Mistakes We’ll Make Again, for Kalliel
Title: Mistakes We’ll Make Again
Author: allhailaugustus
Recipient: Kalliel
Rating: Teen
Wordcount: ~3,700
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: Your worst mistakes are always the ones you've made before.
Sam watches from the bed as Molly stretches, her white cotton blouse riding up as she pins up another college promotion. Her whole wall is covered with them--glossy two page spreads and posters of gothic arches, dayglow green quads, and cathedral like libraries--all overlapping, amassing into a mural-sized composite of the American higher education experience.
Sam thinks it's a fire hazard and one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.
"Sometimes I wish I could just walk right into it and be there. Skip all the stuff in between, you know?" She turns her head to look at him, the afternoon sun highlighting the floating dust moats in the small room, lighting the read and blonde tones of her hair like filament.
A small smile curls on Sam's face and he nods. "Yeah, I get that." He might not have a wall--the Winchester's lives aren't that permanent--but he's always been a planner. For the last few months while Dad and Dean are off on hunts, Sam's been huddled over library tables, reading college guides like holy scripture. He's got sections in his school notebooks with application deadlines and admission office addresses and required test scores. There are drafts of admission essays and enough scholarship information to fund fifty Sam Winchesters.
Applying to college is a competitive undertaking and Sam's going to make sure he's a candidate every college will say yes to.
Molly picks up the SAT study guides they came for and heads toward the door. "C'mon, Sam. Last day to study before we kick some standardized ass tomorrow." She winks at him with eyes hazel and slanted as Sam's own.
Sam gets off the bed, and he follows.
It's dark by the time Sam gets back to the rental that night, nerves turned tight from hours of studying and the building anticipation of the test. There's a lamp on in the bedroom and Dean's on the couch, trying to read by the flickering glow of the TV. His brother's gaze slips over to him as he enters, but other than that Dean doesn't move.
"Where you been, Sam?" The question is dry and hollow, like Dean was tired of asking it before it even left his mouth.
"Group project." Sam goes to the kitchen, rattles around the cabinets looking for food.
"You were supposed to work the case with me today. You never showed."
"It's not a case. It's a few people forgetting to take their vitamins or moving to a city big enough to have a pro-football team. Get real, Dean." He drops some bread and peanut butter on the counter. Gets out the milk and a glass. "This case is a joke. Dad just wanted us out of the way while your arm was broken."
Dean closes his eyes and leans into the over stuffed cushions. "Dad wouldn't ask if he didn't think there was something to it. And you can't just skip out on training."
"I've got school. Some of us would actually like to graduate." Sam takes his sandwich and his milk and head back to his room. Maybe it should be a sign when Dean doesn't bother to follow.
Sweat gathers at his hair line and Dean raises an arm, wiping his forehead against the shoulder of his shirt before continuing the push-pull of moping.
“So no Sam stories today?” Miki asks as she flips a chair, stacking it legs-up on the table. “I thought maybe you’d be like Scheherazade and tell me one every night.” She doesn’t pause in her work-just keeps clearing the restaurant floor so Dean can clean it-but the question hangs between them waiting to be answered.
“Sam’s been real busy lately,” he finally forces out. “I’ve never seen a kid so serious about school, and with finals this week…” he shrugs, pulling up the ghost of a smirk, “I guess we just get to double the awesome big brother time once summer hits.”
Dean scrubs at a particularly tough dried on spill, which he figures had to be steak sauce, teriyaki, or permanent marker put on the floor just to mess with him. The drag and thump of moving furniture has gone silent on the other side of the dining room though, and when Dean looks up Miki’s sharp, familiar green eyes were on him.
“Dean…” she starts, and her voice was bad news and no one to punch and strangers knowing your business all at the same time. It’s why sympathy is one of Dean’s least favorite tones, but that had never stopped anyone from thinking he needed it. It certainly doesn’t stop Miki.
“All the county schools have been out since last Wednesday.” She purses her lips and drags a hand through her dark cloud of hair, pushing it back. “But Sam sounds like a smart kid. I’m sure he’s got a good reason he didn’t tell you. Plus,” she adds, a sly smile perking on her face, “you have to be pretty creative to find trouble in Red Mound anyway.”
His fingers tighten around the handle of his mop, and Dean shakes his head. “Probably just misunderstood. Sammy talks so much, you need a flowchart and tape recorder to keep up with him.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Miki quickly agrees. “ My little sister’s the same way. Half the time I’m not even sure she’s speaking English.”
It takes them both a moment to get back to their duties, and if Dean puts a little more shoulder into each of his swipes, Miki has the tact not to say anything about it.
By the time Dean gets home Sam’s already sleeping in the apartment’s one bed, and as tired as Dean is, he’s only too glad to avoid any conversation they might need to have. Instead, he crashes on the couch with the spare pillow, blanket, and a towel full of ice.
It doesn’t take him long to drift into the surreal dreams he’s had for the last three weeks since Dad left Dean’s broken-armed ass behind in Red Mound with a bullshit case and half a month’s rent. He can’t really call his dreams nightmares. They’re too mundane for that. They feature him digging up graves or eating in diners or doing research. Sometimes he’s just watching Sam from a distance, as his brother strolls along paved paths with a backpack on his back and a blonde at his side. These dreams aren’t silent, but Dean never talks and he’s always alone.
Tonight he’s in the Impala as he flies down the interstate past exits and mile markers. The rest of the car is empty, but every time he checks the review there’s a big, black cat staring back. Its gold-green watch him as its tail flicks and swishes, splits and doubles, and Dean grips the wheel and drives a little faster.
When Dean wakes up on Sunday desperately tired to find Sam already gone, he knows they have a problem.
Sam puts a finger in the empty hole where his book should be and frowns down at his call number. It was the fourth on his list that was missing from the self and the University of Arkansas at Monticello wasn't exactly known for its folklore and mythology program. Or you know--even had one. It only took a quick check of the more secluded library tables to spot a head of light brown hair and in a well-worn leather jacket.
"Dean!" Sam whisper-hisses as he closes the distance between them. And when his brother’s washed out face turns toward him, he knows he’d been right to come here. Under the bright florescent lights, Dean’s freckles stand out like paint splatter against the waxy cast of his skin, his cheeks gaunt and unshaven. Even his spiky hair looks droopier than normal.
"Sam." His brother's brow furrows. "You here for a project?" Dean keeps his attention on him, but Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean closes the book he had been reading and slides it away.
"No." He raises his eyes toward the ceiling, takes in a breath, and lets it out in a controlled exhale. "I think you were right--about there being a hunt here. Something’s hurting people."
Sam waits for his brother's crow of triumph and 'I told you so' grin, but all he gets are Dean's narrowed eyes peering at him, impassive and shrewd.
"You've been having weird dreams," Dean pronounces. "With the cat?"
"Yeah,” he answers, a little impressed his brother had put that together in his condition. “Giant black cat, white star on its chest, two tails. It was, um, kind of a tip off." Sam casts a glance around the mostly empty library before he leans in closer. "Plus, you've been kind of weird lately."
"Me?" Dean tilts his head up, waiting for Sam to explain.
"I thought you might be sick--or you know--have worms." He stares down at his brother. "You've been kind of listless lately."
Dean glares. "At least I haven't been a giant dick hat."
"What?"
"Oh, don't give me that surprised act, Evil Spock. I'm just amazed you haven't grown the Van Dyke to go with it."
A hand slides up to check Sam's cheeks like he might have actually sprouted some nefarious facial hair when he wasn't paying attention. "Jerk."
"Bitch."
"Fine," Sam huffed, continuing in his most pacifying tone. "This thing has done something to both of us." Though clearly, it was affecting Dean a lot more than himself. "How about you just show me what you've found so far?"
His older brother gave him another careful moment of scrutiny before he turned back to the books spread around him, sliding into the easy routine of the hunt.
"So, uh, I already checked the local lore," he indicates a small pile of books that look to be mostly Native American and Arkansas legends and folktales. "The only thing that even comes close is a Wampus cat,
and that's not it."
Sam nods. "Our monster has a lot more finesse."
"I was thinking less screechy and likely to eat your face off, but yeah--wampy's not our guy." Dean pokes at another book that's been scooted off to the side. "Egyptians like their cat shit, but I couldn't find anything that matched. Figured I'd try the British Isles next. Maybe someone brought something over on the boat."
Sam hums an agreement and considers the table in front of him. He'd always found his brother's research methods somewhat haphazard and the small typhoon of monographs and scratch paper that surround Dean isn’t what he wanted to deal with at the moment. "Why don't you keep checking the books and I'll get a computer pass and check the web."
"Awesome. I'll just stay here getting eye strain while you go look at porn. That is totally something evil Sam would do."
"Who watches porn in public?" Because really that's just gross.
Dean waggles his eyebrows.
"Ugh." He jams his fingers in his eye sockets, trying to stave away the mental image and a possible sibling induced migraine. And that's how he knows he's not evil. Evil Sam wouldn't let his giant five-year-old of a brother give him headaches.
"Nekomata?" Dean casts a skeptical eye at the print out Sam handed him. "Well, I guess the forked tail thing fits."
"And they can shapeshift into people--this thing’s probably not just in our dreams Dean." Sam leans forward, his shaggy hair falling into his face only to be shoved back.
Dean absently scratches at the scruff on his cheeks, because he doubts this is just some dream form too. It would certainly make sense that it would have a human or animal form that would let it pick out or watch its victims during the day. It works but there are still some pieces that don’t fit.
He taps his finger on Sam’s papers. “How would a Japanese monster end up in freaking Red Mound, Arkansas anyway?”
“Ft. Rower,” Sam says smugly, like he thinks that’s a real answer.
“Is that supposed to be some sort of Indiana Jones military warehouse full of magic objects sort of deal?”
“I think you’re confusing real life with Spielberg movies again, Dean,” Sam’s nose and mouth pinched with annoyance. “It was one of the internment camps for Japanese American used in the Second World War. Being forced out of your home and moved to one of these camps had to have created a lot of negative energy. Maybe enough to create one of these nekomata if one didn’t just follow.” He takes a breath, and lays down his last piece of evidence. “Ft. Rower is less than five miles from Red Mound. Dean, this is our monster.”
Sam’s flushed with his own success of solving the puzzle, and Dean’s only too glad to see his little brother happy. “Good job, Sammy,” he claps his brother on the back. “I’m not sure this is our monster though-or all of it anyway.”
Sam’s already got his mouth open to argue when Dean shoves an open book at him and points to the relevant passage.
“A cat sìth?” Sam throws Dean a pair of incredulous raised eyebrows before his head dips and he starts reading in earnest. The eyebrows haven’t entirely gone away by the time Sam’s finished, but they have hitched down a notch or two. “Okay, so I see how the physical description matches-black fur, white chest marking-but I’m not getting why you think this is our guy. Or girl.”
Dean snorts at the trademark Sammy political correctness, before clearing his throat getting ready for the hard sell. “There’s nothing about the nekomata walking dreams and it’s a shape shifter and a trickster-that kind of magic doesn’t really seem to be in its wheel house-but this fairy/ghost/cat thing seems like it has the mojo to pull that off.” Dean shifts in his seat, resting his sore arm on the table. “And it steals souls.”
"From dead people!" Sam bursts before he catches himself, lowering his voice back to a whisper. "And c'mon, Dean, souls? How would that even work? How would you even know?"
"Jesus fuck, Sam, I don't know," Dean snaps, finally losing patience with his brother, "but something happened to all those people who suddenly snapped or ran off or just friggin' keeled over. And it wouldn't be the first time some monster switched from diet to the walking, talking version of Soylent Green." He closes his eyes and rubs his face, wiping off some of the clammy sweat gathered there. "Too bad it can't be both our monsters."
Sammy studies his print outs and Dean's book. "Why not?" Sam licks his lips when his brother looks up. "I mean, why can't it be both? It could be some sort of hybrid. Something no one's ever seen before."
"You mean Mommy 'Mata and Daddy Vader got together and had a bunch of baby nekovaders?"
Sam's nose crinkled. Trust Dean to take a new biological and anthropological phenomenon and make it into something about sex. "Yes, that's what I mean, Dean," Sam answers flatly. "And, no, we're not calling them nekovaders."
"Sure we are, Sammy." Dean slaps the table, clearly pleased with once again annoying his little brother. "So, now that we know what it is, how do we kill it?"
Figuring out how to kill the nekovaders turns out to be a longer and more complicated drawn out process than even deciding what it was in the first place. After a call to Pastor Jim, he was able to get them phone numbers for a Scottish Presbyterian minister on the east coast and Shinto priest on the west. So after two very expensive long distance calls to Washington state and North Carolina, they were able to put together a workable plan.
"I can't believe we're doing this in the apartment," Sam grumbles.
"We've been over this, dude. This is where it expects us to be. If we fall asleep in the middle of a field, it's smart enough to figure something’s up." Dean rubs his chest swaying a bit as he tries to stand still. "What I don't get is why I'm the one that has to be asleep. Or why I can't wear my boots." He pouts a little and casts a longing gaze at his shoes near the closet.
Sam doesn't even try to stop his eye roll. "You're not wearing your boots because you're getting in the bed and going to sleep. You're going to sleep because I’m not the one who looks like they're about to fall over."
"I'm fine," Dean protests even as the beads of sweat on his skin shine in the lamp light and a slight tremor shakes his hand.
"Get in the bed, Dean." Sam shoves his brother over, and Dean aims a half-hearted kick at Sam's knee before he crawls up the bed and gets under the covers. "Sing me a lullaby, Sammy."
"Shut up." Sam turns off the light and hunkers down in the corner opposite the bed and behind the door with his gun and his knife and his homemade protection charms.
Waiting in the room is even more boring than a regular stakeout since there's nothing to see and no Dean to talk to. He knows that he should be sleepy this late at night in the quiet and dim flicker of moonlight, but while Dean’s been sleeping more and more lately, Sam’s been sleeping less and less. So when the door to the bedroom opens and a figure slips in he’s alert and ready, stretching the muscles in his hands and arms. Once the creature moves toward the bed, Sam lays a line of iron filings across the doorway and tacks a protection charm on either side.
“Molly?”
Her eyes are wide at the sight of the knife in his hand and she takes a step back, raising her hands like a hold up. “Your door was open.” She points a finger toward the front. “What’s going on, Sam?”
For a moment Sam is stuck searching for words to give the girl in front of him. “We had a break in,” he manages to grind out, setting the knife down on the stained coffee table.
“Oh my god! Are you okay?” She checks Sam for damage, obviously feeling better about coming closer now that he’s not waving something sharp and pointy around.
He bring his hands up to stop her advance. “Everyone’s fine, but -listen, Molly-we really just need-“
“Hey, bitch!” his brother’s voice cuts him off.
Molly turns, and Dean throws a fist full of iron filings in her face.
The change is instant and dramatic as Molly hisses and her hands curl into claws. The brothers work in tandem just like they have for years. Sam grabs her as she tries to lunge at Dean, and Dean slides in, plunging his own knife into her heart. They both stay in their positions with the monster between them, waiting for the jerks to stop to make sure she’s dead.
When Dean steps back, he’s heaving air like he just ran a marathon with the blood-covered blade clenched in his hand.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I thought this was supposed go away when the monster was dead.”
A stunned Sam stares down at the body he’s holding. Her hair’s still red, but her eyes have gone yellow and cat-slitted. He turns his attention to the wall instead. “Maybe soul damage isn’t reversible.”
Dean bends down with his head between his knees and sets off something that sounds like he’s trying to hork up a lung.
“Fuck,” he says again, wiping off his mouth. He assesses the corpse Sam’s hasn’t let go of and smiles up at his brother. “We’re going to need another tarp, aren’t we?”
It isn’t until the ride back from burning the nekovaders that Dean gets the chance to really ask about what’s been bothering him. It’s too dark in the country to see anything but the next forty yards of road and the Lenard Skynard’s playing at a low hum. Sam’s slumped in the passenger seat, all awkward teenaged angles and floppy hair. They’re both smell like burnt cat hair and are dirty and tired enough that they don’t have the energy to fight the moment.
Dean clears his throat, and he lets it out.
“So all those times you took off to study, you were really off with monster girl?”
Sam huffs. “I didn’t know she was a monster, Dean.”
“You were off with a girl,” Dean firmly restates. “You really thought I’d have a problem with that?” Because, shit, he’s confused. It wasn’t exactly Sam’s first girlfriend, and while Dean might tease him sometimes, they live so cheek to jowl that giving each other space is something they’re both pretty respectful of.
“I wanted to keep it to myself for a while.” Sam keeps his eyes on the floor board, his fingers clenching his knees.
“And look how well that turned out.”
Sam sags a bit more in the passenger seat, and Dean rubs his eyes. That wasn't fair. He knows that wasn't fair, but he's not in a giving mood.
"I can deal with the monsters, Sam. I can handle the danger and the broken arms and the crap motel rooms, because that's part of the job. But I can't take you lying to me. You got to promise me you're not going to do that anymore."
"Yeah, I can do that, but you've got to promise too," Sam answers, his face hard.
Dean opens his mouth to deny or deflect or justify, but his little brother just keeps going.
"I know your arm isn't fine, and you've been about to pass out this entire week and haven't said a thing." His eyes narrow. "If I can't keep things from you, you can't keep them from me either."
Dean clenches the wheel and he thinks about arguing. Then he looks over at his brother with his stubborn chin, set jaw, and clenched fists--the same stupid expression he wore whenever he found something he wouldn't budge on--and Dean let go.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Sam asks, surprised.
Dean's fingers ease off the leather and flex open on the steering wheel. "I won't keep things from you if you don't keep them from me. Deal?"
Sam considers and then nods. "Deal."
And the Impala keeps driving.
Author: allhailaugustus
Recipient: Kalliel
Rating: Teen
Wordcount: ~3,700
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: Your worst mistakes are always the ones you've made before.
Sam watches from the bed as Molly stretches, her white cotton blouse riding up as she pins up another college promotion. Her whole wall is covered with them--glossy two page spreads and posters of gothic arches, dayglow green quads, and cathedral like libraries--all overlapping, amassing into a mural-sized composite of the American higher education experience.
Sam thinks it's a fire hazard and one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.
"Sometimes I wish I could just walk right into it and be there. Skip all the stuff in between, you know?" She turns her head to look at him, the afternoon sun highlighting the floating dust moats in the small room, lighting the read and blonde tones of her hair like filament.
A small smile curls on Sam's face and he nods. "Yeah, I get that." He might not have a wall--the Winchester's lives aren't that permanent--but he's always been a planner. For the last few months while Dad and Dean are off on hunts, Sam's been huddled over library tables, reading college guides like holy scripture. He's got sections in his school notebooks with application deadlines and admission office addresses and required test scores. There are drafts of admission essays and enough scholarship information to fund fifty Sam Winchesters.
Applying to college is a competitive undertaking and Sam's going to make sure he's a candidate every college will say yes to.
Molly picks up the SAT study guides they came for and heads toward the door. "C'mon, Sam. Last day to study before we kick some standardized ass tomorrow." She winks at him with eyes hazel and slanted as Sam's own.
Sam gets off the bed, and he follows.
It's dark by the time Sam gets back to the rental that night, nerves turned tight from hours of studying and the building anticipation of the test. There's a lamp on in the bedroom and Dean's on the couch, trying to read by the flickering glow of the TV. His brother's gaze slips over to him as he enters, but other than that Dean doesn't move.
"Where you been, Sam?" The question is dry and hollow, like Dean was tired of asking it before it even left his mouth.
"Group project." Sam goes to the kitchen, rattles around the cabinets looking for food.
"You were supposed to work the case with me today. You never showed."
"It's not a case. It's a few people forgetting to take their vitamins or moving to a city big enough to have a pro-football team. Get real, Dean." He drops some bread and peanut butter on the counter. Gets out the milk and a glass. "This case is a joke. Dad just wanted us out of the way while your arm was broken."
Dean closes his eyes and leans into the over stuffed cushions. "Dad wouldn't ask if he didn't think there was something to it. And you can't just skip out on training."
"I've got school. Some of us would actually like to graduate." Sam takes his sandwich and his milk and head back to his room. Maybe it should be a sign when Dean doesn't bother to follow.
Sweat gathers at his hair line and Dean raises an arm, wiping his forehead against the shoulder of his shirt before continuing the push-pull of moping.
“So no Sam stories today?” Miki asks as she flips a chair, stacking it legs-up on the table. “I thought maybe you’d be like Scheherazade and tell me one every night.” She doesn’t pause in her work-just keeps clearing the restaurant floor so Dean can clean it-but the question hangs between them waiting to be answered.
“Sam’s been real busy lately,” he finally forces out. “I’ve never seen a kid so serious about school, and with finals this week…” he shrugs, pulling up the ghost of a smirk, “I guess we just get to double the awesome big brother time once summer hits.”
Dean scrubs at a particularly tough dried on spill, which he figures had to be steak sauce, teriyaki, or permanent marker put on the floor just to mess with him. The drag and thump of moving furniture has gone silent on the other side of the dining room though, and when Dean looks up Miki’s sharp, familiar green eyes were on him.
“Dean…” she starts, and her voice was bad news and no one to punch and strangers knowing your business all at the same time. It’s why sympathy is one of Dean’s least favorite tones, but that had never stopped anyone from thinking he needed it. It certainly doesn’t stop Miki.
“All the county schools have been out since last Wednesday.” She purses her lips and drags a hand through her dark cloud of hair, pushing it back. “But Sam sounds like a smart kid. I’m sure he’s got a good reason he didn’t tell you. Plus,” she adds, a sly smile perking on her face, “you have to be pretty creative to find trouble in Red Mound anyway.”
His fingers tighten around the handle of his mop, and Dean shakes his head. “Probably just misunderstood. Sammy talks so much, you need a flowchart and tape recorder to keep up with him.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Miki quickly agrees. “ My little sister’s the same way. Half the time I’m not even sure she’s speaking English.”
It takes them both a moment to get back to their duties, and if Dean puts a little more shoulder into each of his swipes, Miki has the tact not to say anything about it.
By the time Dean gets home Sam’s already sleeping in the apartment’s one bed, and as tired as Dean is, he’s only too glad to avoid any conversation they might need to have. Instead, he crashes on the couch with the spare pillow, blanket, and a towel full of ice.
It doesn’t take him long to drift into the surreal dreams he’s had for the last three weeks since Dad left Dean’s broken-armed ass behind in Red Mound with a bullshit case and half a month’s rent. He can’t really call his dreams nightmares. They’re too mundane for that. They feature him digging up graves or eating in diners or doing research. Sometimes he’s just watching Sam from a distance, as his brother strolls along paved paths with a backpack on his back and a blonde at his side. These dreams aren’t silent, but Dean never talks and he’s always alone.
Tonight he’s in the Impala as he flies down the interstate past exits and mile markers. The rest of the car is empty, but every time he checks the review there’s a big, black cat staring back. Its gold-green watch him as its tail flicks and swishes, splits and doubles, and Dean grips the wheel and drives a little faster.
When Dean wakes up on Sunday desperately tired to find Sam already gone, he knows they have a problem.
Sam puts a finger in the empty hole where his book should be and frowns down at his call number. It was the fourth on his list that was missing from the self and the University of Arkansas at Monticello wasn't exactly known for its folklore and mythology program. Or you know--even had one. It only took a quick check of the more secluded library tables to spot a head of light brown hair and in a well-worn leather jacket.
"Dean!" Sam whisper-hisses as he closes the distance between them. And when his brother’s washed out face turns toward him, he knows he’d been right to come here. Under the bright florescent lights, Dean’s freckles stand out like paint splatter against the waxy cast of his skin, his cheeks gaunt and unshaven. Even his spiky hair looks droopier than normal.
"Sam." His brother's brow furrows. "You here for a project?" Dean keeps his attention on him, but Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean closes the book he had been reading and slides it away.
"No." He raises his eyes toward the ceiling, takes in a breath, and lets it out in a controlled exhale. "I think you were right--about there being a hunt here. Something’s hurting people."
Sam waits for his brother's crow of triumph and 'I told you so' grin, but all he gets are Dean's narrowed eyes peering at him, impassive and shrewd.
"You've been having weird dreams," Dean pronounces. "With the cat?"
"Yeah,” he answers, a little impressed his brother had put that together in his condition. “Giant black cat, white star on its chest, two tails. It was, um, kind of a tip off." Sam casts a glance around the mostly empty library before he leans in closer. "Plus, you've been kind of weird lately."
"Me?" Dean tilts his head up, waiting for Sam to explain.
"I thought you might be sick--or you know--have worms." He stares down at his brother. "You've been kind of listless lately."
Dean glares. "At least I haven't been a giant dick hat."
"What?"
"Oh, don't give me that surprised act, Evil Spock. I'm just amazed you haven't grown the Van Dyke to go with it."
A hand slides up to check Sam's cheeks like he might have actually sprouted some nefarious facial hair when he wasn't paying attention. "Jerk."
"Bitch."
"Fine," Sam huffed, continuing in his most pacifying tone. "This thing has done something to both of us." Though clearly, it was affecting Dean a lot more than himself. "How about you just show me what you've found so far?"
His older brother gave him another careful moment of scrutiny before he turned back to the books spread around him, sliding into the easy routine of the hunt.
"So, uh, I already checked the local lore," he indicates a small pile of books that look to be mostly Native American and Arkansas legends and folktales. "The only thing that even comes close is a Wampus cat,
and that's not it."
Sam nods. "Our monster has a lot more finesse."
"I was thinking less screechy and likely to eat your face off, but yeah--wampy's not our guy." Dean pokes at another book that's been scooted off to the side. "Egyptians like their cat shit, but I couldn't find anything that matched. Figured I'd try the British Isles next. Maybe someone brought something over on the boat."
Sam hums an agreement and considers the table in front of him. He'd always found his brother's research methods somewhat haphazard and the small typhoon of monographs and scratch paper that surround Dean isn’t what he wanted to deal with at the moment. "Why don't you keep checking the books and I'll get a computer pass and check the web."
"Awesome. I'll just stay here getting eye strain while you go look at porn. That is totally something evil Sam would do."
"Who watches porn in public?" Because really that's just gross.
Dean waggles his eyebrows.
"Ugh." He jams his fingers in his eye sockets, trying to stave away the mental image and a possible sibling induced migraine. And that's how he knows he's not evil. Evil Sam wouldn't let his giant five-year-old of a brother give him headaches.
"Nekomata?" Dean casts a skeptical eye at the print out Sam handed him. "Well, I guess the forked tail thing fits."
"And they can shapeshift into people--this thing’s probably not just in our dreams Dean." Sam leans forward, his shaggy hair falling into his face only to be shoved back.
Dean absently scratches at the scruff on his cheeks, because he doubts this is just some dream form too. It would certainly make sense that it would have a human or animal form that would let it pick out or watch its victims during the day. It works but there are still some pieces that don’t fit.
He taps his finger on Sam’s papers. “How would a Japanese monster end up in freaking Red Mound, Arkansas anyway?”
“Ft. Rower,” Sam says smugly, like he thinks that’s a real answer.
“Is that supposed to be some sort of Indiana Jones military warehouse full of magic objects sort of deal?”
“I think you’re confusing real life with Spielberg movies again, Dean,” Sam’s nose and mouth pinched with annoyance. “It was one of the internment camps for Japanese American used in the Second World War. Being forced out of your home and moved to one of these camps had to have created a lot of negative energy. Maybe enough to create one of these nekomata if one didn’t just follow.” He takes a breath, and lays down his last piece of evidence. “Ft. Rower is less than five miles from Red Mound. Dean, this is our monster.”
Sam’s flushed with his own success of solving the puzzle, and Dean’s only too glad to see his little brother happy. “Good job, Sammy,” he claps his brother on the back. “I’m not sure this is our monster though-or all of it anyway.”
Sam’s already got his mouth open to argue when Dean shoves an open book at him and points to the relevant passage.
“A cat sìth?” Sam throws Dean a pair of incredulous raised eyebrows before his head dips and he starts reading in earnest. The eyebrows haven’t entirely gone away by the time Sam’s finished, but they have hitched down a notch or two. “Okay, so I see how the physical description matches-black fur, white chest marking-but I’m not getting why you think this is our guy. Or girl.”
Dean snorts at the trademark Sammy political correctness, before clearing his throat getting ready for the hard sell. “There’s nothing about the nekomata walking dreams and it’s a shape shifter and a trickster-that kind of magic doesn’t really seem to be in its wheel house-but this fairy/ghost/cat thing seems like it has the mojo to pull that off.” Dean shifts in his seat, resting his sore arm on the table. “And it steals souls.”
"From dead people!" Sam bursts before he catches himself, lowering his voice back to a whisper. "And c'mon, Dean, souls? How would that even work? How would you even know?"
"Jesus fuck, Sam, I don't know," Dean snaps, finally losing patience with his brother, "but something happened to all those people who suddenly snapped or ran off or just friggin' keeled over. And it wouldn't be the first time some monster switched from diet to the walking, talking version of Soylent Green." He closes his eyes and rubs his face, wiping off some of the clammy sweat gathered there. "Too bad it can't be both our monsters."
Sammy studies his print outs and Dean's book. "Why not?" Sam licks his lips when his brother looks up. "I mean, why can't it be both? It could be some sort of hybrid. Something no one's ever seen before."
"You mean Mommy 'Mata and Daddy Vader got together and had a bunch of baby nekovaders?"
Sam's nose crinkled. Trust Dean to take a new biological and anthropological phenomenon and make it into something about sex. "Yes, that's what I mean, Dean," Sam answers flatly. "And, no, we're not calling them nekovaders."
"Sure we are, Sammy." Dean slaps the table, clearly pleased with once again annoying his little brother. "So, now that we know what it is, how do we kill it?"
Figuring out how to kill the nekovaders turns out to be a longer and more complicated drawn out process than even deciding what it was in the first place. After a call to Pastor Jim, he was able to get them phone numbers for a Scottish Presbyterian minister on the east coast and Shinto priest on the west. So after two very expensive long distance calls to Washington state and North Carolina, they were able to put together a workable plan.
"I can't believe we're doing this in the apartment," Sam grumbles.
"We've been over this, dude. This is where it expects us to be. If we fall asleep in the middle of a field, it's smart enough to figure something’s up." Dean rubs his chest swaying a bit as he tries to stand still. "What I don't get is why I'm the one that has to be asleep. Or why I can't wear my boots." He pouts a little and casts a longing gaze at his shoes near the closet.
Sam doesn't even try to stop his eye roll. "You're not wearing your boots because you're getting in the bed and going to sleep. You're going to sleep because I’m not the one who looks like they're about to fall over."
"I'm fine," Dean protests even as the beads of sweat on his skin shine in the lamp light and a slight tremor shakes his hand.
"Get in the bed, Dean." Sam shoves his brother over, and Dean aims a half-hearted kick at Sam's knee before he crawls up the bed and gets under the covers. "Sing me a lullaby, Sammy."
"Shut up." Sam turns off the light and hunkers down in the corner opposite the bed and behind the door with his gun and his knife and his homemade protection charms.
Waiting in the room is even more boring than a regular stakeout since there's nothing to see and no Dean to talk to. He knows that he should be sleepy this late at night in the quiet and dim flicker of moonlight, but while Dean’s been sleeping more and more lately, Sam’s been sleeping less and less. So when the door to the bedroom opens and a figure slips in he’s alert and ready, stretching the muscles in his hands and arms. Once the creature moves toward the bed, Sam lays a line of iron filings across the doorway and tacks a protection charm on either side.
“Molly?”
Her eyes are wide at the sight of the knife in his hand and she takes a step back, raising her hands like a hold up. “Your door was open.” She points a finger toward the front. “What’s going on, Sam?”
For a moment Sam is stuck searching for words to give the girl in front of him. “We had a break in,” he manages to grind out, setting the knife down on the stained coffee table.
“Oh my god! Are you okay?” She checks Sam for damage, obviously feeling better about coming closer now that he’s not waving something sharp and pointy around.
He bring his hands up to stop her advance. “Everyone’s fine, but -listen, Molly-we really just need-“
“Hey, bitch!” his brother’s voice cuts him off.
Molly turns, and Dean throws a fist full of iron filings in her face.
The change is instant and dramatic as Molly hisses and her hands curl into claws. The brothers work in tandem just like they have for years. Sam grabs her as she tries to lunge at Dean, and Dean slides in, plunging his own knife into her heart. They both stay in their positions with the monster between them, waiting for the jerks to stop to make sure she’s dead.
When Dean steps back, he’s heaving air like he just ran a marathon with the blood-covered blade clenched in his hand.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I thought this was supposed go away when the monster was dead.”
A stunned Sam stares down at the body he’s holding. Her hair’s still red, but her eyes have gone yellow and cat-slitted. He turns his attention to the wall instead. “Maybe soul damage isn’t reversible.”
Dean bends down with his head between his knees and sets off something that sounds like he’s trying to hork up a lung.
“Fuck,” he says again, wiping off his mouth. He assesses the corpse Sam’s hasn’t let go of and smiles up at his brother. “We’re going to need another tarp, aren’t we?”
It isn’t until the ride back from burning the nekovaders that Dean gets the chance to really ask about what’s been bothering him. It’s too dark in the country to see anything but the next forty yards of road and the Lenard Skynard’s playing at a low hum. Sam’s slumped in the passenger seat, all awkward teenaged angles and floppy hair. They’re both smell like burnt cat hair and are dirty and tired enough that they don’t have the energy to fight the moment.
Dean clears his throat, and he lets it out.
“So all those times you took off to study, you were really off with monster girl?”
Sam huffs. “I didn’t know she was a monster, Dean.”
“You were off with a girl,” Dean firmly restates. “You really thought I’d have a problem with that?” Because, shit, he’s confused. It wasn’t exactly Sam’s first girlfriend, and while Dean might tease him sometimes, they live so cheek to jowl that giving each other space is something they’re both pretty respectful of.
“I wanted to keep it to myself for a while.” Sam keeps his eyes on the floor board, his fingers clenching his knees.
“And look how well that turned out.”
Sam sags a bit more in the passenger seat, and Dean rubs his eyes. That wasn't fair. He knows that wasn't fair, but he's not in a giving mood.
"I can deal with the monsters, Sam. I can handle the danger and the broken arms and the crap motel rooms, because that's part of the job. But I can't take you lying to me. You got to promise me you're not going to do that anymore."
"Yeah, I can do that, but you've got to promise too," Sam answers, his face hard.
Dean opens his mouth to deny or deflect or justify, but his little brother just keeps going.
"I know your arm isn't fine, and you've been about to pass out this entire week and haven't said a thing." His eyes narrow. "If I can't keep things from you, you can't keep them from me either."
Dean clenches the wheel and he thinks about arguing. Then he looks over at his brother with his stubborn chin, set jaw, and clenched fists--the same stupid expression he wore whenever he found something he wouldn't budge on--and Dean let go.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Sam asks, surprised.
Dean's fingers ease off the leather and flex open on the steering wheel. "I won't keep things from you if you don't keep them from me. Deal?"
Sam considers and then nods. "Deal."
And the Impala keeps driving.