This is the second time I've done this chapter, I'm not completely sure what'll happen if I select replace content so my apologies to those who read this in the past if anything weird happens...but I wanted to do something about the messed up paragraphs which everyone agreed were annoying!
This is my first Supernatural fanfiction and basically I just hope people enjoy it...I've spent ages this summer reading loads of others and this idea just came to me...it's preseries, mostly about Sam who's 16; Dean is 20 but he comes in more at the end...probably this will be only a few chapters long but I'll just see where it goes...Fareville is a completely fictional town and as I am English living in Belgium and have absolutely no idea about US high schools please excuse any glaringly obvious mistakes in that area!
Chapter 1: Two Lives
Sam Winchester looked up from his work for just one second, stretching cramped muscles inhis back, to see Mr Hughes staring fixedly at him. He met his teacher's eyes, half-defiantly, and theman looked away. Sam returned his attention to his work. So maybe he was being a little belligerenttoday-he was just in no mood to be deferential after a hunt like yesterday's and all that it had involved.
It was bad enough that he had originally had other plans-he usually did. Sure, hesympathised with Dean, who never made any firm friends-though that wasn't to say he never got physically intimate with anyone-because he just didn't get the chance...but he just did, and he hadjust expected to wait in the car like he usually did while his father and Dean went after the damn werewolf, and he was just going to be completely useless, of course...so he had pleaded to stay athome. It was true that he did this nearly every time, but for God's sake, he was nearly seventeen,easily as capable of defending himself as Dean was and it wasn't as if he was going to be able to help with the actual hunt...
It had not gone well.
No, John had not been happy with the idea of him staying here in this little innocent town of Fareville, especially not when Sam told him why.
"Would you care to explain to your brother and me why you're so eager to get out of this hunt?" John's voice dripped poison; Dean, pretending to watch TV in the corner though the sound was muted, flinched at being incriminated. Sam gritted his teeth and straightened his back. One of these days he would stop being scared whenever he had to stand up-really stand up-to his father.
Just because he was scared didn't mean he wouldn't do it.
"It's just, uh..." He already knew that this was hopeless. "There's a plan to, uh, go see a movie tomorrow night, and I said I'd go, and..." He took a breath, trying to ignore the burning contempt in his father's eyes. "I want to go. C'mon, Dad, I never do anything but sit in the car and I already helped research all this..." That was true. It had been him to finally pinpoint who the werewolf was, too. John had been convinced it was a middle-aged woman who had screamed when he flung a silver knife at her-Sam had been the one to notice the young man it seared the skin of when it finally hit the ground and bounced up again into his face.
But he had known from the start that this would be hopeless. They had been here in this tiny backwater town in Nebraska for a month now, the longest they had stayed anywhere for ages, the March Sam was a junior at school and he was really beginning to feel like he had made some friends...
"Sam, for God's sake are we having this argument again?" John snarled. "You're not staying on your own, I've told you so many times it's not safe and I just don't get how you can be so dense not to realise that yet!"
Dense. That hurt.
"I'm not dense, everyone I know is allowed to frickin' stay at home alone, I'm sixteen years old! You let Dean stay on his own when he was sixteen!"
Dean remained silent before the TV.
"Dean," John said icily, "I could rely on to do as he was told and not get himself in trouble. You, Sam, have yet to earn that trust. Now stop being so selfish and pack your things."
They had tracked down the werewolf, and as Sam had expected he had been left in the carwhile John and Dean went out with their silver bullets and knives, leaving him with strict instructions not to get out. Left alone, fuming. Sure they were going back to Fareville for once, and there would be other opportunities. Sure all kids had family duties as well. It was just that...this really made no sense. So unbelievably stupid for him to just spend the night waiting here...and he wasn't dense, he wasn't selfish! He just wanted a bit of a normal life! Why was that such a big deal for his father?
And hell. He always got himself in trouble? Would he, if they didn't spend at least one night a week chasing monsters?
At about two in the morning Sam was beginning to realise that something must be wrong. Neither his brother or his father had returned and neither was picking up their cells. He had heard a long, drawn-out howl as well, not long ago-actually it had woken him up. Now he was beginning to worry.He had spend the whole car journey to the woods sulking and brushing aside Dean's attempts at reconciliation. What if they were both dead and the last thing he had done to either of them was get mad? He could not bear the idea...he hesitated, then pulled his own gun from his backpack, already loaded with silver bullets. And he got out of the car.
Dark. Cold. Silent under a full moon. He did not want to yell their names-what if the werewolf heard? He was just going to have to go out there on his own...he glanced uneasily behind him, wrapped his jacket closer around him. It had been Dean's...surely soon he'd be as tall as his brother and then could stop wearing his old clothes. He tried to ignore the little voice inside him that suggested maybe it made him feel strong, and loved, wearing his hero older brother's jacket. And he strode boldly into the trees.
It was hard to see five paces away in the gloom, the bushes pressing in on him like cold fingers clutching at his clothing, his hair. His feet made no noise-John had taught him that much, at least. He stared ahead, every nerve alert, senses heightened. Dean, he thought. Dean, c'mon, where are you...Dad...
It hit him like a hammer blow, soundless right up until it was on him. Two hundred pounds of hair and muscle and teeth, lashing into him and throwing him violently against a tree. He heard himself cry out, fumble for his gun...he had dropped it barely two metres away...the werewolf clawed at his chest, snarling wildly and he saw its fangs come down...his hands went up against its neck, desperately trying to shove it off himself...
A single gunshot and the werewolf gave an agonised whine, then slumped forwards onto Sam, and he felt its hot blood gush out over his face. He gasped for breath, its weight crushing his lungs-then felt it shoved off him and struggled into a sitting position.
John was standing there, face grim and angry, the gun glinting faintly in the moonlight in his hand. Sam looked up at him and thought, just for a moment, that he did not know this man. Then he saw Dean standing behind him, shock plain in his face, and he staggered to his feet and looked his father in the eye, prepared for the outburst to come.
"I thought I told you to stay in the car," John said tightly.
No, it had not been fun. For one thing he had only had about three hours of sleep after John had finished yelling at him, and some of that in the truck, before getting up for school, and for another his back and sides were bruised and aching from being thrown against the tree like that. But nothing on Earth-or under it-could have kept him at home with his father's icy, disappointed stares or Dean's embarrassed silence another moment. He liked school usually. Here he could have his own space, his own world. Maybe his own made-up life. People who gave a damn about him because they thought he was a nice guy, instead of a family eternally disappointed that he couldn't be a better or more focused hunter. Here he got good marks and he could prove himself to teachers and classmates alike just by doing something he enjoyed. And Dean and John were stuck with it. He smiled over the history quiz he was working on. He knew the answers and that was enough.
At that moment the classroom door opened to reveal the headmaster standing there, peering in. Mr Hughes looked up in surprise.
"Oh, good morning, Mr Elson. Can I help you?"
"Yes, actually," Mr Elson said. "I'd just like a private word with Sam Winchester, if you don't mind."
Sam's head snapped up. Mr Elson looked...cold. Like something was wrong. Hell, what had happened? Had his father called or something? Was Dean hurt?
Mr Hughes looked vaguely confused. "Oh-very well," he agreed. "Sam..."
Sam stood up, shoving the stray chestnut bangs out of his hazel eyes, and stared at the headmaster the same way he would stare at an angry spirit advancing for his blood. Wary. Determined. Giving nothing away.
"My office, please, Sam," Mr Elson said coolly. "And bring your things."