication all the time.
Keeping in contact with Dean and Bobby is quite the adventure, the cell reception in the house is on and off in a weird inch-by-inch scale- you have a crystal clear connection if you are standing in the doorway to the kitchen, but as soon as you move into either direction your phone will drop the call immediately. John had talked to Dean the night before, and he’d said that the hunters were moving in for the kill today. And God knows John hates not being there, he hates leaving an unfinished hunt behind, but going with them in their condition would only put all of them in danger. Even Sam had given in to reason without too much grumbling about it and that tells him pretty clearly that they both aren’t up for it.
His side starts to throb as if agreeing to him and John sighs softly, stretching his tired bones as best as he can before slowly getting out of bed. He grits his teeth when his cramped muscles seize up on him as soon as he is vertical and forces himself to keep moving through the first painful steps. Changing into his jeans and a shirt takes him longer than he is used to, but once he is dressed he feels stable enough to leave the room in search for caffeine. He pads across the small floor silently, concentrating on making as little sound as possible in order not to wake Sam. John passes his son’s room and finds the door left ajar and the room empty, Sam is already up. Chances are pretty good then that there will be coffee waiting for him downstairs. Or, rather, whatever Sam tries to pass off as a decent imitation of it, no matter how his son keeps arguing about it, it’s not supposed to taste like that…
The stairs are cold beneath his bare feet and he descends them slowly, extra-carefully to avoid angering his sore ribs. He is halfway down when he hears a soft noise coming from the living room. He turns the corner to see the TV running, some show he doesn’t recognize. There’s movement on the couch and a tousled head appears over the back of it. Sam blinks at him groggily, before he disappears again without saying a word. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a bright, warm light and creating a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere. John lets his tired gaze wander across the room and feels something deep in his chest relax and settle down. This break had been the right idea.
He walks over to the kitchen, pours himself a cup of something black and steaming and walks toward the living room, taking a sip and watching his son sleep on the couch. Sam is sprawled on his back across the length of it, dressed in a hooded jacket and faded sweats, face completely relaxed in sleep. The remote is resting on his chest and he shifts slightly, opening his eyes and staring blankly at John when he snatches it and sinks down into the armchair next to the couch. Sam blinks at him, once, and then closes his eyes again. Sipping his coffee, John settles in comfortably and starts switching the channels to find a news show. He leans back and listens to stories about a world that will never know the truth.
It’s been too long since they’ve had a chance to take a break, he hasn’t noticed it before-or flat out refused to acknowledge it-but the past few days (weeks) have made it pretty clear that they need a chance to rest and regroup. His gaze wanders toward the couch and he watches Sam sleep.
A high-pitched scream shocks him out of his observation and he flinches, gaze snapping to the TV-screen where a woman is screaming her head off while a sorry excuse for a monster is trying to kill her. Next to him, Sam comes awake with a soft gasp and blinks at the TV for a moment. When nothing happens, Sam blinks again and grunts, turning his head toward John and mumbling a question John can’t really decipher.
“Morning,” he says instead, taking a sip of his coffee and watching Sam take a look around the room. His son seems lost for a moment until his gaze drops to the fire place and he seems to remember where he is. Sam frowns and curls an arm around his ribs, then stretches cautiously, running a hand over his face, yawning. When he realizes he is being watched he looks at John.
“What?” he mutters and sits up slowly, rearranging his legs.
“How are your ribs?” John asks calmly, watching the slow, cautious movements.
“Better. How’s the head?” Sam asks back and John feels his lips curl into a soft grin behind the mug. What a pair of invalids they are…
“Better,” he echoes, watching as Sam stretches again, joints popping softly in protest.
“Dean called yet?”
“No.”
Sam’s not happy about that, but lets it go, leans back against the couch and watches the screen for a moment. A silence settles between them, but it’s the first time in months it’s not heavy with anger or tension. John has almost forgotten what that feels like.
A few minutes later Sam gets up and heads for the kitchen, getting himself a cup of coffee and adding whatever it is that turns it into the sweet drink he loves so much. John expects him to disappear into the room upstairs and is mildly surprised when he doesn’t but comes to the couch and sits down. They lapse back into the comfortable silence and watch the program.
He doesn’t know where it comes from, but suddenly he finds himself thinking about how much he misses this, how much he longs to have his son back, the funny, confident, more or less care-free kid he lost the day the witch dug her claws into him. Their lives hadn’t been ideal back then, but he would change back to those days without thinking about it. It’s moments like this when he misses the old Sam almost as much as his wife. When he needs someone on his side for once, when he wants to give up responsibility for some time and just sit back and watch TV, talk about grandchildren and do whatever normal people do to have fun-
“Are you okay?”
The soft voice has him jerk his head up in surprise. Sam is looking at him, his expression closed and worried. John flinches inwardly, fighting hard to suppress a weary sigh. This is the reason he never thinks about this, this is exactly why he struggles so hard to keep it down and out of his head. Because he knows Sam will pick up on it, thanks to the curse, he knows his son will be able to sense how he is feeling; he can’t hide that part of him anymore, not from Sam. And that pisses him off since it’s none of Sam’s business, he doesn’t need to know how John feels about things, that’s not something he is supposed to know.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Sam sees through the lie easily, and why wouldn’t he, John has a pretty good idea what his son is picking up from him right now. Damned curse…
“What is it?“
Sam slowly sits up on the couch, crossing his arms in front of his chest. John shakes his head slightly and makes to get up, then hesitates when he sees Sam tense.
“I know this is about me.” It’s not a question. John doesn’t need this right now and gets up.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, he just keeps staring at him, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing slowly. Getting ready to fight.
John doesn't have the slightest idea why the mood is turning from relaxed to tense all of a sudden. And, frankly, he doesn’t really care, not now.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Maybe that will help against the tension-headache he can already feel creeping up on him.
Sam mutters something under his breath that he doesn’t quite catch.
“What?”
“I won’t do this anymore,” Sam growls between clenched teeth and starts to turn away from him.
“What the hell is your problem?”
Sam freezes, turns back to him, eyes glaring. “You. You are my problem, this whole we’re not talking about this because you don’t want to deal with it.”
“I don’t want to deal with what?”
“Anything. Everything. That you screwed up.”
“I-what? What are you talking about?”
“The hunt, I’m talking about the hunt, Dad, about how you almost died because you think you know what’s best for me.” Sam would be gesturing by now, it’s irritating to see him sitting almost motionless as his voice rises in agitation.
“The hunt? The hunt is over, Sam, it’s done.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it isn’t, it isn’t done just because you say so. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I don’t need this right now…” He starts to walk toward the stairs, but Sam’s angry words stop him.
“How convenient.”
”What?” The word low, the tone dangerous, but John can’t help it.
Sam snorts. “That you can just walk away whenever you want. That whatever you don’t want to deal with you can leave behind. But guess what, Dad? I can’t. And for once, I’m not going to let you either. You can’t just walk away from this, not this time, it isn't over-“
“It is, Sam, it is over, it’s done, I did what I had to do because I didn’t want you to get hurt-more than you already were… I didn’t want you to get killed!”
Sam huffs, straightens his back, thrusts his chin out defiantly. “That’s not your decision to make!”
“Yes, Sam, it is, you are my son. I won’t stand by and watch you get killed if I can help it-”
“That goes both ways, Dad- I can’t get out there with you if you keep ordering me around like that… if you don’t trust me-“
“I trust you!”
“No, you don’t,” Sam says tiredly, “you don’t trust me enough to let me make my own decisions. And I can’t-I won’t live like that anymore. I can’t let you make my life even worse than it already is...”
“And what then?” he shoots back at his son. “What are you going to do? We can’t change it.”
And that is the sad truth of it, that no matter how miserable either of them is, both of them are, this is their life now.
“Then I’ll stop hunting… with you.”
It’s the first time Sam has actually said that, though John has suspected he’s been thinking it for months. But saying it… is new. And a thin twist of fear winds through his gut.
“And then?” John hears himself ask angrily. Sam stops for a moment, he clearly has not been expecting that question and John stares at him. “And then what, Sam? Settle down? Give up everything? Get a normal life?”
One look at Sam’s face tells him that’s exactly what his youngest wants and they both know that it’s never going to happen. Sam’s face changes almost brutally, all hope is pushed aside and what’s left is a tired, lost expression.
“I know that’s not going to work. But this… this doesn’t work either, I can’t be like this for the rest of my life. I won’t. You have to let me go, you have to let me make my own decisions.”
“Like hell I do-you can’t be on your own, Sam, and you know it. It’s not your fault, but it’s my responsibility and you’re not going anywhere until you’re safe!”
“Don’t you get it, that’s never going to happen, this is never going to go away, there is no cure, no easy fix-“
“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t, but right now we don’t have one so you’re staying with me. Understood?” John barely keeps himself from turning this into an order and turns, walking out of the room and away from his son. He refuses to look back. He can’t change it, there is no reason to dwell on it.
*** *** ***
They spend the rest of the morning avoiding each other and John dozes off somewhere around midday. He’s dimly aware of Sam leaving the house at some point- hears him mutter something about going for a walk- but when he wakes up later he can hear Sam move around in his room. He decides to fix himself something to eat and scrounges the kitchen for the supplies Bobby and Dean had left them.
As he waits for the water to boil, he can’t help flashing back on the argument. Now, while he’s alone, he can admit it scares him. It’s not the first time he’s thought about where this situation might eventually lead, where he and his sons might end up. If he is honest with himself, which he actually tries to be sometimes, he is pretty sure that they won’t ever find a way to break the curse- you can’t lift it without the witch and every psychic they had talked to had told them the same thing, they couldn’t lift it with her dead. Back when it had first happened, when they were still looking hard for a solution, even Missouri had told him Sam would have to find a way to live with it. But John had not wanted to hear that, too overcome by guilt to accept the fact that Sam might have to suffer for his fault forever. He’d sworn to her that he would find a way to save his son, had stomped out of her house with the boys trailing silently behind him. She hadn’t tried to stop him, had watched them leave without saying a word, watching them from her open door with a sad smile on her face. John hasn’t talked to her ever since, he can’t stand the thought of her empathic glances, and, to be honest, he doesn’t want to listen to her telling him to shut up and swallow his guilt and think about his son first-
“Dad?”
The strained voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he turns to look at Sam-and freezes.
Something is wrong. Sam is standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms curled around his chest, hunched over as if he is in pain, face pulled into a miserable frown. He’s wearing jeans and his hair is dripping water into his face. Before John can say anything Sam flinches and gasps softly, curling a little more into himself.
“It’s calling me again…” he gasps out.
John’s stomach turns to ice. “Son of a bitch…” he grounds out, then reaches for his boy as Sam suddenly doubles over with a miserable groan and starts to pant softly. “What’s it saying?” he asks urgently, resting his hands on top of Sam’s shoulders to keep him upright.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and leans toward him with a long groan when the first spasms hit.
“Come… to me…” he forces out between clenched teeth, then cries out and goes down hard when his knees buckle. “Sonofa-“ Sam starts miserably, but his throat closes up on him and he twists into a tight ball on the floor, shivering violently.
John scans the room, but can’t find anything amiss, the only sounds are Sam’s increasing gasps for breath and miserable sounds of pain and the TV still running at a low volume. He can’t do anything about the oncoming change, and so John hurries over to the front door and locks it, remembering Sam trying to get away the first time this happened. He closes the windows as well, wincing when Sam’s sounds of pain stop abruptly and the awful sound of bones breaking fill the room. He can’t see his son from where he is standing, Sam’s hidden by the couch he had been sprawling on so peacefully only hours ago. John closes his eyes, jaw working to keep the curse back that wants to slip out. He runs through a mental list of what to do now and moves toward the doorway in the kitchen where his cell is lying on the counter. Carefully avoiding the twisting body he can see out of the corner of his eye, he grabs it and stares hard at the glowing display, waiting for the sign of reception to show up on the screen.
It doesn’t. No matter where he turns and holds the phone he can’t find it.
Crap.
Behind him the room suddenly falls silent for a moment, then there is the soft rustling of clothes, followed by claws clicking over the wooden floor. John turns to find the wolf limp around the couch, tail hanging down listlessly, eyes scanning the room slowly.
“Stay in the house, okay?” he says and the wolf eyes him for a second, then snorts and turns, limping toward the couch. As an afterthought John adds, “And don’t keep changing back all the time, you hear me?”
The wolf doesn’t react, just keeps moving toward the couch, goes around and sits down in front of the fireplace, tired eyes settling on John.
He tries to get reception a few more times, but there is no such luck, the cell stays annoyingly useless. He barely resists the urge to throw it on the floor and puts in on the counter instead.
They have no idea what is after Sam, they still don’t know how it is able to influence him besides mental calls only Sam can hear and they have no idea how it found them, if it is even close, what it is, what it wants … They have nothing. And from the experience they’ve made earlier it’s most likely going to get worse. Too soon Sam won’t be able to sit down as relaxed as he is now.
“I’m gonna go and put down some salt lines upstairs,” he says and Sam watches him silently, ears twitching in his direction but otherwise unmoving. John moves up the stairs as fast as he can and his head and the ribs allow, fetches the bag of salt they keep with the weapons and makes quick work of the lines.
He has just finished the line in Sam’s room when the soft sound of claws clicking on the floor has him turn toward the door. Sam is standing in the doorway, body rigid, back and head lowered with the tail hanging down between the legs. His ears are laid back in a clear sign of distress and he doesn’t really focus on John but seems to stare off into space as if he is concentrating on listening. The fact that the wolf actually climbed the stairs with broken ribs to come after him and be close to him is the clearest indication that he is worried.
“Is it getting closer?” John asks worriedly and the wolf eyes him briefly, before he gives a soft whine and flattens his ears against his head for a second, then goes back to listening. That’s as close to a yes as John can hope to get.
He runs a nervous hand over his face. They have to find a way to protect Sam. He leaves the room and goes downstairs, salt-bag still in his hand, sensing the wolf following him closely. John puts down the remaining salt lines and when he steps back from the window he almost trips over the wolf as Sam is standing so close to him he is almost touching his leg. Not good.
With the house warded as best as he can there is nothing left to do but wait. There is no internet he can use, they are too far out in the woods for that, he knows the books they’re currently driving around in the truck by heart and none of them mention something like this. He remembers the friend Bobby mentioned a few days ago, but they haven’t heard anything from her ever since.
Suddenly, and without any warning, Sam starts to growl so deeply it immediately sets John’s nerves on edge. The wolf had been standing next to him, but now he starts stalking toward the front door. His body language changes, all of a sudden he seems to grow bigger, stiff, his head is rising, tail coming up, fur puffing up all over the lean body. His ears flatten so tightly against his head they practically disappear from his profile and he bares his fangs. Sam is staring at the door, the head dropping lower-
Before John can do anything, the front door is suddenly ripped open, crashing against the wall with enough force to make the windows rattle in their frames.
chapter 11