This story has ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with my other story, The First Hunt. Especially since in this story Sam's 11 and hasn't been on a hunt yet and in the other story Sam's first hunt occurred at age 8. This is a fictional world with no relevant age-related canon yet, so I take the liberty to do as I please. :-)
Anyway…in this story as mentioned above, Sam's 11 and Dean's 15 (and beginning to go on hunts with his father).
This is the first time I'm posting a story without having it finished first, so I make no guarantee on the updates, but I'll do my best to be as fast as possible. I'm planning this to be a two-shot.
Children Shouldn't Play with Sharp Things
Sam kneeled on the couch looking over it's back and out the window. The window faced out onto the porch of their rented attached home. A pair of semi-transparent curtains hung over the window and Sam tilted his head so that he was looking through the slit between the two curtains. In this way he had a perfect view of his brother and Miranda, Dean's 'study partner', as they sat cuddled together on the porch swing. Sam stifled a laugh as he watched his brother move in to kiss the girl while she turned away, leaving Dean with a mouth full of hair. From Sam's point of view, it seemed that the girl actually expected to study. Sam didn't need to guess what Dean expected.
Sam watched as Dean, undaunted by the hair, continued his attempted seduction. Dean began stroking the hair as the girl read from their chemistry book. She had read about half a paragraph before she grabbed Dean's wrist, giving him a tight smile, and said, "Could you stop? It's a little distracting." Miranda returned to the book leaving Dean sitting with his hand still hanging in the air from where she grabbed it. The look on his brother's face broke Sam's barriers and he laughed out loud.
Immediately Dean's eyes darted to the window and Sam's hands covered his mouth. Fearing that he'd been spotted, Sam became completely still, hoping that if he didn't move, his brother wouldn't see him. However, the curtains weren't opaque and Dean apparently, could see his brother just fine- with or without Sam moving. Dean's eyes narrowed and Sam knew he'd been found out.
His only chance now was to get to his room before Dean could catch him. Quickly, Sam jumped off the couch and began running towards the stairs. As he ran, he heard the front door open and within a few seconds, Sam felt Dean's hand on his shoulder twisting him around. Sam looked up at his brother with trepidation.
Dean glared down at him, "Does the word privacy mean anything to you?"
Sam raised his eyebrows as he contemplated a smart answer to that question. However, Dean cut him off before he could make a response, "You know, it's bad enough that I'm stuck here because of you. The least you could do is buzz off."
Sam twisted out of his brother's grasp, whining, "But I'm bored."
Dean continued his glare, "Well find something to do…something that doesn't involve spying on me like a little pervert."
"What's a pervert?"
Dean shook his head, "Nevermind. Point is Sammy, that I would like to be in the park right now, but I can't because I have to stay here. And because that's your fault, you're going to leave me and Miranda alone and find a way to entertain yourself."
Sam sighed, "Couldn't I hang out with the two of you? I don't have any friends here yet and it's not like you or dad will let me go out and play with the kids on the block."
Dean looked appalled, "Sammy. I'm fifteen." He pointed to the door, "That girl out there…she's sixteen. We don't hang out with ten year olds."
Sam was offended, "I'm eleven."
Dean rolled his eyes, "Same thing."
Sam looked sad, "You used to play with me."
"That was years ago Sammy."
Sam shook his head, "Uh-uh. Last time we moved you played with me like everyday. Remember? You taught me how to shoot darts…I know! You could teach me how to kill stuff or something! Like dad taught you."
Dean turned and walked back towards the door, "I don't play with ten year olds Sammy." Then he turned back around and pointed at his brother, "I mean it man. I better not catch you spying on us again. I'm serious Sammy."
"You could bring me with you to the park. You said you wanted to go. You could bring me and you can go."
Dean turned back to walk out the door, "Leave us alone Sammy." And with that Dean shut the door behind him.
Sam stared at the closed door, sad and bored. It was true that over the past few years Dean had been playing with Sam less and less, but whenever they moved to a new town, that would change. Dean and Sam would play together for a few weeks in a new town, until they both had new friends. But this time it was different. They had only been in town for two weeks, but Dean had made friends quickly this time, leaving Sam without a playmate.
Sam sighed and slowly moped his way up the stairs. Actually, he hadn't spent much time with Dean at all lately and in truth, he really missed hanging out with his brother. Not only did Dean seem to know everything about everything, but Sam never had as much fun hanging out with anyone as he did hanging out with Dean. However, Dean's time was limited now. Six months ago- on Dean's fifteenth birthday, their father brought Dean on his first hunt. Sam of course, stayed with a family friend and got to hear a limited recount of 'the most exciting day of Dean's life' the morning after. Since that day, Dean had been on four more hunts, which left considerably less time for Sam to spend time with his brother.
Sam leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs wondering what he could do. He wished he could hunt, then he'd have more time to spend with his father and brother. But, his dad had deemed him too young; so Sam would have to wait about four more years before he could join them. Four years was a long time.
Sam tried to picture what his first hunt would be like. He wondered if it would be like Dean's. Dean had fought a will o' wisp on his first hunt and although he hadn't heard any of the details regarding how Dean had actually killed it, Sam figured it must have been very exciting.
Getting lost in his imagination, Sam began to pretend that he was tracking his own will o' wisp through the forest. He crept on his tiptoes, down the hallway, pausing dramatically at every open door before looking in the room. The walls between the doors were large trees of course, and Sam had to be careful that the will o' wisp wasn't hiding between the trees, waiting for Sam to pass by.
Finally, Sam came to the last door in the hallway. Putting his right hand around the door jam, Sam carefully pulled himself around the doorframe and into the room. It was his brother's room and he wasn't supposed to be in it. Dean would kill him for looking in it, much less standing in it. But his prey had gone this way and a good hunter always followed the trail- wherever it led…even if it meant entering his brother's forbidden room.
Cautiously, Sam walked to the center of the room, looking for his imaginary will o' wisp. Standing in the middle of the room, Sam made a face. His brother's room smelled...bad. He looked around. What was that? There were clothes strewn about the floor and a pile of books on the bed. From their spines, Sam quickly determined that none of them had been opened. Still, as messy as they were, the books and the clothes were not the source of the smell.
Sam made a face again. How could his brother sleep in here with that smell? Sam sniffed around the room trying to figure out where the stench was emanating from. He sniffed all over the room, but the odor seemed to be strongest by the bottom of the bed. Grabbing a flashlight off his brother's nightstand, Sam laid on the floor to look under the bed. The stench was so strong down there that he held his breath. Then he turned on the flashlight.
Hundreds of short webs covered the space between the bed and the carpet. Sam found himself amazed by the amount and apparent vastness of the webs. He imagined that if he were only an inch tall, those webs would be like a forest to him. That would be kind of cool. Sam's imagination began to take him through the web forest, but upon an intake of breath, he remembered why he was looking under the bed. It didn't take long for him to find the answer to the smell.
Lying almost in front of him was a bowl with a spoon sticking out of it. Carefully, Sam pulled the bowl out. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand as he looked in it. Clearly it had once been cereal, but all that remained now was a bowl of soured, curdled, milk with brown fuzzy mold growing on the spoon and around the edge of the bowl. Sam made a face through his hand and pushed the bowl back under the bed. That was just gross.
Standing back up, Sam shut off the flashlight and returned it to the nightstand. Then he paused. Laying on the nightstand was his brother's new dagger. His father had bought it for him two weeks ago to celebrate 'a hunt well done'. It was sheathed in brown leather and had a white, carved marble handle. Sam's fingers twitched towards the object.
He had never seen the blade, but based on the sheath, it looked like it would be about 5 inches (12.5 cm) long and 2 inches (5 cm) wide. Sam's fingers lightly grazed the handle. He shouldn't touch it. Dean would kill him. His father would kill him. And then Dean would kill him again. Still, it would only be a few years before he would have a dagger of his own and he would have to know how to wield one eventually. Besides, he could put the dagger back where he found it and Dean would never know. Just like Dean would never know that Sam had been in his room.
Having talked himself into it, Sam picked up the dagger and pulled off its sheath. He placed the leather holder back on the nightstand and then stared at the knife in his hand. It was so cool. Sam smiled. The knife was 2 inches thick at the base and then one side gradually curved into a point.
Sam held the knife in his right hand and practiced stabbing an invisible beast. As he lunged forward and back with the knife, a movement to his left caught his eye. At first Sam stood completely still fearing that he'd been caught. But upon turning his head to the left, he found that the movement that he had seen was merely himself being reflected in Dean's full-length mirror.
Sam smiled again. There was a mirror, which meant he didn't have to fight the air; he could fight himself. Sam approached the mirror with caution. In his imagination, his reflection was an evil shape shifter and it was up to Sam to take him down. Sam flipped the knife in his hand so that the top of the handle was by his thumb and the blade stuck out the bottom of his hand. That was the way he had seen his father hold a knife once, so that was probably the way he was supposed to hold it.
Sam squinted his eyes and spoke to the mirror, "You've been going around pretending to be me long enough. You think you're so tough. Well, I'm a professional hunter and you, my friend, picked the wrong person to copy. You're goin' down!"
Then Sam lunged forward, punching and kicking at the mirror. Just as he fought, the shape shifter fought back, matching him move for move. "Ha! You think you can outsmart me? You think you know what moves I'm going to make? Take this!" Sam turned around unleashing a makeshift roundhouse kick while punching with the knife. The shape shifter followed in suit. Turned back towards the mirror, Sam glared again. Then he punched and kicked, swiping the mirror with the knife. Still the shape shifter stood.
Sam backed up from the mirror and thought of what other moves he could use to attack his opponent. His roundhouse had been the coolest thing he'd done so far, so he decided to try another. Once again, Sam stuck his foot out in the kick as he twirled around on the other foot. However, this time, one of Dean's dirty shirts became tangled around Sam's foot, throwing him off balance. Before he knew what was happening, Sam found his foot pulled out from under him sending him falling onto his right side.
Sam yelped as he fell and then felt a sharp pain in his right side. Instantly it became hard to breath. His right arm and hand was trapped beneath him; stuck between his weight and the shirt that had caused his downfall. Knowing that he had to get up, Sam, still holding the dagger, twisted his hand around to help him push himself up. As he twisted his hand, Sam realized that he had made a mistake. The sharp pain he had felt had apparently been the knife cutting into his right side…and it was still embedded. When Sam twisted his hand, he inadvertently drove the knife in deeper before cutting it out of his back.
Sam gasped and drove his face into his brother's clothes to stifle his scream. He was now on his knees, doubled over. His left hand covered his right side and Sam could feel the blood. Sam waited in that position as the burning pain subsided leaving a dull ache. Then, he slowly sat up and looked down. His left hand and shirt were covered in blood, along with his brother's dagger. Dean was going to kill him. There would be no way to get away with it now.
Almost as soon as that thought popped into his head, it was followed by another. Somehow, none of the blood had yet reached the floor. In fact, all of the blood was still on him and the knife. Sam thought quickly, perhaps there was still a way to cover this up. Ignoring the pain, Sam grabbed his side harder to help stem the blood flow and then rapidly ran out of Dean's room and into the bathroom across the hall. Before shutting the door, Sam looked out to make sure none of the blood had dripped in the hallway. It hadn't.
Sam closed the door and jumped in the bathtub, this way, if any of the blood dripped, it could easily be cleaned up. Sam turned on the water, making it warm. First thing was first. He had to clean off the dagger before his brother found out. Sam let go of his side and used both of his hands and the bar of soap to clean the dagger. Most of the blood washed right off, but some seemed to be stuck between where the blade met the hilt. Sam used his fingernails to scratch the blood out. After a few minutes, the dagger was clean. Sam sighed in relief. Finding a clean, dry area of his shirt, Sam wiped the water off the knife and then placed the now clean weapon on the toilet lid. Then Sam looked down.
The water, still flowing, was red. In fact most of the right side of his shirt and jeans were red. Both of his socks were red and if he had been wearing shoes, Sam was pretty sure that they would also have been red. Carefully, Sam lifted his shirt to examine the cut.
It was hard to see it, given his angle and the blood that seemed to constantly seep from it. Using his left hand, Sam felt around the wound. It started towards the front of his body and then wrapped around his side to his back. Overall the cut felt to be about three inches long. Taking a breath as deep as he could, Sam used his left pointer finger to feel how deep it was.
Sam felt his heart rate speed up as he felt inside the wound. First, was the realization that there was an 'inside' to the wound. Second, Sam was almost positive that he could feel his last rib through the gash. Feeling around more, Sam felt mostly blood and some smooth things which he hoped weren't, but most likely were, his intestines.
Sam pulled the finger out of his side, grimacing in pain. This was bad. He looked over at the knife trying to determine if he really needed to tell Dean what had happened. Dean was going to kill him. He bit his lip and laid back in the tub. The gash didn't hurt as much as he would have thought. Sam wondered if that was because he was a Winchester. His father always said that Winchester men were built tough. And actually, Sam felt fairly relaxed. He closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the tub, trying to determine what he should do.
He thought back to the gash. From what he felt, he probably hadn't damaged any of his organs, just skin and muscle. If he could stitch and bandage the gash himself, then it could still be possible for his to get away with it. Opening his eyes, Sam set to work. The first thing he really had to do was return the knife before Dean saw it missing. Sam shut off the water and stripped off his bloody socks, shirt, and pants so that he could travel into Dean's room without leaving a trail. Then Sam wiped the blood off his right hand and squeezed his wound as hard as possible with the left. It hurt, horribly, but Sam knew that squeezing the wound would make it bleed less and therefore make him less likely to drip blood. Now clad in nothing but a white undershirt and underwear, Sam picked up the dagger and stood up.
The world tilted and Sam almost dropped the dagger as he grabbed onto the wall for support. Figuring he stood up too fast, Sam shook his head to clear it. The head shake seemed to work and Sam quickly ran out of the bathroom and into his brother's room. It was difficult trying to re-sheathe the dagger with one hand, but he did it. Then he placed the dagger back on the nightstand, checked the area for blood (he was clear) and then ran back into the bathroom.
By the time Sam re-entered the bathroom, he was exhausted with relief. He released his agonizing hold on his side and slowly sat himself on the floor, breathing hard. He couldn't believe it. He had managed to cover up all the evidence that he had ever been in Dean's room or touched Dean's dagger. Sam closed his eyes, still breathing heavily, and leaned up against the wall. He really was tired. Apparently fighting shape shifters, real or imagined, was hard work. No wonder Dean and their father slept so much after they returned from a hunt.
Sam opened his eyes. He could use a nap himself, but he needed to stitch the gash and clean up the bathroom first. Sam looked back down at the wound. His underwear and undershirt were now covered in blood along with a small area of the bathroom floor. He was bleeding a lot…too much. Sam squeezed the wound with his left hand again. There was no getting around this- he needed Dean's help.
Sam bit his lip in apprehension. He had been so close to getting away with it, but now…once again Dean was going to kill him. A sudden thought struck Sam. He had cleaned up the evidence that he had been in Dean's room. If he could come up with another way for him to have gotten hurt, one that didn't involve him playing with things that weren't his, then he wouldn't be in trouble. Sam racked his brain trying to think of an idea. He could say that it happened while he was making dinner, but why would he be making dinner? Also, Sam was pretty sure there was no food in the house that would require using a knife for preparation. The only food they had was Mac and Cheese and Spaghetti-Os. Sam looked around the bathroom, but there was nothing there that would have caused his injury.
Sam laid his head back against the wall again. It would be easier to think of a good story if he weren't tired. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand. How did his father do it? His dad was able to come up with stories that made sense at the drop of a hat- so could Dean. Apparently, Sam hadn't inherited that particular trait. Sam sighed. If he couldn't think of a story, then he would just have to avoid answering any questions about what happened. Then, after he slept, he'd be able to think better and then he could explain what happened.
Happy with the new plan, Sam pushed himself to his feet. The room spun around him and once again Sam found himself grabbing onto the wall for support. Once the room became still, Sam stumbled his way into the hall. Blood dripped through his fingers, staining the carpet- at least there was no blood in Dean's room. He leaned against the wall for support, smearing a trail of blood as he walked towards the stairs. Voices drifted their way up the stairs and Sam realized that Dean and the girl were back inside the house. That would make things easier.
"Dean!" Sam yelled down the stairs and waited for a response. The voices became quiet, but there seemed to be no movement coming his way.
Sam tried again, "Dean! I need help!" The voices resumed, but once again there was no movement towards the stairs. Sam sighed. He was going to have to go down the stairs. The only problem was that Miranda was down there and right now Sam was clad only in blood soaked underwear. Staggering back to the bathroom, Sam wrapped a towel around his waist and then made his way back to the stairs.
One by one, Sam slowly made his way down the stairs leaving a trail of blood along the floor and banister. Finally, he was at the bottom. Dean and Miranda were seated on the couch in front of him, facing the opposite wall.
"Dean?" Dean sighed in annoyance, but didn't turn around.
Sam's heart began to beat faster. Dean was already angry with him for interrupting the study session. Dean was going to kill him when he saw the mess he made in the bathroom, hallway, and stairs. Still, there was too much of a mess to clean up now and he still needed Dean's help with the stitches. He had to interrupt his brother.
Slowly Sam stumbled around the couch, stopping in front of the chatting couple. "Dean? I need help."
Dean glared into his book obviously ignoring Sam, but the girl looked up. Immediately her eyes became wide and she covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh my God! Dean!" She shook Dean causing him to lift his head towards Sam.
What do you think? Should I have Sam crack and tell Dean the truth- or should he lie?