Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was nighttime, and the moon shone behind the giant trees. Pine, fir and maple trees covering the little light that the satellite offered.

In the motel's parking lot, John and Dean were getting ready for the hunt, loading their guns with silver bullets. They weren't in Cottage Grove to enjoy the cold Oregon weather. They had come to put an end to the werewolf pack.

It had been three weeks since their arrival, where they had invested most of their time to locate the pack, looking for the places where the dead bodies had been found the past full moon without a heart. Thanks to that, they knew they were dealing with two wolves and that they met in a cabin in the middle of the woods once a month which Dean had found in one of his scouting missions. It was three kilometres away from their motel. The old cabin was in the middle of the thicker part of the woods, circled by an incredible amount of trees that made it hard for light to pass through them. Even in the daytime, the place was ominous and dark.

They kept getting all the stuff ready in the trunk of the Impala, quietly, untill John decided to speak.

"You'll have to go alone" he said. Then nothing.

Dean went still. He quit loading his gun and turned to look at his father. John ignored him.

"What do you mean by that?" He said. Looking him straight in the eyes.

"This hunt. You'll have to do it alone. An old friend of mine talked to me about someone, three towns from here, that may have something on the thing that killed your mother, but I have to leave now"

Dean noticed then that his father had never touched the box with the silver bullets and was just loading normal ones.

The young hunter put them in his own pocket.

"Dad..."

"What?"

"I don't want to do this. Not by myself."  He'd never admit it, but he was scared.

"Dean, we can't stay any longer. I'm sorry, but it's the only way." Said John. The tone of his voice indicating the conversation was over.

"It's not the only way..." Said Dean under his breath.

"What did you say?" John looked into his  eyes, with the spark of sudden anger visible in his stare. 

"I said that it's not the only way" he answered, louder that he expected. "We're not hunting ghosts or something simple, these are werewolves, dad. You know damn well those sons of bitches are fast and really frigging' strong. I wont go alone." Dean straightened, standing at full height and trying to show the strength in his words.

John laughed sarcastically. "Don't be a coward. I didn't raise no chicken. I've trained you well for this. Can't always be in every hunt you go to like when you were thirteen."

"What if something happens to me?" Said Dean. If something happened, no one would look after Sam.

"If something happened to you, it'd be your own fault for not being careful enough. If something happened to you, I'd have to live with the guilt. So just be careful that nothing happens to you, ok?" John put one heavy hand over Dean's shoulder, startling him. Dean didn't want to look at his father, so he turned is eyes away to the ground.

"Ok?" He insisted

"Ok..." Answered Dean with a sigh.

"Good." His dad now took another key from his leather jacket and threw it at Dean while he walked away quickly with heavy steps. When Dean caught it, he recognised it as the Impala's key.

"Car's yours for now. Use it if you think you'll need it. My friend will take me to the town and back. Told him I'd wait for him at the nearest gas station, so I'd better leave soon" his voice sounded distant "Don't wait around for too long or it'll turn to daytime"

While his father's shape became blurry in the fog and the darkness, Dean felt betrayed and alone. It was useless praying or saying something. John wouldn't listen. He never did.

He felt its agitated breath, smelled the stench in its fang filled mouth and the rage it irradiated, almost burning.

So this is how he died. He'd never see his brother again. He'd never see Sammy one more time. John had abandoned him and it was his own fault being stuck here for not being able to say no. He hadn't been brave for coming. He hadn't, because even while hunting by himself scared him, he was even more scared by just the thought of facing his father. Dean was a coward and he always had been.

He was going to die.

John or Sam would probably find him days later, dead and alone in that same spot. 

"He was never with you... He left us, right?"

Dean said nothing. Sam took that as a yes. "I can't believe he left you all alone on a werewolf hunt."

"Sam, I,—"

"And I can't believe you went all by yourself, Dean! I was here! Right here! You don't have to do everything without help."

"Ok..." Sam noticed something in Dean's voice. He decided it was best to ignore it.

"I think the safest thing to do is going to Bobby's"

Sam looked at his brother, thinking he hadn't heard right. "Dean, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're in Oregon. It'll take us more that three days, considering food stops and sleep, to get there. And I don't think you'll enjoy driving for more than thirty hours straight without sleep."

"We'll rest, don't worry. I'm planning on stopping soon to get those waffles I promised you."

Sam blinked a few times, shocked about Dean's lack of worry.

"Are you mad? We have to go a hospital first. Don't think I didn't notice that your broken ribs joke wasn't completely a joke. You could end up puncturing a lung."

"Sam, you know ribs heal on their own. The best they would do at a hospital is give me some painkillers and bandaging my chest. I'll be fine. Try to sleep a little. I'll wake you up when we get somewhere."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh before giving up and leaning back on the seat and crossing his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes, feeling the low vibrations of the engine running through the car and his body, relaxing him.

"Jerk" said Sam before falling asleep.

"Bitch" Dean answered.

Dean kept driving in complete silence. He had a slight idea of how to get to Sioux Falls, but still stopped on the right side of the highway, next to a little creek to look at the map and clean himself a little. He couldn't arrive to a town covered in blood and mud. It would bring attention to him and that was the last thing he needed right now.

Careful of not waking Sam up, he took the map from the glove box, as well as a grey T-shirt and a green flannel from his duffle bag. His current clothes were ripped in some places and the mud, that was starting to dry, as well as the blood, left stains on the leather seat of the Impala.

Walking to the river, he washed his hands and his face, the cold water waking him up a bit. He noticed that he didn't have a flashlight with him but could still see perfectly. He knew it wasn't due to his eyes being used to the darkness.

Chapter Text

Dean drove the whole night, until the sky changed to a more cyan colour with the morning sunlight and the stars began fading. By then, they were already in The Dalles.

They stopped at a small diner, right next to the highway, parking the Impala between two trailer trucks

Sam had slept through the whole trip. He had this ability that Dean deeply envied: he was able to sleep in any conditions or position as long as the car's engine was still running, even as he started drooling (Dean had seen him do that enough times to tease his brother about it). Thanks to a whole life on the road, road trips made him sleepy. Perhaps that was the reason why he woke up right as his brother stopped the car.

Sam rubbed his eyes and stretched as much as the car's dimensions would allow. His lower back hurt because of sleeping sitting up, and he wasn't very exited to think that he'd have to travel in that same position for too many hours straight if they wanted to get to Bobby's before John found out where they had gone. They knew his father would eventually find them.

"Morning, princess" Dean said, smiling and laughing "How was your beauty sleep?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"C'mon, let's get breakfast" his brother turned to the back seats to take his wallet out from one of the bags before opening his door and getting out. Sam also dug into his duffle, looking for something. He struggled with the zipper, but then, he found what he was looking for: a tiny package, wrapped in newspaper, smaller than a book. He put it inside his grey  winter jacket's pocket so Dean couldn't see it. He got out of the car and followed his brother inside.

There were a few people there, half of them truck drivers and the other half, waiters and cooks. They sat in a tiny round table, next to the window where they could see the Impala. After a minute, a young woman with black curly hair, tan skin and honey colored eyes walked up to them, handing the menu over. Both ordered waffles and a cup of coffee for each one, with a tiny jug of milk and some sugar. Dean preferred his coffee black, but Sam liked it sweet.

"Are you guys staying or just passing through?" She asked. Her voice was sweet and very nice to listen to. She had put on a perfume that smelled like jasmine flowers. She was quite close to the table, and Dean smelled her perfume, mixed with something that was almost foreign to her. It was weird. Not in a bad way, just odd. He decided to ignore it.

"Just passing through, but we need a place to rest just for a bit"

"If you are staying for the night, I know a place."

"We'd appreciate it..." Dean looked at her purple apron that had her named stitched on with white thread "Olivia" he said. The girl smiled.

"You can call me Liv." She said. Smiling at Dean. "I'll bring your food in a moment" she walked back to the kitchen.

As she disappeared behind the door, Sam looked desperate, like his life depended on if he said something right now. He fidgeted with his hand, nervous.

"Dean?" He said as soon as Dean had stopped looking at her.

"Hm?" He answered, still kinda distracted.

"Aren't you gonna wash your hands before you eat? I mean... None of us would want you getting sick during the trip..."

Very subtle...

Dean looked at him, weirded out by the comment. Sam knew it was a shitty excuse, but he needed his brother to go away for just a little bit, so he could place the package he had in his pocket in front of Dean's seat. Sam smiled, which only made him automatically seem more suspicious.

"Wow, you're weird," said Dean.

He got up, slowly and carefully, not taking his eyes off of Sam.

"IF when I come back there's a thumbtack on my chair, I swear I'll make you walk to the next town"

He walked to the men's restroom. It was, like most bathrooms, in the back of the building, on his left.

As soon as Dean was out of sight, Sam placed the package on the table. Olivia was walking back with both coffee cups. Sam thanked her and, before she left, he whispered something to her. The girl nodded, going back to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Dean had used his trip for peeing, before washing his hands. The place was surprisingly clean, overwhelming him with the scent of many products. He thought that they might be using too much chlorine, feeling his nose irritated.

He walked to the sink, took the soap bar on the corner and washed his hands. He also splashed some cold water to wake himself up. Sipping some of the water in his mouth, he washed his teeth, which hurt by how cold the liquid was, making him do a pained expression in front of the mirror.

Dean stopped. Spat the water and looked at his reflection again.

He smiled to see his teeth, opening his mouth next and taking his index finger to one of his  fangs. He was sure that, a few hours ago, they weren't this sharp, nor long, nor... canine. Both inferior and superior teeth had changed.

Dean pulled the neck of his shirt down to see his shoulder. There was only a scar, barely visible, where he had been bitten.

He sighed, wondering what else would change: if his personality would become different when the full moon was close, and, if he made it to the full moon, if he would be able to recognize his family. If he would be able to not hurt them.

The answer was no, and he knew it. He wouldn't make to the next full moon because, as soon as Sam was safe with Bobby, he'd leave and put that last silver bullet in his gun inside his head, ending this. No one would have to know that he'd become a monster.

He washed his face again, not wanting to think about that anymore. When he walked out, Sam followed him with his eyes, arms crossed and smiling.

Dean checked his thumbtack-free chair before sitting and noticing the tiny package in front of him, taking it between his hands.

"What's this?" He said, frowning in confusion.

"For you. There's something inside. Open it" Sam's leg was bouncing up and down, anxious and exited for Dean to see the contents.

Dean pulled out his Swiss knife from his pocket and made a small cut on the newspaper, tearing it bit by bit.

"Tell me, Sammy, what's the occasion?" Dean said, mockingly.

Sam's smile shrank a little.
"You're joking, right?" He said, raising his eyebrows.

Dean wasn't joking. Since John had taken them to Cottage Grove, he had no clue what day he was living in. He knew it was January, but it might as well be the 4th or the 17th.

"Dean, today is the 24th. It's your birthday. Did you forget?"

Dean looked at his brother, shocked. Then, looked at his wristwatch. Sam was right: it was January 24th.

"I— I didn't forget, I just..." Dean said, moving his eyes around while he thought about something, licking his lips before answering. "I was so busy with dad I didn't notice the date."

Sam looked at him with pity on his face. "He also didn't remember, did he? Left without saying anything."

"Doesn't matter" followed Dean, waving his hand in a dismissing gesture, trying to cheer himself up "I ain't gonna let the old man ruin my day."

He kept opening his gift, which also seemed to cheer Sam as well.

Inside, there was a Walkman, a pair of headphones and a cassette tape. Dean knew that cassette well, with the image of an old man carrying a bundle of sticks on his back: Led Zeppelin IV.

"Happy birthday, Dean" Said Sam, smiling again. "Hope you like them"

It was truly a great gift. Dean was in awe and had apparently lost the ability to speak.

"How'd you get 'em?" Was all he could say.

"While we were in Cottage Grove, I looked for some jobs. Y'know, walking dogs, sweeping leaves, mowing grass, things like that. While you and dad were in the forest, I went around asking if I could help with anything. I wanted to gift you something special and then I found out there was an old record shop. I knew I would find something there so I got in and bought it" Sam played with his hands, a bit worried about his brother's reaction "d'ya like 'em?"

Dean smiled more than he had done in the last months "This might actually be the best thing I've ever received, Sammy. They're great. Thank you."

"I heard someone was the birthday boy!" Olivia said behind Dean's back, bringing the food on a blue plastic tray.

She put the plates and cutlery in front of them, placing each waffle order carefully on the table.

She put an extra plate in front of Dean, that had a piece of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top and the tiniest yellow candle that was already lit. The flame was so small that even Dean's breath threatened to put it out.

Normally we bring cake, but you brother told me you liked pie better. Hope apple's fine," she mentioned, showing a warm smile and placing one hand on her hips.

"Yes, actually. It's my favorite" Dean answered, smiling too and looking at the girl standing in front of him.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Romeo, if you don't make your wish now, your pie will end up with ashes and burnt paraffin on it. That candle is more wick that wax" it didn't matter that it was Dean's birthday, he wouldn't put up with his brother's romances.

"What?" He said, looking at Sam.

"Make your wish, or are you too old for that?"

"Hey, good question, how old are you turning?" Olivia asked, following along with Sam's joke.

Dean opened his mouth to answer.

"Forty eight" said Sam, grinning.

"Shut up, Sam. I'm twenty two, Liv"

"You're the same age as my brother! I'm twenty eight, but my twenty twos were my favorite age for a while. Enjoy while it lasts" she patted his shoulder in a friendly way.

I will. He told himself. I will with the time I've got left.

He leaned over the pie slice, thought of his wish and blew the tiny flame out.

Chapter Text

Liv told them they could stay in a motel, in the middle of the town, a couple of kilometres past the small restaurant. The owners, she told them, were her family members (which explained why she had insisted so much that they stayed there). She even had called so they could make a reservation for a room with two beds.

When they arrived, the first thing they saw was a wooden cabin in the entrance to the motel, with the reception in it, next to a small dining room where food was served in the mornings, afternoons and evenings, something really unusual for a motel. The rooms were next to it, being individual cabins, separated by a tiny space between them and having a small parking spot in front of each one. Both brothers were welcomed by a couple standing behind the counter, who said to be Liv's aunt and uncle, and the owners of the motel.  They talked for a while about road trips, traveling and highways. Dean took the chance to ask for directions on the fastest route to Sioux Falls. In the back of the reception, there was someone sitting quietly: black hair, curly and cut short, as well as honey colored eyes. Sam could only assume that was Liv's brother. The man didn't even look at him, only staring in an untrusting manner at Dean.

After the talk, the couple gave them the keys to their room, and thanking them, they left.

They took their stuff out of the car, being glad that this motel had warm water, specially in this time of year. Dean decided to take a shower first, to wash off all the blood and mud that he still had on him. He saw on the mirror that he had a big bruise on his chest and back, with green and blue spots right where his ribs had been broken and where he had hit the tree, but fortunately he no longer felt stabbed every time he breathed. The warm water helped relax his muscles. He changed into clean clothes after he was done, getting out of the bathroom in a cloud of water vapor.

"The water's already hot, so get in quick or it'll be freezing." He said to Sam, who nodded. While Sam was looking for his clothes, Dean pulled his wallet out, taking the room keys from the nightstand.

"You're going out?" said Sam.

"Calm down. I'm just going to get something to eat. Think I saw a supermarket near here. Do you need anything?"

"Can you get me an aspirin or something? I think I'm having a headache..."

"OK. I'll be back soon."

Dean walked out of the room, checking how much money he had in his wallet, finding a 50 dollar bill and several coins in the deepest part of it. He took them out, one by one, counting them. A quarter, two quarters, three, four...

Someone, out of nowhere, pulled him by his shirt's neck, slamming him against the wall and causing all the coins to fall off his hands, making a loud metallic sound, amplified by the space between the walls. He hit the back of his head on the hard surface, forcing him to close his eyes because of the pain, and disorienting him for a few seconds.

"I want you to tell me who you are and what you are doing here" whispered an agitated voice.

Dean opened his eyes, slightly. He was in one of the corridors in between each room, and could see a pair of angry honey colored eyes staring straight into his.

Confused, Dean looked to both sides.

"Hey man, look I—"

"First, shut up. And second, tell me why you came to this town. If you didn't already notice, WE are living here and we're tired of always having fights over the territory"

With each word he said, his fists tightened his grip on Dean's shirt. 

"Let me go! I have no idea what you're talking about." Because of how close they were, Dean could smell something on him that was similar to what he had smelled on Liv. Whatever it was, the guy in front of him had it too.

"Don't play with me. I know what you are. I'm actually surprised you didn't notice anything when you walked into the reception. We've had trouble with your kind since always."

Dean wondered how the guy had known he was a hunter. Was it that obvious?

"Wait— you're Liv's brother, right?" Dean asked. That explained the smell and the similarities.

With that, the guy slammed him against the wall, again.

"If you ever even think about laying a finger on her—"

"We're just hunters! I promise we have no intentions of staying. If you didn't hear what I talked about with your aunt and uncle back there, we're on our way to Sioux Falls."

That seemed to confuse the man in front of him.

"You're a hunter?"

"...Yes..."

"How can you be a hunter and a werewolf?"

Dean's eyes widened.

"Oh..." he got nervous "actually, I was bitten this full moon. It hasn't even been a day..."

The other guy eyed him, head to toe, finally letting go.

"That's why your brother's human"

"Yes."

Putting his hands to his sides, he stepped back, giving Dean some space.

"I'm sorry. I thought... my family and I have had a lot of fights with other werewolves that come here and want to stay. It would be fine if they didn't want the territory just for themselves. That's why we always try to find out their intentions first," he leaned on the wall in front of Dean, placing his hands inside the pocket on his red hoodie.

That seemed to catch Dean's attention. There was no way a community of werewolves was living here, unnoticed by hunters. Because, yes, even if lycanthropes lived most of their time as normal people, when they turned, they became aggressive, dangerous, bloodthirsty creatures.

"Then tell me why, as a hunter, I shouldn't just kill you all?"

"I'm not surprised you're just as dumb as the rest of 'em. There are more kinds of wolves than "the aggressive ones". My family and I come from a line of purebloods and we're able to control ourselves during the full moon. We have a farm where we get our hearts from, without having to hurt anyone."

Dean arched and eyebrow. He didn't know if he should believe that or not. Dad had always said that all supernatural creatures were dangerous and that it was their job to hunt them, no matter what.

"And what? Should I believe all you're saying just because? I've never heard about purebloods before."

The man shrugged.

"Think whatever you want. You can check the police records. Since 1942 there hasn't been an incident in our family, but I really don't care if you believe me or not. For your own good, you better do it. I don't know if you were bitten by a pureblood, but there have been instances where bitten wolves manage to control themselves. It's not as easy but it's doable. Just make sure you never eat a human heart."

"Were you bitten?"

"No. Liv and I were born. It's because of your sense of smell that you could recognize we were siblings, right? All families have something in common that can be perceived by other werewolves."

"That and your eyes are the same," answered Dean, smiling a little.

"People always say that," he walked over to Dean again "I'm James. Sorry about the interrogatory." He put his hand in front of Dean, who shook it.

"Dean. My brother back there's Sam."

"Sam and Dean? Winchester?"

Dean tensed.

"Relax. I think I met your father once. John, right? We helped him hunt a rogue werewolf he had been tracking from up north. He stayed in this same motel. We knew he was a hunter because he smelled a lot like palo santo, firewood and gunpowder. He also didn't believe us, but he promised to not kill us after we helped him."

"Then thanks, I guess."

Dean assumed that was one of the times his father had disappeared for a few days while they were on another hunt in Oregon when Dean was 19. John had managed to arrive right before the motel owner threw all of their stuff out after Dean had not been able to pay for the extra night they'd stayed.

"Thank us by leaving town tomorrow morning. Rest for now." He said, putting both hands into his pockets and walking to the parking lot.

"Actually, we thought about leaving today. The sooner we get to Sioux Falls the better." Dean said, following James and catching up with his pace.

"Even better for us if you leave soon. Can I help you with something so you can leave early?"

"Is there a supermarket nearby?"

James thought for a bit.

"Yeah. There's one less than five minutes away from here. I can give you a ride," He pointed a finger to a green truck, probably older than the Impala.

"Nah, thanks. I'll walk"

"You wanna get lost on the way there?" James lifted an eyebrow.

"It's just a small town. Besides, I kinda remember where it was. Saw the supermarket on our way here" Dean said. He had never seen the supermarket, just the sign from very far away.

"Suit yourself," James climbed into the car and turned the engine on, leaving by taking a right turn.

Dean began walking.

Fifteen minutes later, he had no idea where he was. Instead of finding the supermarket, he managed to find the library, the police station and a park with a playground. He kept walking, watching the cars go past him to his left, until one of them slowed down and matched his speed.

"Excuse me, young man. Could you tell me where I could find the store that sells pills to stop being such a prick?"

Dean turned to face the car. James grinned from his window.

Son of a bitch.

"Were you following me?"

"For having increased senses, you're a little too unaware of your environment. Get in. You'll end up in California if you keep going that way." James leaned to open the door.

Dean got inside, annoyed.

Sam had finished his shower, but his headache had only gotten worse.

He felt like if his head was about to explode, his temples feeling a pulsating pain and hearing his own heartbeat like drums inside his ears. The light that came through the window irritated him. He dragged the curtains, blocking the sun and staying in complete darkness.

Dean had been gone for a while now, and still hadn't come back with the pills. Sam walked to his bed, laying on the couch and resting his head into the cold pillow, placing one of his hands over the sharp knife that was under it. He had always kept a knife under there, following his father and brother's advice.

He drifted to a deep sleep and dreamed about that last night:
Dean, the goodbye, an empty room, the TV, static, knife, bullets, howling, claws, teeth, blood.

Everything came in flashes. Dean, forest, moon, fear... He felt like his skull was being crushed. Dean, fangs, claws, pain ... He wanted to wake up. He had to wake up, his conscience telling him there was something else with him in the room... Dean, bullet, silver, gun... His grip tightened under the pillow, knuckles turning white. Just then, his dream became vivid.

He was inside a big circular room with iron walls, reddened by the oxide layers. The moonlight came through a vent on top of the roof, shining over a bed in the middle of the round space. Over it, was a pillow (or what would have been a pillow) ripped apart, feathers laying on the ground and the cloth torn to shreds. He knew his brother was in the room but something was off... something was wrong. There was a thing hidden in the shadows. A pair of glowing green eyes looked directly at him, reflecting the moonlight. "Dean?" he asked, with a voice that wasn't his. He carried a gun in his hands, pointing in the thing's direction. He somehow knew the eyes belonged to his brother. He wanted to drop his gun and put his hands down, but he couldn't. Something made him want to pull the trigger. All of this was wrong.

He heard a growl.

Scared, Sam managed to open his eyes. The door was slightly open, letting the sunlight in and making a shadow with the figure that was standing on the room. A silhouette, huge, walking towards him in four legs. He stayed still, waiting for the perfect moment to attack, slowing his breathing, but feeling his heart still beating fast because of the nightmare. The thing kept getting closer, making Sam feel it could hear every single one of his heartbeats.

When it was close enough, Sam spun around, jumping out of the bed, holding the knife and swinging it towards the thing in front of him. He felt the moment the knife cut skin, hearing a pained groan and something that sounded like "Son of a bitch!"

He was shocked when a pair of firm and strong hands grabbed him by the wrists. He tried to free himself, pulling, pushing, fighting and kicking, but he was pinned to ground, unable to move.

"Sam! Sammy! Calm down, it's just me" Said his brother's voice.

He tried breathing in slowly, and dropped the knife.

"What the hell happened? I came back with the stuff and you were sweating a lot, tossing and turning in your sleep" Dean crouched next to him, placing his palm over Sam's shoulder, helping him to sit down.

Sam dragged a hand across his face to calm down, feeling his forehead wet, partially because of the shower and partially because of sweating. His breath, so as his heart, were still out of control. He tried to steady them before speaking.

"I had a nightmare..."

"Yeah, and not just any nightmare. You almost skewered me with that thing. You're lucky you only cut my cheek a bit."

Sam opened his eyes, surprised. With the little light that came through the door, he was able to see the trail of blood that went from Deans left cheekbone to his chin, dripping onto the floor.

"Dean, I— I'm so sorry. When you came in I thought I saw..." he paused.

"What?" his brother asked. Sam couldn't see his face very well in the dark, but he knew Dean was looking at him.

"Nothing... forget it. I think I'm still stressed about last night."

Dean helped him stand up.

"Don't worry. I think I am too." Dean gave one strong pat on Sam's shoulder and walked to the bathroom "If you need the aspirins, they're inside the bag. I also brought water bottles. I'll clean myself while you drink your pills."

Again, Sam apologized.

Dean closed the bathroom door, locking it. Standing in front of the mirror, he was able to see the cut wasn't just a scratch. He'd managed to keep calm in front of Sam, but that cut, even though it was small, burned like if someone had put red hot iron right onto his skin. In fact, it looked burnt, red and blistered. He rinsed it with water several times and looked through the first aid cabinet for gauze and micropore tape, which he used to cover the cut. If Sam saw how he had reacted to a silver object, he'd know immediatly what Dean was now.

He would have to be more careful with silver things from now on.

Chapter Text

Dean walked out of the bathroom with the sterile gauze over his left cheekbone, sticking by the micropore tape. It covered a big portion of skin: from his cheekbone to almost his lower jaw. Sam was sitting on his bed, cleaning the silver knife with a paper tissue. As soon as he saw Dean, he focused his eyes on the floor, ashamed. 

"Still got a headache?" Dean asked, trying to distract Sam from his thoughts.

"No. I think it stopped when I fell asleep, but thanks anyway," he said, showing a sad smile, while Dean walked to where he had left the shopping bags. He threw a water bottle at him and pulled two small white cardboard boxes. Dean sat next to Sam and gave him one.

"Thought you might get hungry. It's almost 3 p.m. and we haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

Both opened their boxes, each one with a burger inside. Dean wondered if it was because of his senses becoming more receptive or because he was so hungry, or both, but the food had a mouth-watering smell.

Sam examined his burger, lifting the bread and looking at its contents. It had a bunch of french fries next to it, barely fitting into the small box.

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's a cheesburger with bacon, not poison."

"Dean, you know how unhealthy this is. I'd be surprised if you got to thirty without any heart problems if you keep eating like this."

"I'd be surprised if I made it to thirty. Heart problems or not. Besides, a salad won't make you full, AND the burger's got vegetables!"

Sam looked at him with an expressionless face. Dean kept chewing his burger.

"What? It's got lettuce and tomato. They're vegetables, aren't they?" he said with his mouth full.

Sam restrained himself from saying something and bit into his burger right after Dean.

"Actually, tomatoes are fruits" he said, with the only purpose to annoy his brother.

"Sam..." said Dean, sighing.

"Hm?"

"Just shut up and eat."

"Jerk"

"Bitch"

By nighttime, they were ready to leave. Everything was already packed (besides, they hadn't even taken too much stuff out of their bags). Dean took a half an hour nap (that was quickly becoming an hour and a quarter one) while Sam was organizing the canned food and snacks that Dean had bought, in the trunk of the Impala, leaving the jerky and m&m's in the front seats. As he was leaving after finishing, he noticed that it was already quite dark. The sun hid behind the hills that circled the town and a few stars were already visible on the night sky that got darker with every minute. As he walked back to his room, he saw the same guy that had been at the reception walking behind him.

"Hey! You're Sam, right?" he stopped when he was close enough, leaning on his shoulder over the room's wall.

Sam didn't answer, feeling the key in his pocket and pulling it out.

"I'm Liv's brother. James." he said, putting his hand in front of him and waiting for Sam to shake it.

"I figured you were her brother since I saw you at the lobby. Need anything?" Sam replied, distrustigly and without shaking his hand. James pulled it back down.

"Your brother told me you were leaving town tonight. Thought you might like to come have dinner with us"

"You talked to Dean?"

"Yeah. Gave him a lift to the supermarket."

Sam laughed. "I don't know what shocks me the most. That Dean talked to you or that you convinced him to give him a ride"

James smiled at him "Your brother only agreed because he had no choice, don't think I'm persuasive. Tell him that if you guys want to come, we'll wait for you in the dining room at seven." He said, walking back to the reception.

Sam opened the door and got in. Dean was waking up, rubbing his eyes with his hands, the gauze over his cheekbone stained a deep red. He had managed to sleep, but didn't have nice dreams. He rarely had them, and wondered if, from now on, they would become even less frequent. Sam told him what James had said about dinner. Both agreed that it would be a relief to not pay for food once, seeing they still had a long way to go to get to Sioux Falls.

Fifteen minutes before seven, both went inside the dining room. Most of the people that had stayed at the motel were sitting at the tables or putting food on their plates from the aluminum trays that had several different dishes. James and his family were at the last table, placed in the back of the room, besides a large window that faced the river, which flowed right next to the town. At the table, there where James and his aunt and uncle. They waved at Sam and Dean as soon as they saw them, pointing at two empty chairs in front to the table. Food was already served: a warm beef stew with rice and vegetables.

The place was quite nice. There was a turntable on one of the corners, spinning a record and filling the room with the iconic voice of Paul McCartney coming through the speakers. The song said something about a horse, sheep and the country.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, boys. Your father told us so much about you." Mike said.

Sam turned to look at his brother, then James, then his brother again "They know dad?"

"Apparently they helped him out on a hunt" Dean answered, taking a big spoonful of the stew into his mouth.

Maybe too much, Dean thought.

"By the way, is he alright?" Ellie asked, with a worried look "We noticed you arrived here without him."

"Yeah... He's fine" Dean said, trying to not show the tension on his shoulders, thinking about all that had happened in less than a day "We just took different—"

Dean was interrupted by the sound of a metal spoon falling on the floor.

"Whoops. 'M sorry" said Mike, leaning over and picking up the cutlery. "Think I'll have to get another one" he continued, as he slowly stood up.

"I'll get it. Don't worry" James offered "Sam, can you come with me? I'll need to unpack the box with the new tableware from the cupboard shelves and it's kinda too big for one person. We've been running out of cutlery because apparently some people think it comes free with their reservation."

When both of them had left through the kitchen door, Ellie talked.

"James told us what happened to you. We're very sorry..."

Dean stopped chewing the meat on his stew, swallowing before saying something.

"Is your father really ok? The John Winchester we met would've never let something like this happen under his watch" Mike said.

Making an expression between disgust and a smile, Dean answered "That was the problem. He was never with me."

"He left you and Sam hunting alone?" Mike asked, surprised.

Dean said no.

"Just me," he answered again, with a weak voice, taking his spoon again and filling his mouth with the biggest spoonful he could manage to scoop, trying to distract himself.

"Does your brother know?" Ellie asked, worried once more.

"That dad left us or that I was bitten?" Dean said, his mouth still quite full.

"About the bite"

Dean shook his head. "Being honest, I never thought about telling him. I don't want to burden him with something else."

"Alright. We won't say a thing when he comes back..." Mike said. His face showing sadness and sympathy.

Ellie spoke again "I'm guessing your father does not know as well. If there's something I can be sure of, just through the short time I spent with him, was that it was really hard for him to convince himself that not all things are black and white. Even after being with our family for a while. I imagine you're having a hard time believing it too."

"Forgive me if after all I've seen in every hunt with my dad I don't believe your story of the quiet town and harmless werewolves. I've told James before and I tell you now that I've never heard of something like that." said Dean, putting his spoon down again, this time to focus on the conversation, noticing he was quite tense.

"Our whole family consists of purebloods, which is why we don't kill anyone and lycanthropy is more of a monthly inconvenience than a curse."

"James told me about the pureblood thing."

"Did you ever hear about that before?"

For the third time, he said no.

"Thing is, it's easy for born werewolves. Bitten ones rarely have any— OUCH!" Mike was interrupted when his wife kicked him so accurately and strongly that Dean was able to hear the moment she hit him under the table.

"Mike, that's probably not what he needs to hear right now" she whispered to her husband "After knowing this, did you see any signs that the wolf that bit you was a pureblood?" she said.

"Not really. I only saw them when they were at this cabin in the woods. I didn't know who they were or if there had been attacks outside a full moon. If there were, my dad and I probably ignored them."

"Did they meet at the cabin or did they live there?" Mike asked.

"They definitely didn't live there. I found the cabin while scouting the woods. It was completely empty and it even looked abandoned"

"I don't want to get your hopes up in case I'm wrong, but there is a chance that they were purebloods. Usually, people who aren't, aren't even aware of their condition. They transform during the night, while they sleep or when they lose consciousness and don't remember anything the next day. If they met at the cabin, outside of town, they probably knew what was happening to them." Mike's face was honest, really meaning what he said.

"There's no way to be sure until the second full moon." Said Mike, almost as he could read Dean's mind "The first one is very hard and you can never expect a bitten person to have any amount of control. After that one, it gets easier. Do you have anyone in Sioux Falls that knows about this and that can help?"

"Yes. A friend of ours. He hasn't seen us for some time, but I'm hoping he lets us stay."

"Thanks, but I'm not going anywhere without my brother. I'd also rather not stay here because my father would eventually find me. If he comes here, I'd appreciate you not mentioning we were around."

"In that case, we never saw you and we don't know who you are" Ellie said, winking an eye at Dean. "But we thought it would be a good idea that James— Oh, here he comes, James!" his aunt shouted, watching Sam and his nephew carry a big box full of metal spoons, placing it on a wooden table. James pulled one spoon out before walking back to where Dean was.

Once they had taken their seats, Ellie continued, now talking to James.

"James, I was just about to tell Dean that it would be a good idea if you gave him the phone number of the motel, just in case they needed anything at all. What'dya think?" Her expression was as kind as her husband's and James seemed to soften a little.

"Fine. Give me your phone" he said, stretching his hand over to Dean.

Dean pulled his Nokia cellphone out of his left pocket and gave it to James. After a few seconds he gave it back.

"Done. If you need anything, you can call us" he said, smiling slightly.

"Thanks"

They spent a bit more on the dining hall, talking about road trips, the farm, crops, cooking, siblings... everything felt strangely domestic. Reunited at dinner time, eating and talking, the warm lights shining over them, the wood on the fireplace cracking and producing red sparks every once in a while. Maybe that was the reason why his dad had left this town alone. John hadn't told them too much after coming back from that one hunt, but Dean remembered he mentioned something about dinner at the end of the hunt. Maybe it had been just like this. Maybe, his father had sat on that same chair, listening to the same people, eating the exact same thing. Dean felt strange after thinking about it.

When they finished, the Winchesters emptied the room and gave back the key, not without saying thanks again. Mike came to them before saying goodbye, carrying some food inside two plastic containers, enough for two days. There was rice, a dish with chicken meat and some steamed vegetables. Both Mike and Ellie said goodbye with hugs before going back to the lobby.

Sam was already sitting in the front, waiting for his brother. Dean was pulling out the keys to open the door on his side when James walked again to him, patting his shoulder.

"I'm so glad you're leaving" he said, sarcastically.

"Yeah, just so I won't see you again." Dean answered, teasing him.

"I gave myself permission to add my phone number to your contact list as well"

"Oh yeah? Won't you give me Liv's phone number too?"

"Don't be stupid. If my sister didn't give it to you it was because she had a reason. I know she doesn't give out her phone number to any guy, and I fear you fit into her category of any guy." James crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean laughed, a little offended.

"I know all of this is quite confusing. I'd say it's not that bad for you because you are a hunter, but I think that just makes it harder."

"Wow, don't cheer me up."

"I'm being serious, if you have any questions about anything about you-know-what, you can text me" he now was smiling with the same kindness as his aunt and uncle. Under the light of the sodium lamps, Dean saw that James actually cared about him.

"Thanks. I mean it."

"Have a nice trip. Take care, Dean. You weren't as annoying as I thought you'd be." He put his hand in a fist and Dean bumped it with his own.

"Can't say the same about you" Dean said, winking an eye at him. 

Opening the door, he leaned on the cold seat, inserting the key and starting the car. James waved with his hand, watching the car dissappear behind the shrubs that circled the small motel.

Chapter Text

Eight hours after leaving The Dalles behind, they stopped at a gas station to refuel. Sam was inside the convenience store buying breakfast (coffee included) at a Gas-N-Sip. Dean pulled out his phone, ready so send a text message.

6:23- Hey. It's Dean. We're in Montana, near Deer Lodge.

The text was for James. He sent it.

A minute later, his phone buzzed, showing a message in the mailbox. It said:

James 6:24- Wrong number.

And right next to it, another one

James: 6:24- Just kidding. I didn't expect a message this soon. You OK?

Dean: 6:25- Yeah. We're filling the tank. Sam went to buy food. We'll get to the town in less than two hours.

James: 6:25- Good. Hey, I don't mean to be nosy, but I forgot to ask what had happened to your cheek.

Dean: 6:26- Silver knife accident.  Dean said, not wanting to go into details.

James: 6:26- Ouch. You probably know this already, but be careful with those things. 

The gas pump finished pouring the fuel and Dean put the hose back in it's place. Sam was at the line to pay at the register, with three broad shouldered truckers in front of him. His brother was taller than all of them, but somehow he still managed to look small.

Dean went back to the driver's seat to not feel the cold, humid morning air and wrote another message.

Dean: 6:28- I have a question. A few, really. First one is kinda stupid.

James: 6:28- Liv always says there are no stupid questions.

Dean: 6:29- I can still eat chocolate, right?

Dean looked to the store through the car window. There was still one person paying before his brother. He looked back at his phone. This time, James took a while to answer.

James: 6:32- I take back what I said. There are stupid questions. Out of everything, is that your biggest concern?

Dean: 6:32- You're worse than Sam, and it's not my biggest concern, but yes, one of them.

James: 6:32- It's a younger brother thing. Of course we can eat chocolate. We're still human most of the time.

Dean: 6:32- Great. Next question: do you have a wolf hierarchy? Dad used to say something about the alpha.

Again, James took a while to answer. When he did, Sam was already paying the cashier. Out of nowhere, four messages appeared in his mailbox.

James: 6:35- Oh my god. I can't believe this is the twelfth time I explain this. Apparently your dad doesn't know anything about werewolves. Or wolves in general.

James: 6:34- IF you wanted to apply a hierarchy, it would be just like a family.

James: 6:35- The oldest or the parents have the most authority. The youngest follow their eldest's orders. Just like children do with their parents.

James: 6:36- The alpha thing comes from an outdated study that was badly made since the begginning. It's a good thing you left or else I would've made you read ethology books.

Dean: 6:36- Alright, encyclopedia. Geez. You really are worse than Sam. But thanks.

James: 6:36: You're welcome. If you decide to annoy me with more questions, I'll answer them throughout the day. I'm a bit busy at the farm right now, and sometimes there's no signal.

Dean turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket. He thought it would be a good idea to update the section on werewolves in his father's journal. Maybe he could start his own. At least just so Sam could have it.

His brother opened the car door next to him to get in. Sam placed the bags he carried on his arm between them and closed the door with his left hand. On his right he had a cardboard base where the coffees were. The steam escaped through the hole in the lid, condensing in the cold windows of the Impala.

"What took you so long?" Dean asked, carefuly taking one of the coffee cups.

"There was this guy that insisted on paying with cents. He counted each of them. I believe they were like a hundred and fifty three coins when he was done." Sam placed one cup of coffee between his knees to hold it and looked for a granola bar.

Dean sipped his cup, stopping inmediatly because of two things: first was that the coffee had milk and sugar. Second was that it was extremely hot. Almost boiling.

"Whoops. Forgot to mention the coffee was hot. Also, that one's mine." Sam said, trying not to laugh. He'd done it on purpose.

Dean glared at him before switching the cups.

His own coffee was just as hot as the other one. He left it on the carboard base before starting the car and leaving the gas station.

The sky was still dark, covered in dense clouds that anticipated rain. Dean hoped that, even though the weather was very cold, that it wouldn't snow. If it did, it would delay them too much. They hadn't seen Bobby for a long time. John had had a fight with him almost a year ago and they hadn't known anything about him since them. Dean wasn't even sure that Bobby would let them inside his house. What if they traveled the whole way there for nothing? Where would Sam stay after Dean used his silver bullet? What hould he do if he wasn't capable of doing it? He didn't know how much control he would he have. He didn't know if he wouldn't hurt anyone. At this point, he didn't know a thing.

"Dean" sam Said, pulling his brother out of his thoughts.

"Hm?"

"Your phone is ringing."

It was. The phone rang loudly with the ringtone of Smoke on The Water.

He pulled it out with his right hand, holding the steering wheel with his left without taking his eyes off the road. When he turned to look at who called, he felt a cold sweat and his heart beating faster.

It was John.

He must have gone pale because Sam looked at him, worried.

"Dean? Dean?! What happened? Who is it?"

He didn't answer, pulling the car to the side of the road to not crash or derail, and kept still, just looking at his father's number on the tiny screen while it rang nonstop. Sam, not wanting to be ignored, snatched the phone out of Dean's hands. As soon as he saw who was calling, he froze.

"Dean, what do we do? Do we answer? If we ignore him he'll just keep calling."

"I know."

"And it's not a good idea to answer."

"I know."

The phone kept making noise in Sam's hand, feeling that it rang louder with every second.

"But if we ignore him for longer, he'll just keep insisting!"

"I KNOW, SAM" He said, hitting the stearing wheel with one hand and running the other one through his hair, trying to calm himself. It was impossible to reason with John and it was worse not talking to him. He felt cornered.

"What do we do?"

The phone stopped, going quiet.

Sam placed it on the leather seat, where both could see it. They stared at the small object like they were dealing with a bomb. A few seconds passed, almost in complete silence, pulled over on the side of the road. The only thing they could hear were the cars passing by and the soft growl of the engine. They waited for the phone to ring again.

It didn't.

"Do you think he'll call again?" Sam asked. Dean could see his eyes in the dark, worried.

"He probably will. We don't have to answer. I know it'll make things worse, but I seriously am not in the mood to talk to him."

Dean put his hands on the wheel again before merging into the highway again, pressing the accelerator all the way in, increasing the speed and moving to the high speed lane. The phone rang again after about half an hour. Dean kept driving.

He kept driving like that for an hour and a half. In that time, the phone rang two more times. Sam was clutching his seatbelt, looking nervously outside his window not knowing if he should say something or if it wast best to keep quiet. The times they had disobeyed his father, they had been punished or had recieved insults for things like: leaving the motel room once when they were little, buying food without John's permission, missing a shot, not shooting enough times at something, shooting too many times, asking things they shouldn't...

They didn't want to imagine what he would do to them for leaving evidence of the hunt, emptying the room and taking the car. And over all, leaving him.

Dean drove past Deer Lodge and kept going for a bit more, With this, they got closer (even by just a little) to Sioux Falls. The day was already bright, and the buildings in Whitehall, Montana were being beautifully bathed in golden sunlight. On the street they were driving though there was a café, a laundromat, a convenience store and, ath the end of it, a hotel for tourists that seemed quite cheap, judging by the sun-bleached letters that said "Brass Hotel". Dean's coffee was ice cold by then.

Before booking a room, they stopped at the laundromat called "Wool & Linen". On the glass door, the opening hours were painted over the surface in white. It said:

Monday-Friday: 7:10-18:30

Saturday: 9:00-16:00

Sunday: Closed

Dean looked at his wristwatch. It was 7:42. They probably were the first clients that day.

Sam helped him separate the dirty clothes from the not so dirty clothes before going in. In Oregon, the last time they had gone to one of these places had been a week before that day. That's why they were in a bit of a hurry to have, at least, one set of clean clothes. Leaning over the back seats while looking for more things that needed washing inside his bag, Dean carefuly pulled out his shirt and jacket, both stained with blood and dirt. He hid them under more dirty clothes. On its shoulder, the holes left by the bite were visible. He stroked the broken fibers with his fingers, as if his hand could stitch them back together. He unconsciously passed his tongue over his teeth, his fangs feeling much bigger and sharper. A thought came to his mind: he was capable to do that to someone else if he didn't find a solution to what had now become his problem.

He felt scared.

"Dean?" Sam said, behind him.

Dean turned his head arround to look at his brother, waiting for him outside the car and in front of the door to the laundromat, holding the clothes with both hands.

"I called your name twice. Are you feeling OK?"

"Yeah... just tired." Dean said, getting out of the car and closing the door. He pulled his wallet out while opening the door to the buisness. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of detergent, fabric softener and moisture. They greeted the man in the counter. A white haired man with a white cardigan over his blue shirt. The place didn't have those automatic washing machines that you put money into, so they payed him for the batch and a bit extra for the detergent. The soap was a blue colored powdered that smelled of citrus.

After washing and drying their clothes, they said their goodbyes, thanking the man and then, they went looking for a room at the hotel. Being a small town, the room cost them the same as the motel and had more or less the same stuff and dimensions: one bathroom, to beds, nightstands and some furniture to store things in.

They took a clean set of clothes and showered. When it was Dean's turn he looked in the mirror, not seeing any bruising, feeling is ribs completely healed. On the other side, the cut on his cheek was still stinging and bleeding.

Sam had convinced Dean to go have breakfast at the café (they didn't want to waste the canned food in case it was useful later. Besides, they hade some money to spare). The only problem was that Dean didn't know where John had traveled to and couldn't avoid being anxious, thinking that, on the other side of every door, he'd run into his father.

Once inside the café, Dean got more nervous. There was a man in a leather jacket at a table, his back turned to them. He made Dean stay alert, looking at him every once in a while. When the man turned to his side and he was able to see his face, it took a while for Dean to be certain it wasn't his father.

They ordered another cup of coffee for each one. Sam picked a fruit salad and a fried egg with toast. Dean asked for pancakes with bacon on the side.

After eating half his plate, Dean's phone vibrated on his pocket.

Fortunately, it was James.

James 9:17 Forgot to tell you. You'll probably end up with a scar because of the silver knife. Did you get to Deer Lodge?

Sam saw Dean answer his phone.

"Dean, is it a message from dad?" he asked, nervous.

"No. It's just James."

Sam laughed.

"C'mon, Dean, who is it really?"

Dean stopped pressing the buttons to look at his brother.

"I told you. It's James. Weirdo."

"Yeah, right. Because before asking for his sister's number who you obviously were trying to impress, you asked for his number instead."

Annoyed, Dean opened the contact list with James' name on it, shoving the screen in front of Sam's face. He put it so close to his eyes that Sam had to lean back to focus properly the letters on the screen.

"What the- Wait! Let me see, Dean!" Sam said, trying to take Dean's phone, like if what he saw couldn't be real untill he could prove it himself. Dean pulled his hand away in one quick motion, lifting the phone over his head, far from Sam's reach.

"A-a-ah. Have a bit of respect for my privacy, Sammy."

Sam leaned on his seat again.

"I just don't get why on Earth would you want his phone number."

"Hey, for starters, I didn't ask him for his number. And I also need to ask him some stuff."

Right after saying this, he regreted it. Sam didn't miss any bit of information, even the smallest details. That's why Dean always mocked him, saying he'd make a good lawyer.

"What stuff, Dean?" he said, emphasizing on the name.

"Why do you care, Sam?" answered Dean, matching his tone and going back to answering the message.

Dean 9:19 I just hope the scar's not too big. We drove past Deer Lodge and we are staying in Montana. My dad called us on our way here.

"I bet you're only asking him to give you Olivia's number. I'm telling you, man. It ain't gonna work."

"I'm asking for the quickest route from here to Sioux Falls, shut up." Dean was proud of his driving skills on highways and rarely got lost since that one time he tried driving to Texas after John had asked him to take over the wheel, and had accidentally taken them to Oklahoma. So him saying that he was asking for directions was hard, but it was harder to admit what was really going on.

"Tell me why I don't believe you Dean." his brother crossed his arms.

"Believe what you want, Samantha. That's your problem."

James 9:20 You're near South Dakota, then. You'd make it there in a 12 hour drive if you only want to make a single trip. We haven't seen John arround, but if he comes by, we'll let you know.

Dean 9:21 Apreciate it. I'll ask Sam if he'll manage to spend twelve hours straight stuck in a car with me.

James 9:22 I feel sorry for your brother. I can't imagine how horrible it would be to spend so much time with yo. Hope you get there soon.

Dean put his phone away again. It didn't ring again untill nighttime.

Chapter Text

Both brothers were now near the cheap hotel where they would rest that night, in the middle of an abandoned plot in which there was nothing more than a few big stones and some trash, left there by the townsfolk. The Impala was parked a few meters away while they heated over a small pile of hot coal, some soup inside a metal pot. It already had a layer of soot accumulated over time on its underside. Sam had somehow managed to convince Dean of not heating the bacon-potato stew, but the chicken and noodles one, but to be fair, it also smelled really good. They had already eaten part of the food that Mike and Ellie had given them, in the afternoon.

Because of the soup thing, Dean had bought a six pack of glass bottled beer. He had bought as well the bag of coal and some wood for the fire that now, instead of having long red flames, it only irradiated a nice amount of heat from the hot coals, faintly glowing red every time a gust of wind blew over them. It wasn't late, barely past five, but the sky had an orange hue because of the sun, hiding behind mountains and forest. The wind was cold, not freezing, the fire keeping them warm.

Dean unccapped a bottle and placed it in front of the cinder block that he used as a chair. He took another one, repeating the same action and handed it to Sam, sitting over a log they'd found. Sam looked at the bottle, not taking it and unsure of what to do.

"It's for you, dumbass" said Dean, shaking the bottle slightly.

"Dean, I'm not old enough to drink" his brother said.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. "Sam, you're almost eighteen. It's just one beer and we're in Montana."

"Wow, Dean. I didn't know we could ignore all laws just because we're in Montana"

"I mean you can drink here if there's a responsible adult that allows it, genius. The responsible adult allows you." he said, tilting the bottle towards Sam.

Sam grabbed it.

"Let me just say that you're an adult, yes. Just not a responsible one."

Dean srugged.

Finally, Sam took a sip, recoiling at the bitter taste and the fizziness, when both took over his taste buds. It took him a huge ammount of effort to not spit it out. Not knowing what else to do, he swallowed it and a few seconds later, the flavor, even though it was still bitter, came again almost likeable. He even percieved a nice aftertaste and felt the alcohol in his throat.

"Only that I forgot to mention you can't drink in public spaces" Dean said, grinning.

Sam looked at him, wide eyed, and left the bottle on the ground like he was going to get caught commiting a crime.

"Dean, if someone sees us we're gonna get fined"

Dean laughed, drinking his own beer.

"Relax. It's a small town and you look older because you're almost as tall as me. Besides, we got false IDs. We'll be fine."

Still not so convinced, Sam grabbed his bottle again and drank a bit more.

"Whatd'ya think about it?" Dean asked.

"What?"

"The beer. How's it taste?"

"Bitter. Tastes yeasty"

His brother smiled.

"It always tastes like that the first time. You'll get used to it."

"Still, it doesn't taste as bad as I thought. It has a nice aftertaste. I don't completly hate it." Sam said, drinking a bit more. Now it tasted less bitter and even a little sweet. He'd never drank beer before (even though his father wasn't the best, John had never allowed it), but he knew, watching both his brother and dad that you weren't suppossed to drink it all in one swig. Beer was suppossed to be drank slowly, enjoying it just like good coffee.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

Sam let out a nervous laugh. He felt something was going on since a few days ago, the feeling starting just after his father had sent Dean hunting. By midnight, he knew something was wrong, not being able to get rid of that thought since then.

"Why did you- I mean... You've been acting a bit off since we left Oregon. You've always said you wanted to drink a beer with me when I was old enough. I'm definitely not old enough, yet here we are. You have also been surprisingly less annoying lately-"

"Yeah, right. Because obviously I'm incapable of being a decent brother fot a week" Dean interrupted.

"I don't mean it like that. It's just... this is going to sound strange, but since some time ago I've had this weird feeling."

"Weird how?"

"As if I was going to lose you."

Dean stayed silent. Sam's eyes reflected the red glow of the coal, half his face lit by the faint sunset light. He had a pleading look in his face, like he was begging for the truth, like he wanted or needed Dean to tell him everything was fine.

Dean made a gesture he hoped looked like a reassuring smile. 

"You're not going to lose me, Sammy. I ain't going nowhere. We'll get to Bobby's and then we'll see what we can do next, but I'm not going to leave you."

"Just promise me that, if there's something going on, you'll tell me."

Sam's look was more intense. Deeper and almost sad. It was at that moment that Dean wanted to tell his brother everything. What had happened that night in the woods, of his fears, of not knowing how to deal with it. Maybe it was easier to say it right then and there to Sam. Leave the lying and hiding stuff behind. He felt just like his father, when he made Dean hide away all the truth about the hunts to Sam, to what had happened to Mary. His father was no longer there to stop him of saying anything. 

"I promise, Sammy." was all he managed to say.

He didn't want to ruint these last moments with his brother.

Both sat in silence, drinking and waiting for the soup to heat up. Dean noticed then that the tag on the beer bottle had an illustration of a black dog baring its teeth. He felt as if life was mocking him.

The sun hid completely, letting the dark blue sky get spotted with stars and the ground to be lit by the faint moonlight. When the air got colder, the soup was already really hot, so Dean got up to get two enamel mugs from the car, as well as a piece of cloth to grab the pot (he only found a dirty rag, but still, it beat burning his hand). They didn't need spoons, given they could drink the soup straigh from the mugs.

The soup was split between them. Dean, not having enough patience for it to cool down, burnt his tongue. Luckily, the pain didn't last for more than a minute. That was the only good side of lycanthropy. His quick healing habilities for any injury that wasn't caused by silver would be useful with the kind of lifestyle he had.

After eating three quarters of his soup, his phone vibrated again.

He didn't want to worry Sam in case it was John, and he also didn't want to be interrogated again if it was James, so he got up from his cinder block seat and excused himself, saying he needed to go to the bathroom in the hotel that wasn't more than fifty meters away.

Sam knew he was lying. Dean's bathroom trip did not need him to go with his beer.

---

Dean walked faster than he should have. As soon as he was about then meters away from Sam, he pulled out his phone and saw it was a message from John. It was a voicemail, waiting to be listened to. He stopped when he reached his room's door, looking arround to make sure his brother wasn't following him. The beer in his hand was slippery because of the condensation an he felt that in any moment it would slip out of his hands like a bar of soap because of how tight of a grip he had on it. Holding his phone next to his ear, he felt his finger over the button that would play the audio. Taking a deep breath, he pressed it.

"Dean, I don't know how you made such a mess of this. You're an idiot for leaving the bodies and, over all, for leading those things to our room. There's dozens of cops here, and they're just about to interrogate me. The only thing I asked of you was to get rid of the werewolves. That also means burning the corpses after you're done. Have you learned nothing? First, you leave evidence, next you run away without paying for the extra night and then you take the Impala and my journal. I..." John paused. The voice of a woman (Dean could only assume it was a cop) said something about him needing to follow her somewhere. Then he went on "As I was saying: I can only hope you weren't so incopetent to let something happen to Sam. Answer my calls or send me your location to go get you. You got me into this mess, and now you're gonna have to fix it as an adult."

As the voicemail got to it's end, Dean was more thense and angry than ever. He heard a something cracking before feeling a stabbing pain in the hand that held the bottle. First, the cold liquid poured over his fingers, being followed by something warm and with a metallic smell. He looked down to his hand, now bathed in his own blood. The glass bottle was broken, scattered all over the floor, over the golden beer and the blood that dripped from his palm. Sharp glass shards were embedded in his skin, making him feel like he had a thousand needles stuck on his palm. He bit hard because of the pain.

"Dean? Dean! Are you alright?" Sam shouted from afar. Great. His brother had followed him.

"What happened to the bottle? It looked like it exploded right in your hands..."

"It seems like it did..." he said, trying to act normal. "I guess it had factory defects and that's why it broke."

"Let me see your hand" Sam said, taking Dean's left hand by the wrist. Dean pulled it back quickly with a strong pull, unconsiously.

"I'm... fine, Sam. It's nothing."

"Dean, you're standing on a puddle of your own blood..."

Dean rolled his eyes, but he let himself be led to the Impala. He washed the blood off his hand with one of the water bottles that they'd already opened while Sam took some tiny tweezers out of a first aid kit they'd forgotten they had. He took out the shards that were deep inside his flesh and wrapped up his hand with sterile gauze and a small bandage. A couple of minutes later, Dean didn't feel any more pain. He knew that the cuts were already healed by then, but he was smart enough to leave his wrapped hand as it was.

Not much happened after that. Both finished their soup and beer. Dean put the other beers inside a small blue cooler. The Impala was parked in front of the hotel room and they got inside to sleep for the night. Dean wasn't able to sleep over his left side because his cheek still hurt. He'd changed the gauze twice after leaving The Dalles and it still wasn't healed. He found it very hard to relaz after what his father had said, pretending it didn't bother whim what John thought, only to find out that it was impossible to ignore it.

John thought he was desobedient even though he'd always follow his orders. He though Dean was irresposible even after always doing all his tasks without questioning. Worst of all, John thought that Dean would't protect his brother even if that meant putting himself in danger. Now, he had to protect Sammy from his father and also himself. He would die if that meant his brother was safe.

None of them dreamed. Dean had nightmares of him running over and over again from the wolf that chased him, not being able to stop the images of silver bullets, fangs, claws and teeth. He moved under his sheets, uneasy. Sam could only imagine his dad calling them and searching for them in Cottage Grove, cursing about his car, his stuff, about Sam, about Mary, about Dean...

Both were woken up by another phonecall from John. They took it as a sign to keep moving, leaving the town behind at six o' clock.

Chapter Text

Bobby Singer woke up on the morning of January 27th, feeling something was coming. It wasn't  a premonition or anything like that, just the knowledge that something going to happen. Someone or something getting closer.

He made himself a simple and, in his opinion, boring breakfast with rye bread over which he spead some margarine (he deeply hated both of those things). The bread had been a gift from a baker who's car had stopped working (conveniently) in front of Bobby's house. Seeing he had helped her that one time, she went to his door every month and left a paper bag with some rye bread (because, according to her, it was healthier), two bagels and a smaller bag with some dog biscuits for Rumsfeld, his Rottweiler. The dog enjoyed the gift too much. Bobby had restrained himself from telling her to stop bringing bread just because the bagels were really tasty. That was the main reason he had no bagels left and only the bread.

He placed two slices on a pan, not knowing if they were done or burnt because of the bread's dark colour. His tecnique to know was moving them to a plate when it started to smell like coal. He turned off the stove, and opened the drawer with utensils, only to find out that there were no more clean butter knives. Or spoons. The sink was strangely full of only cutlery and no plates. He washed the knives carefuly and rinsed the spoons quickly. Bobby knew some of them were silver, belonging to his mother, but they had gotten mixed up between the stainless steel ones.

Now washed, he put some margarine over his bread and looked for some jam inside his fridge. There was barely more than a spoonful of strawberry jam in one jar, that being more than enough. 

The look for the Jam made him notice that there was little food left. He could still manage to eat for a week on his own, but he decided to listen to that strange feeling and went grocery shopping. He didn't need to make a list unless he was going to buy stuff he usually didn't or ingredients for a spell, so he got out after breakfast and went to the nearest supermarket, still early in the morning.

Bobby bought twice as food as usual. On the way back, the car was full of so many bags he was barely able to get them all inside once he got home.

He placed some stuff on the kitchen shelves, throwing out some expired canned food that only used space. He put the empty glass jars inside a box for recycling, froze some meat he would not use untill later and left some apples on the table in case he got hungry. When he was done, he was tired... so he ate an apple.

He'd just sat down to rest when Rumsfeld barked loudly from the porch. Bobby shouted the dog's name to make it shut up, but the animal ignored him, barking louder.  He didn't think too much of it, knowing the dog sometimes barked at nothing, untill he  heard car tires coming up the dirt road. As it got closer, he was able to recognize the motor's sound. He'd know that sound anywhere. That motor could only mean that someone he had promised to shoot with a salt gunshot the las time he saw him was there.

Bobby stood behinf his door, gun held in hand (he was a man of his word, always keeping his promises). He waited untill he heard steps coming up his stairs and walking to the door. Rumsfeld, tied to one of the corners, was growling.

Placing a hand over the handle, he twisted it, slowly, waiting a couple of seconds and opening the door in one quick motion, pointing the gun to who he though, would be John Winchester.

Dean found himself face to face to the double batter pointing right into his head. Everything went uncomfortably silent. Even Rumsfeld had stopped making noise.

Sam, who was behind his brother, looked at Bobby, scared. Both brothers looked stiff, tired and dark circles were appearing under their eyes. Still, they looked relieved of arriving there.

"Hi, Bobby..." Dean and Sam  said at the same time.

Dean swallowed before talking again.

"We missed you too, Bobby. You and your shotgun..."

Bobby frowned

"Boys..." he said, not putting his gun down. "John's not with you, right?" he said, looking behind Dean's shoulder.

"No" Sam said.

"Because if he's round here, I have a few salt rounds saved up for his not-so-pretty- face" he said, before leaving the shotgun next to the door. He moved aside, letting them know they could come in. Once inside, having left the cold winter air behind, Bobby closed the door and looked through the peephole before following the brothers.

Neither Sam nor Dean had realized how much they missed Bobby and his home untill they walked into the living room, full of books, the smell of old paper, leather, car oil and dust. It was one of the few placed that brought them nice memories. The place was exactly as they remembered it.

"Actually, Bobby, we'd apreciate you not mentioning that we're here to our dad" Sam said.

"Didn't even think 'bout it" Bobby smiled at both in a warm and sincere way before hugging them both, saying how glad he was that they were there.

Sam and Dean both looked terrible because of the trip, and Bobby offered each one a room so they could rest. He helped them take their few belongings from the Impala to the second floor and turned the gas water heater on for the shower. He left the brothers upstairs and heard the water running for a while before the house went back to a complete silence.

At two o'clock, after finishing a book, he decided to cook something for everyone to eat. He didn't make anything out of the ordinary, boiling some pasta in a pot and heating some tomato sauce in other. He added some bay leaves, oregano, basil, salt and pepper to it, making a salad while the rest cooked, mostly making it because of Sam. Once he was done, he put the pasta, the sauce and the salad on the table for everyone to serve on his plate.

Sam was awake at half past three. Dean didn't get up untill four. He'd taken the bandage off his hand and the gauze on his cheek. The cuts from the bottle were already fully healed. His cheek was still red and swollen, but looked normal enough.

"It's a good thing you both got up or else your food would've frozen" Bobby said "We were waiting for you, Dean."

Dean looked at the table. The food smelled delicious. Better than any dish ever, but it probably was because of his increased smell.

"Thanks, Bobby. You shouldn't have."

Bobby shrugged. "Having you boys here is never an issue. I may not be the best cook, but I have no problem in cooking for you."

Even though the house was quite warm compared to the outside, the food had gotten quite cold, so they had to heat it up again, this time putting the pasta on the same pot with the sauce. When steam started to come out and the sauce started bubbling, they took it back to the table, over a wooden cutting board. Bobby served it on the plates while Sam places a fork in front of every seat.

The three of them sat at the table and took their utensils.

Dean couldn't do it.

As soon as he lifted it up, he dropped it on the floor, his right hand burning as if the metal object had been heated over a stove. It hit the ground with a loud metallic sound that startled all of them.

"Dean, what happened?" Sam said, looking at the floor, where the fork was.

"Nothing. I... it slipped out of my hands. I'll go get another one." Dean said. Sam didn't think too much of it. Bobby seemed to wonder about what had happened. Dean could feel it.

He leaned down to pick it up, covering his hand with his sleeve before grabbing it and dropping it into the sink, looking for another fork in one of the drawers. He touched it first to make sure it wasn't silver.

They ate while catching up wit Bobby, telling him about the journey from The Dalles to Sioux  Falls, their stay in Whitehall, the long and tiring roadtrip that only got worse when, at one point, they were stuck in a traffic jam because a truck had been knocked over. That's why they'd taken so long to get there. They avoided talking about John.

Bobby listened to them, not taking his eyes off of Dean, who swallowed, uneasy. Pretending everything was fine.

After they were done, the plates were left on the sink in a neat pile. Sam went upstairs to his room. Dean was about to follow him when Bobby cleared his throat before calling his name from the kitchen. Dean turned arround and went back.

"Dean, I'd apreciate if you helped me carry one of these bags of dog food for Rumsfelt to the shed in the back." Bobby pointed to where three 33 pound bags were lying. One was already open, half empty. Next to it two new ones. He put one over his shoulder and felt strange about how light it seemed. Bobby opened the back door, walking after Dean to the tiny shed behind some rusty cars. It wasn't too far away, but it was at a considerably long distance from the house.

The sky was orange once more, the clouds swirling with purples and pinks. The wind was cold and the sun was setting. The light on the outside gave his surroundings a melancholic feeling.

Bobby kept walking behind Dean the whole way there, both making the dirt crunch under their boots.

The shed was quite small, but had enough space to fit a few things. There were car tires, some car parts leaned over a wall, a work table with some boxes and a lot of spiders. The whole place smelled like dust and car oil. Dean left the bag in one of the corners, next to some tools. When he got out, he found himself facing a knife, right over his neck. Bobby grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him on one of the walls. Dean seemed to have a record of being put with his back to a wall. He hit his head again. The knife was placed over his throat. Close enough to make the blade touch his skin when he breathed but in a way he wouldn't cut himself unless he put up a fight.

"Don't move too quickly or you'll get hurt. Even though it doesn't look like it, I really don't want to do this, boy."

Dean nodded. Bobby's hand was shaking.

"Something interesting about my cutlery is that some silver utensils got mixed up with the stainless steel ones a long time ago. I never knew which were the silver ones untill you found one today. I know Sam's not dumb, so he would have noticed if you got replaced by a shifter. Not many creatures are afected by silver so, tell me, what are you?"

Dean closed his eyes and felt a lump in his throat. He wondered if it was a good idea to run away. Maybe he would get hurt by it, ending it all once and for all. He knew the knife was silver because every time it touched his skin it burnt. Almost decided to run away, something made him talk. He focused on Bobby's face and, breathing shakily, he looked at the man before saying it.

"Werewolf"

"For how long?" asked Bobby, not moving an inch. His look turned sad.

"Three days" Dean answered, the lump in his throat making it hard to breath

"What about Sam?"

"Still human"

Bobby relaxed a bit, letting go of Dean's shirt and putting the knife down, stepping back. He ran his left hand over his face, as if he were trying to get rid of the shock and the sorrow.

"How the hell did this happen, Dean?" Said Bobby, looking at Dean with sadness in his face.

"That hunt in Oregon went wrong. I was hunting a pair of wolves, not noticing one of them was behind me. Both chased me and one of them would have killed me if I hadn't shot it in the heart. But it was useless. It bit me before that."

Unconsciously, he had placed a hand over his left shoulder, where the beast's teeth had broken his skin, feeling some kind of ghost pain.

"How did your dad allow this to happen"

Dean let out a sigh.

"He was never there"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he left us, Bobby. Sam and me. He left and made me go alone to the hunt. If I died that day, those things would've killed Sammy. When I got back to the motel, one of those monsters was hiding behind some trees, right next to our room" Dean noticed he was almost shouting, lowering his voice before finishing his sentence.

Bobby stood there, quietly, breathing in slowly to avoid the anger.

"God damn it... Now I do have a damn good reason to shoot your daddy's head off if I didn't have one before." He said, putting the knife behind him, between his belt and his back.

"Have you though about what you're gonna do before the next full moon?" he asked.

Dean took his gun out, hidden by his flannel shirt and showed it to Bobby.

"That night I had one bullet left. Kept it for me. I wanted to spend these last days next to Sam before using it. I just can't, Bobby... I can't turn into a monster."

He'd confessed. Now knowing what was next.

Bobby extended his hand and Dean placed his gun over it. The man held it and examined it. Dean prepared himself for the bullet to go into his heart, feeling the metal, so cold that it wound burn him from the inside. But, contrary to what he expected and with unusual sleigh of hand, Bobby took the bullet out, put it in his pocket, put his gun back together and turned it arround, the handle facing Dean.

"This bullet's mine now. Unless you hurt someone, I'll use it. If not, I won't let you do it."

He took one step closer, holding Dean's face in his own hand. Dean looked at him in the eyes, feeling the man's calloused hand over his skin. Bobby held him carefully.

"I know you, Dean. I've known you for so many years and I've never seen someone as strong and determined as you, boy. I have no idea of what you'll go through, but I know you can deal with this. Just as you've overcome everything else. I'll do anything to help you because you don't deserve to lose your whole life just because your father made a mistake."

He hugged him. Not a hug just to make him feel better, but a strong hug to let him know he was there for him, that no matter what he was, Bobby knew Dean was the same. That he loved him more than he cared about having one of the creatures he hunted under his roof, because this was no stranger. This was his boy, Dean. And he always would be.

Dean hugged back, resting his forehead over Bobby's shoulder.

"Thanks Bobby. Just... don't tell Sam. Please." Dean said.

Bobby nodded.

"I won't, but you'll have to tell him. If he finds out on his own, he'll feel betrayed."

They walked back home. The sun already hidden and the stars shining in constellations.

Inside, Sam's room light was lit. As they walked back in, Dean was about to go up the stairs when he noticed Bobby was standing in front of his basement door, telling Dean to follow.

Soon, Dean found himself walking down the basement's stairs, feeling the smell more intense: moisture, dust and rusty metal. Bobby guided him through the room untill they got to the end, where a heavy iron door stood before them. As he opened it, Dean saw a circular room with a devil's trap painted on the floor, shelves with some canned food and books, a small bed and a desk. There were notes on the walls and, on the roof, a vent that let the outside light come inside. At that time, no light came in that wasn't from the stars.

Dean walked around before sitting on the bead, that squeaked under his weight.

"Bobby, what is this place?"

Bobby smiled before answering.

"This is a panic room. Perfect to avoid something unwanted from coming in or getting out."

"When did you ever have time for this?"

"On my free time. It's ghost proof, but I doubt you could get outta here, even if there's a full moon."

He leaned on a wall and knocked with his knuckles. The metal answered with it's characteristic sound, letting the hardness and thickness of the wall be known.

Dean smiled.

"Bobby"

"What?"

"You're awesome"

Bobby smiled again.

"You don't have to worry about hurting someone in here. You can come down here every full moon and, if you want, I can make you company on the other side of the door. It's completely solid and has inside and outside locks."

Dean thought about it. The first night wouldn't be nice at all. He'd have to talk more about it with James. Or maybe not, not wanting to get nervous so soon. Anyway, having company didn't sound so bad.

"Thank you, Bobby."

Dean hugged Bobby a second time.

Chapter Text

Three weeks had passed since they got to Bobby's.

Dean enoyed his days like he'd never done before. Listening to his Led Zeppelin IV cassette so many times he knew the exact moment the guitar part began in Black Dog, could sing the whole album and knew the exact number of times Robert Plant had sang "Baby".

Bobby had taken them both into town, so they could know Sioux Falls better, introducing them as his nephews. They met the baker lady and the brothers noticed that she got nervous, her face going red, every time Bobby talked to her. They went fishing one day at the dam. Sam caught a big bass while Dean only managed to catch a medium sized perch. They cooked both fish at Bobby's house.

On other day, they'd gone to a lake, in the middle of a park to see ducks.  Sam was chased by a couple of geese.

On their second week, they ate burgers and Bobby dropped them at the movies so they could watch one. There was an 80s movie cycle and, again, Dean felt his life was mocking him because Sam insisted in watching An American Werewolf in London. He managed to watch the first fourty minutes before having to leave his seat and run to the bathroom, feeling nauseous, his heart beating fast. He had never gotten that uncomfortable and sick while watching anything, but he understood why. When Dean took longer than ten minutes to come back, Sam went looking for him. He saw his brother talking with the girl at the register and went back to the screening room. Dean didn't. He hadn't even liked the girl, but he kept talking to her as a way to distract his mind. 

Bobby picked them up later that afternoon.

With all af this, Dean had lost track of time, untill he saw in a calendar he had five days left for the full moon.

In those last days, he kept in contact with James, asking everything he could think of. James explained to him that his sense of smell and his hearing would become stronger three or five days previous to the full moon and would go back to normal levels (for a werewolf) in the same amount of time after it. He'd noticed since they went to the movies, thinking the sound was kinda loud. Now, he could hear the cars in the highway like they drove right next to Bobby's house. The birds' singing felt like they were singing right inside his ears. Smells irritated him, specially perfumes and cleaners. One time at the supermarket, the cashier, sitting three meters from them, was wearing a disgusting lotion that didn't leave his nose for hours. Walking next to trash cans made him want to puke and even his room's smell was unbearable, no matter how clean it was. He had dedicated a whole day to sweep, wash and clean the floors as a way to leave it as neutral as possible. Sam could only stare at him, wondering what the hell was going on with his brother.

Another thing was that cooked meat had started tasting weird. He could eat it, but Dean was really conscious that it didn't taste the same. He felt uncomfortable when the thought that it would taste better raw crossed his mind.

The night before the full moon, he went to bed early, but couldn't sleep. Instead, he rolled arround on his bed, thinking about what could happen, about how it would feel, if it would hurt, if he would be conscious. At two in the morning, he still couldn't catch some sleep. He tried slowing down his breathing, walking on a thin line between being awake and asleep. When he finally was able to, he had nightmares.

.

Sam woke up in the morning, startled by something, his heart beating like crazy inside his chest. Wet in cold sweat, he couldn't remember clearly what he'd dreamed about. He had seen Dean's room, his brother under the sheets. Sam walked up to him, to pull the white sheet that covered Dean off him when something changed. His brother was no longer there. In his place, something that made him feel exactly like he had in The Dalles. The thing that he'd seen inside the room was back. The thing for which he'd taken the knife under his pillow. The thing he'd seen caged and hidden in the shadows. 

Sam tried to sleep again. After half an hour, he gave up.

.

Dean had a slight headache that became stronger every time he heard a sound. His whole body hurt like he'd run a marathon. Fluffing his pillow, not without struggling, he turned arround to sleep on his side, his back to the door, and pulled the blankets to his face. Apparently he had the worst cold ever. 

One hour later, Sam knocked on his door. Dean woke up and opened his eyes, only to close them inmediatly. Even though the sun wasn't fully out, the faint morning light shined righ onto his face. His headache had become migrane. He felt like he was being crushed by something. 

Sam knocked again, asking if he could come in. Dean didn't answer, making himself into a ball and sinking on his matress as much as he could.  His brother opened the door and walked to his bed, slowly.

"Dean?" he asked.

Dean groaned under his several layers of blankets.

"Bobby asked if you wanted to have pancakes for breakfast or..."

Sam looked at his brother, completely covered, and had a weird feeling. Had he seen this in his dream? Was he having a déjà vu?

He lifted the blanket. It was just Dean.

Placing a hand over his shoulder, he gasped.

"Dean, you're burning up... Do you feel sick? Should we take you to a doctor? I'll tell Bobby to come here."

He heard Sam running downstairs. Losing track of time, Dean didn't notice when Bobby went inside his room, but when he opened his eyes again, out of nowhere, an oral thermometer was under his tongue. It said he had a fever of 103. Dean thought Sam looked funny with his worried face.

"Agh ghou goigg go cugge me wigh laghter gogtor pagh aghamgh?" Dean said.

Sam took the thermometer out of his mouth.

"What?!"

Dean blinked twice befor saying it again.

"Are you going to cure me with laughter, doctor Patch Adams?"

No one understood his reference.

"The hell you're talking about?" Sam said.

"Robin Williams?" He asked Sam, trying to focus his face.

His brother looked at him, confused. Dean thought that he probably thought those were delirious comments because of the fever.

"Forget it." He said, giving up.

"Dean, stop fooling arround. Your fever is really high, and for what I see, it's not your only symptom. What else do you feel?"

Dean rolled his eyes before answering. Bobby placed a cold, damp towel over his forehead, taking the blankets off him. Dean started shaking a little, not knowing if it was because of the sudden cold or because his whole body hurt like hell.

"I feel like I've been run over by a truck, and as if my head was being squished..."

"Do you feel nauseous?" Sam asked.

"No..." he said, not looking so sure.

"Ok. That's kinda good. Are you hungry?"

Dean thought about it. He hadn't had dinner last night but he wasn't hungry. Not even feeling like he could eat something. His apetite completely gone.

He said no with his head.

"Ok... you probably have a viral infection. Bobby, we gotta take him to a doctor. At least so they can get his fever down."

Bobby nodded. He looked quite worried. Nervous. But Dean wasn't completely sure why.

"Can you stand up, boy?"

"I think so..."

Dean lifted himself up on his bed, his joints stiff. After putting some pants on, he stood up, stuggling and leaned part of his weight over Bobby and Sam. He gave a few steps, and the three of them walked down the stairs. They gave him a flannel blanket so he wouldn't face the cold so suddenly on the way to the car. It was about 53 degrees outside. It felt colder when the wind blew and

Dean sat on the back seat of the car, Sam and Bobby in the front. He was about to complain when they turned to the right and fell over his shoulder on the empty seats next to him, falling asleep inmediatly. 

While Bobby drove, Sam constantly checked his brother. Once they got downtown, Bobby stopped the car in front of a small shop.

"Is this the hospital?" Sam asked.

"No." Bobby said. "But I need you to pick up something." He said, while pulling a five dollar bill and two silver quarters out of his pocket.

"Dean's sick and you're picking up a package?" Sam said, angry and loud.

"Sam, it's not just that. This could help your brother. I know you don't wanna leave him, now even less than ever, but believe me you'll help him a lot if you do this."

"What do you mean help him? You knew this was going to happen, Bobby?"

"No, Sam! I had no idea this was going to happen to him. If you want to know what's going on, you should ask your brother once he's better!"

Sam went silent.

"Take the money, kid. The stuff he gives you is for Dean. I'm certain it will help him."

Sam didn't want to leave his brother's side. Dean had taken care of him so many times before he felt like a hypocrite by leaving. But he wasn't just going to do nothing. Bobby always seemed to know what he was doing, so if the man thought that, whatever the package was, would help Dean, Sam believed in Bobby, even though there was something he wasn't telling him. He took the money and got off the car. Bobby smiled from the inside as he drove away. Sam though Dean had smiled too.

Inside, there were a lot of local products: honey, soap, milk, butter and meat. Behind the counter, there was an old man about average size, bearing a long white mustache. He had a white apron on, stained with red and brown spots. When he saw Sam, he smiled kindly, greeting him. 

"Can I help ya with something, kiddo?"

"Morning. I'm here to pick up something for Bobby Singer." he said, walking up to the old man. 

"You must be one of his nephews! The name's Richard, but everyone calls me Ritchie." He said, shaking Sam's hand with his own, dark skinned and strong.

"Sam. Winchester. It's a pleasure to meet you." He made a gesture he hoped was close enough to a smile.

"You too, Sam. Now tell me, what can I help you with?"

Sam wasn't sure if he should repeat himself, but he did.

"I'm here for... Bobby Singer's package?"

"Right! Right. Sorry. I got it round here in my freezer. Let me get it for ya."

Ritchie walked through some plastic curtains that hung from a door frame and came back about a minute later with a big paper bag. Sam gave him the money and the man thanked him.

"Tell Bobby I really apreciate him buying these. It's not common that someone does, and it hurts me to throw them away. They've been kept fresh in the cold storage."

"I'll tell him. Thanks." Sam said, not knowing why the man was thankful or what was in the bag. It was heavy. Inside, something cold was starting to condense water and Sam decided it was best to put the bag on the floor and wait for Bobby. He hoped it wouldn't be long.

.

Bobby smiled at Sam once he was outside the car. He drove for a bit and turned left. They weren't going to the hospital. He was taking Dean back home.

Once there, he turned the motor off and woke Dean up.

"What are we doing here again?" he asked, rising again, struggling as he did it.

"Don't tell me you believed that doctor story"

Dean shrugged. "Honestly, I thought we would go at least for a dose of painkillers."

"Yeah, right, and for the doctor to check your throat and say "Oh, grandmother, what big teeth you have!" Don't think I didn't notice when I checked your temperature."

Dean was about to reply, but he closed his mouth, ashamed.

Bobby helped him out of the car and took him inside. They both walked downstairs to his basement and sat Dean on the bed inside the panic room, before going upstairs again. The place was strangely warm even though there was a vent on the roof that allowed the cold air to get in.

The bed had a pillow, so Dean let himself fall over it and covered himself with his flannel blanket. It was green and brown, smelling of naphthalene and wood.

His body ached, so did his head. His fever was still there. He rolled over his side and felt something hard inside his pocket. Putting his hand over it he pulled out his phone. No new messages or calls from his father.

Which reminded him...

He thought he'd heard in his father's voicemail that Dean had taken his journal. He hadn't seen it when they packed the stuff at the motel, but it might as well be in the Impala's trunk.

He heard bobby coming before he even walked down the stairs, the man coming inside the room a few seconds later with another blanket, a plastic jug full of water and a cup. He placed the things on the table before handing the other blanket to Dean. This one was bigger and it covered him head to toe. 

"This should be enough. I hope."

"Thanks, Bobby." he said. Not moving. Dean just smiled as best as he could, trying to repress a shiver, unsuccesfully. 

"I have to go get Sam. We'll be right back, boy. I'll tell him the doctor asked you to stay at the hospital to monitor your fever."

Dean nodded. Bobby kept talking.

"You'll have to tell your brother sometime, Dean. Sam knows we're hiding something. He ain't dumb."

"I know. Bobby, I hate lying to him. I'll tell him eventually. Just, not today." he said. Sinking into himself.

"Tell him soon. Sam is smarter and more understanding than you give him credit for. He may be John's boy, but he ain't him."

Dean wasn't so sure. He felt horrible thinking that.

"Hey, Bobby..."

"Yeah?"

"Could you look for a leather bound journal in the Impala? I think the car keys are in the nightstand next to my bed."

"A leather journal? Your dad has one like that, doesn't he?"

"Yes. He mentioned in a voice message he didn't have it with him. I haven't seen it, but I figured it might be hidden under something in the trunk."

Bobby nodded.

"I'm surprised your father left without it. He always carried it with him. If I find it, I'll bring it to you." The man walked to the door, closing it behind him and leaving Dean all on his own.

He heard the car starting and driving away.

Dean fell asleep again, waking up when he heard voices.

" Why can't we go with him, Bobby? If he's this sick, the least I could do is be with him. "

Even if Dean didn't have his sense of hearing so increased, he could've heard the whole conversation because of how loud it was. He closed his eyes to focus on what they were saying.

" We can't Sam. Tomorrow he'll be better and we'll bring him home. "

" Bobby, please... "

"The doctor said it was better he'd be kept under their watch and in isolation. He's contagious right now."

That last thing wasn't a lie.

" You haven't even told me what he's got! "

" Let him tell you when he comes back. "

" Why don't you tell me now? "

" Because it's not up to me, boy! "

Dean didn't want to keep listening.

He spent the rest of the day lying down, hearing the steps upstairs. He assumed they were Bobby's because of the pace and weight. When he got thirsty, he got up to pour himself some water in the cup. Dean was barely able to lift the jug. He'd had so much strenght these last days and now, he struggled to lift something so light. His throat felt a little better after drinking.

Dean paced around the room. Without nothing else to do, he took a book off the shelves and started reading, not lasting for more than one chapter before going back to sleep. 

When he woke up again, he felt something that he couldn't quite describe. It was like a tingling that traveled through his whole body. It wasn't very intense, but it was there, deep inside him. Something that made him want to move, to walk, to do something. 

He looked at the vent. A few grey clouds drifted in the sky, with a pink and orange hue, telling him sunset was about to happen. This made him more anxious. 

While he looked up, the door behind him opened. He turned around to see Bobby, walking to where he was. The man pulled something out of his vest, handing it over to Dean.

"I imagine this is what you were looking for. It was under a bag of salt."

The journal felt cold and odd in Dean's hands. Like if the only right place where it could be was with John.

"Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby smiled, sadly, trying to cheer him up.

He tried reading it, falling asleep again with the journal in his hands.

.

Dean got up over the bed, looking at the ceiling. The sky going darker with every second.

He felt uneasy, having to walk in circles to get rid of that feeling. He sensed this need to not stay still. The headache receeded, but his body still ached. But it wasn't just pain. His muscles felt tense, stretched, his skin too tight.

Another shiver ran through him.

He looked up again. The night was just starting.

Dean breathed in short breaths. The air seem stale, even though it came from outside. Retracing his steps over and over again, not knowing what to do, he suddenly knew he no longer wanted to be there. Not anymore.

His body began to feel hot. Really hot. And uncomfortable. Something itched over or under his skin, stinging like needles or glass shards. Breathing was hard, his chest feeling a sudden pressure.

The boots felt too tight. He took them off, as well as his socks.

He was sweating. He knew the room was cold and he was still sweating, so he took off his clothes off, throwing every piece to the floor, as far away as he could. The tingling he'd had since the afternoon moved to his skin and his fingertips. He felt as if ants were walking all over him.

Heart beating fast. Hot blood runnig through his whole body.

He got dizzy. His thoughts seemed out of reach. He tried thinking about...

about...

It had something to do with the night

That night...

A specific time

What was the time?

Watch...

21:07

Early...

Why was it so early?

It was midnight in Cottage Grove when he saw them...

When the moon was out...

A painful cramp in his abdomen made him arch his back.

Midnight. This wasn't supposed to happen untill midnight.

His hands felt strange.

He was frightened. More than ever. He wanted to run away from himself.

His whole body was shaking. Slowly, maybe too slowly, he felt his bones stretch, pulling in opposite directions and making him think it would break him from the inside. He fell over his hands that stopped the fall. Every bone in his back making a cracking noise, feeling how each one of them stretched and others changed shape.

His ribs rearranged themselves, his shoulder blades shifted place.

The tingling on his fingertips became stronger when huge, dark, sharp claws appeared, sratching the floor.

Tendons. Muscle. Skin. Heat. He heard the wet noise his bones and joins made as they moved, popped, cracked and changed. The itch got stronger when thick fur began sprouting over his whole body.

The worst thing was feeling his facial features stretch and change. His nose, his jaw... his gums felt like they were about to break. It hurt. More than anything he'd felt before. His teeth growing, barely fitting inside his mouth.

He didn't scream, not wanting to. He knew they would hear him, hurting, pained.

Most of the change happened in silence, Dean gritting his teeth every time a bone shifted place, every time some part stretched a bit too fast, untill all that came from him was a growl that only got deeper and deeper.

He wanted to say something. Shout something. All he could manage to do was an animalistic sound.

Losing his voice scared him.

His vison went blurry. It was all too much.

He dropped to the floor, unconscious.

.

Bobby heard noise in the basement. Steps, things falling to the ground, metal creaking and what seemed to be growling. He sent Sam to his room, not without the kid protesting, the youngest wanting to go see Dean to the hospital. It was too early to go to sleep, Bobby knew that. He just wanted to make sure Sam wouldn't follow him.

Walking to the fridge, he took the bag Sam had brought. The content was still cold, but not frozen.

He went downstairs, one step at a time, carefuly listening to any movement inside the panic room. 

Everything was strangely quiet. 

When he was right behind the door, Bobby breathed in several times before mustering the courage to go inside.  He kew what he was doing was really stupid. Still, he was ready, holding a silver knife and carrying his gun on his back with the silver bullet Dean had given him, hoping not needing to use any of those things.

He slowly opened the door, peeping inside through the small opening, trying to see what was inside.

It was pitch black.

He put the knife in front of him, as precaution, and opened the door even more, stepping inside the room.

Bobby scanned the place with his eyes. He saw, hidden in the darkest corner, a pair of green eyes that shimmered with the little moonlight that came from the vent. He got goosebumps, suddenly feeling sick. He knew those eyes. They were still human enough to be distinguishable, but animal enough to wake a primitive fear.

"Dean?" his voice was shaking.

There was no answer.

"Kid, it's Bobby. You remember me, right?" He knew it was very unlikely.

The eyes didn't move. Only looking at Bobby.

The moon was reflected on the silver knife.

The creature growled. It's huge fangs almost visible. Even with so little light, Bobby was able to see they were almost as big as his index finger. Four huge fangs turned to face him.

"I ain't gonna hurt you."

The growling didn't stop, but the creature stayed still, shrinking over itself, with no intention of moving.

The wolf wasn't being agressive, Bobby could see it was scared. Locked, cornered, confused. Frightened.

To be fair, Bobby was too.

He placed the knife on the floor, sitting down, his knees aching.

He still held the bag on his left hand. Placing it in front of him, he took out part of the content and threw it at the creature, It left blood stains when it fell and rolled. It was a huge cow's heart.

"I read that it could help you. Get used to this before you attack someone. I want to help you, Dean."

It was a strange thing, thinking of the beast in front of him as Dean. It was also strange to tink of Dean as a beast.

The creature stopped growling, not knowing what it should do. It stayed still for a while before launching itself over the heart, swallowing it whole. The salty and sightly sour taste of blood filled its mouth and its empty stomach.

Bobby took another heart out and threw it again in its direction, the creature moving closer to eat. He'd lie if he said he wasn't nervous. If the beast decided to attack him, Bobby wouldn't stand a chance against it unlessed he shot at it. Even though he'd promised Dean, he was certain he would be incapable of doing it, knowing the thing was one of his boys.

He kept throwing the hearts untill he ran out of them, five in total. With each heart he threw, the creature made itself more visible. Bobby could see it was huge in size. Bigger than any werewolf he'd ran into. It had light brown fur with a spot that ran from its head to its tail a deep black color.

On its head, it had spots of a darker brown under its eyes that reminded Bobby of Dean's freckles.

The creature finished eating. It looked at Bobby, who, again, couldn't avoid swallowing with his mouth completely dry. For a moment, he could've sworn the eyes had become more human.

Standing up, he grabbed the knife again, walking backwards slowly.

The creature snarled when it saw this, showing its huge teeth again.

"I wont hurt you. I'm just leaving..." he said, while walking to the door in reverse, not taking his eyes off the wolf. 

The creature started to walk around him, still showing its teeth and looking at what Bobby did with the knife.

Bobby felt the door with his back, opening it so he could leave.

The creature saw an exit, running to it as fast as it could.

Instinctively, Bobby threw the knife at the beast, realizing a bit too late that if he hurt the wolf, he'd hurt Dean too. The knife grazed the creature's skin, under its right eye, the sharp blade making a deep cut that inmediatly started bleeding. Bobby closed the door, only hearing something heavy hit the other side, followed by a pained cry.

He fell on the floor, trying to compose himself. Once he cleared his mind, he felt a bit of hope. Dean hadn't attacked him. That could have been just because of the hearts that had distracted the wolf (this being the most probable cause), or maybe it was too scared. Still, that didn't explain the look in its eyes. If Dean had recognized him, it was a good sign. A really good sign. 

He got back to the kitchen, needing a strong drink after that.

Bobby poured himself a glass from a bottle of rum that he kept for ocasions that required it. This was one of them.

He had just finished his second glass when, again, the sound of car tires coming up the dirt road to his house caught his and Rumsfeld's attention.

Taking his shotgun, again, Bobby loaded it. It was too late and too out of season for more visitors. He looked trough the peephole. The outside was dark. All he could make out was a sillohuette park a car next to the Impala, getting off the vehicle and walking to his door.

The man outside knocked three times, firmly and with a strong hand.

Bobby knew exactly who it was.

Now he was definitely going to shoot him. 

Chapter Text

The night got colder with every second that passed. His breath condensed in the air, leaving small clouds suspended that only stayed with him for a short ammount of time.

John drove an old, rusty pick up he had borrowed from a friend oh his. His boys had gone missing weeks ago and he had lost their track. Dean wasn't bothering on answering his calls or messages, but to be fair, he hadn't pressured too much. He was mad at him for the way he'd acted, and over all, for taking Sam, the Impala and his journal. If his son wanted to be a coward and run away, he didn't have to bring Sam down with him.

All of this left him with a strange feeling he hadn't been able to shake off since he went back to the motel in Cottage Grove. The police had looked into what had happened, finding out about the existance of the cabin in the woods. They'd linked it to several missing persons cases when they found some of their belongings inside. The cabin was owned by the people they'd found dead (the werewolves Dean had shot at), so they assumed they had been killed in self defense. Still, nothing explained why the corpses had been found completely naked. The one in the forest had his mouth covered in blood. Lab had confirmed the blood belonged to someone else. John didn't know about this last thing.

He kept driving in complete silence, not wanting to turn the raido on, only focused in getting to Bobby Singer's house as fast as he could. They weren't in speaking terms because of a fight they'd had some time ago, but if someone could help him find his boys, it was Bobby.

Half an hour later, the sky completely dark, he turned to the right, to the dirt road that led to the house, going through the labyrinth of piled cars. As soon as he was close enough, he saw the lights were on on both floors. On the second floor, one of the rooms where Sam and Dean stayed when they visited was lit.

Rumsfeld barked from wherever he was right now as soon as the dog saw him. That damn animal always made so much noise even though it knew him. When John was parking the car in front of the house, he looked to his right and saw the Impala. Totally clean, just as he'd seen it that last time, its glossy paint reflecting the light from the house.

If the car was there, that meant his boys were inside.

He got off the pick up, walking to the porch. John covered himself on his leather jacket. It was about 40 degrees outside, the heavy clouds that drifted by promising colder temperatures. The moon was being covered by them, the satellite seeming to be the only source of light for several miles around. He knocked on the door with his knuckles, numb because of the cold.

He knocked again.

Just as he was about to do it a third time, the door opened, revealing the barrel of a shotgun pointing right to his face. Bobby looked at him, firmly gripping the gun and staring at him with a fierce look.

"Just so you know, it's loaded with shotgun shells and not salt rounds. I'm a man of my word. John, and I always keep my promises"

John smiled, mockingly, remembering Bobby had sworn to shoot his head off if he came back. As he smiled, Bobby closed the distance between his face and the gun so much that John could smell the gundpowder, the metal and the soot.

"It's nice to see you again, Singer." He stood still, not moving an inch.

"What the hell do you want, Winchester?"

"It seems my boys are here. I'm taking them with me."

Bobby turned his eyes to look inside, licking his lips nervously before speaking.

"Only Sam's here. Dean won't be back till tomorrow" he said, keeping is stance, blocking the door.

"Fine. I'll wait for him. Tomorrow we'll pack our stuff and we'll go"

In one swift movement and before Bobby could react, he pushed the barrel away from his face and made his way through the space between the man and the door. Bobby closed the door behind them, not being able to do anything else.

John walked inside as if it was his own home, wandering through the living room and sitting in one of the chairs. He hung his heavy leather jacket over the back, leaving him with a thick flannel shirt that served as a second layer against the cold. Bobby followed him, not putting his gun down. Behind him, he heard Sam coming down the stairs.

"Dad?" he asked.

John got up and walked to where he was. Sam stood behind Bobby, even though he was half a head taller than him.

"Sammy. Son."

"Don't call me that"

John raised an eyebrow.

"How? Son?"

"Sammy. It's Sam."

John laughed.

"Course it is. Where's your brother?"

"Dean's sick. He's at the doctor's"

"Hm. Dont you say." John answered, sarcastically, giving Bobby a side eye, who only stepped forward, pushing himself between Sam and John.

"I think it's best we all rest. Dean'll get here tomorrow. Then he can decide what he wants to do."

"Dean and Sam will go with me."

Sam wanted to take a step closer to his father, angry and about to start a fight. Bobby stopped him with his arm.

"Like I said. Dean will decide what he wants to do tomorrow. He's an adult John."

This seemed to bother him.

"An adult who doesn't know how to deal with the aftermath of a hunt."

Sam only got more angry. He pushed Bobby's arm away, walking to face his father.

"We wouldn't have left town like that if only you had stayed with us. You left Dean to his fate! Do you have any idea of how he came back to our room? Scared and hurt. They hurt him because he was loyal enough to obey you!" Sam said, shouting every word.

"And that's exaclty what he had to do. We didn't spend all of our time there for your brother to chicken out and not do the hunt. Dean has always been a good son because he follows my orders."

John got closer to Sam. Even though his boy was taller, he tried to look intimidating.

"Your brother hurt himself. A good hunter doesn't get hurt. I realize it was a mistake letting your brother go on his own because he clearly doesn't know deal with this job"

"You sent him on a suicide mission knowing he'd blindly follow whatever you told him to do, like he always does. He has a thousand reasons not to trust you, yet he heeps doing it, god knows why. The day Dean ends up dead it will be because of you!"

"Sam, stop it!" Shouted Bobby. Sam looked at him, hurt. Finally, he stepped back and said nothing else.

"Like I said: we'll wait for Dean. I think we should all go to sleep."

Sam walked up the stairs with loud steps, clearly mad about it. John laid over the couch on the living room. Bobby turned off the lights, but did not leave. He waited at the feet of the stairs to make sure everyone was asleep before going back to the basement. He was worried about how quiet everything was. There wasn't any howling, scratching or weird noises. It was mostly a relief, because if there were, he wouldn't be able to keep John away from it, still, the absence of noise made him preoccupied. He took his shotgun again and walked with slow steps to the basement's door.

Just as he was about to put his hand on the doorknob, John spoke behind him.

"Where are you going, Singer?"

Bobby took a slow breath.

"I was only going to leave this downstairs. I have to clean if after certain ammount of use. Not as much as i'd like, though."

John could't be seen in the darkness, but Bobby knew he was getting closer as he heard the floorboards creak under his weight.

"Did you need to do that in the dark?"

Bobby didn't answer.

"I know you, Bobby. I know when you're hiding something. What have you got down there?"

Bobby gripped his shotgun, again.

"I'm telling you. I was just going to leave the shotgun down there."

He couldn't see a thing, but Bobby was sure John had just rolled his eyes as he walked to the door. John took the doorknob and turned it, opening it.

"John, don't"

Bobby pointed the barrel at him, ready to shoot. Moving quickly and taking advantage of the darkness, John gripped it, fighting over the gun. He managed to take it off Bobby's hands, throwing it several feet away from them, unreachable by anyone. Bobby pulled him by his shirt and threw him to the wall in front of him. He placed himself in front of the door, stopping anyone from going in.

"Let me down there, Bobby. What are you hiding?"

Bobby spoke with fear in his voice.

"John, I'm asking you once more. Don't go down there right now. I'll let you in the morning. Please."

John ignored him. Out of some hidden pocket, he took out his own gun and pressed it against Bobby's chest, who could feel the hard metal touching the skin over his ribs. With no other choice, he walked down, turning on the lights. The place was full with stuff like paint cans, wood, nails, tools and more dust than he'd like to admit. Righ on the back of the room, John saw an iron door. Behind it, the rustle of something moving could be heard.

Bobby almost tripped on his way down.

"John, please listen to me. Go back up and I'll explain it to you in the morning."

John ignored him again, walking to the door.

"Something didn't make much sense since the begginning. Sam and Dean have always been inseparable. They rely too much on each other. Dean mostly. If he really was sick, Sam would have gone through heaven and hell to stay by his side. Unless he knew his brother was here."

"Sam doesn't know. I didn't tell him about it. I didn't want him to be with him."

"And why is that, Bobby?"

The man kept quiet, more desperate than ever. He had no idea what to do to keep John out of that room.

Determined, John opened the door. The sky was mostly clear and the moonlight came through the vent on the ceiling. In the middle of the room, there was a bed with a blanket on it and what probably had been a feather pillow. All of its content was scattered all over the floor, the furniture and the bed. Several feathers were still mid air. Those on the floor were tangled between the threads of what had been the pillowcase. John gripped his gun with an even firmer hand, ready to shoot. Something felt off, but he couldn't say why he had his gun ready and a finger ready on the trigger. A bad feeling had bloomed in his gut since he had walked inside. Looking around, all he could see was black, except for the moonlit spot.

"Dean?" He asked. Something telling him his boy was here.

His finger almost pulled the trigger as he saw a pair of green eyes that glimmered in the darkest corner. John felt his heart sink and his stomach shrink. He'd know the green in those eyes anywhere. He heard a deep, gravelly sound that, if he didn't know better, he'd say it was growling. The eyes kept looking from the shadows. There was something unnerving about them.

John stepped further inside and heard that sound again. His heart beat fast inside his chest. He'd always known there was a chance of things going terribly wrong on the hunt, but he didn't want to believe it could happen. It hadn't happened. It just hadn't. He wouldn't believe it untill there was proof.

The creature moved in the dark, not letting itself be seen. The smell of the man in front of it was familiar, but it wasn't sure if the man meant good or bad. If it should attack or not. He smelled of fear, sorrow and a permanent sadness.

"Dean..."

The sound echoed in its mind. Something wanting to swim to the surface. A memory, trying to make itself known.

John looked at the thing in front of him, terrified. With his eyes accustomed to the dark, he saw a giant lupine shape. The beast's head reached his chest. The dark brown fur had a spot on its back as black as raven feathers. Something had gone terribly wrong and now, Dean was...

His hands shook as he pointed the gun at the wolf.

The creature smelled the gunpowder and threw a bite at the air as a warning, baring its teeth and showing the long, white fangs as the moon reflected on the gun. That smell meant danger, fire and blood. With great speed, it ran straight at John, who, half petrified, ended up shooting at the beast as it took him down. The bullet grazed its face, exposing skin and flesh. The bullets weren't silver, and the wound closed inmediatly. As John hit the floor, the gun slid to the other side of the room, far from his reach.

John pushed the wolf's neck away from his throat. Both seeing each other as a threat. The wolf sinked its claws on his shoulders, pushing with his whole weight. It was suffocating.

John was strong. The beast was stronger. With every second, it got its head closer to the man's throat. He wouldn't give up untill he lost the fight. He tugged at the creature's skin with his hands, feeling the long brown fur between his fingers. He felt the wolf's warm breath righ over his face. He saw the green eyes staring right at him, filled with rage and hate. That thing wasn't Dean anymore.

The fangs already were touching his neck's skin. The huge jaws right over him, ready to tear flesh appart.

John saw something next to his shoulder: a knife. The same one Bobby had thrown when Dean ran to the door. It was at an arm's length . He took one hand off the wolf's neck to take it and stabbed the creature on its chest, pulling it back out.

The wolf retreated with a pained cry. It ran, dripping blood all over the floor and hiding in the shadows one more time. Quickly, Bobby came inside the room, grabbing John by his shirt's neck and pulled him out, closing the door before the wolf had time to go through the opening. A few seconds later, claws scratched the metal on the inside, desperate.

As soon as they were safe, Bobby leaned his back on the panic room's door, letting his own weight drag him down. He breathed like there wasn't enough oxygen, placing a hand over his chest. John kept on the floor, the knife still in his hands, covered in blood. What he had seen couldn't be real. That just couldn't be his boy, his Dean. Even though he'd treatened him that night about if something happened to him, it would be Dean's own fault, for not hunting right, for working recklessly, for not being careful, he just couldn't stop feeling... odd. Knowing deep down Dean had been so very careful, that he'd gone to the righ place at the righ time. All that he'd said to his boy was out of his own pride, of wanting to ask too much out of Dean. His boy always tried his best, but John always said he could do better, thinking that, by not telling him how good he actually was, Dean wouldn't let his guard down ever.

Now that he thought about Cottage Grove, the trashed room, the abandoned bodies, taking Sam... it all made sense. Dean had been ambushed by the beasts, being more intelligent than werewolves normally were. The scouting missions probably had been a mistake, making the wolves aware of Dean's smell, detecting him long before he went deep inside the woods.

After several minutes in which none of the men moved, trying to compose themselves, Bobby broke the silence.

"You did that to him, John." His voice filled with rage.

John rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wake himself up, wishing all this was just a bad dream.

"You made him into that. You let a hunter's worst nightmare happen to him."

John raised himself, sitting up on the floor.

"And what the hell was I supposed to do, Bobby? I finally had a clue on the thing that killed Mary and I wasn't gonna let it get away. Dean had shown himself to be capable of hunting alone."

"You were suppossed to stay with them, goddamnit! If Dean had died on that forest, Sam wouldn't be alive! It's your job to protect them and you've put them through more dangers that I can count!"

John stayed still. Quiet.

"Do you think Mary would have wanted this for them, John?"

"She's not here anymore"

"And because of that you're gonna leave your kids behind? You have spent so long chasing ghosts you have forgotten the people who really need you."

Angry, John stood up in just one movement.

"Don't talk to me like you know what I went through, Bobby""

"Believe it or not, I do know! And I just gotta tell you: it never stops hurting. But if you keep like this, John, you'll lose more than just Mary."

Bobby got on his feet and walked away from the panic room. John looked at the floor before looking at him.

"I think it's too late for Dean. He's already lost himself."

"What?"

"He attacked me. ME. His own father. If he gets out, he might attack someone else that isn't as lucky as I was. He doesn't recognize us, Bobby. He's not human anymore."

"So what are going to do?"

"Tomorrow morning, once Dean's is conscious, I'll talk to him. He'll know there is no other choice and that he better put a silver bullet inside his head."

Bobby felt a shiver run down his spine and a stab in his heart.

"John, there's no need for that. I came into this room, with him and he didn't attack me. I know I'll sound crazy, but he knew who I was. Believe me. He did. I brought him cow's hearts and he ate them without an issue. He can survive on that."

John laughed.

"He didn't attack you because you brough him food. He was so hungry he'd eat even the cheapest ham. Any meat would have been fine. There aren't werewolves that never attack someone. I met this family of them, once, in Oregon. Even though they ate their farm animals, some ended up trying human flesh. The wolf I hunted with them was their cousin. A year before that, an uncle from a town next to theirs, and before him, one of their parents that lived in Montana. They had been hunted before by others. I only took down their cousin. It's not a question of if they can control themselves or not. It's a question of when they won't be able to hold their need any longer. Dean would never forgive himself if he hurt someone. It's better he puts an end to this."

John left, going upstairs and leaving the conversation hanging in the air. Bobby stayed on the basement. He didn't want to keep fighting with John, knowing there was little he could do to change his mind.

He looked at his watch. It was about 4:17 in the morning. The sun would be out in a few hours.

He'd do whatever it took to keep Dean from dying.

John walked outside to look for ammo and another gun. He found a box with nine silver bullets in a hidden compartment on the pick up. He didn't need more than one, leaving eight of the bullets untouched.

Meanwhile, Bobby had ran upstairs to pack Dean's stuff. He put his clothes on his duffle bag, the Impala's keys in a pocket on its side, along with his walkman, headphones, cassette tape and wallet. He put a few hundred dollar bills inside before placing it inside. He checked the drawers to see if they were all empty. They were. Dean's few belongings were already fitting inside the bag. He carried all of his stuff downstairs, leaving the stuff outside the panic room's door.

John went inside the house again, his gun loaded. Walking back to the couch, he made himself comfortable on it. He was hurt by losing Dean, but still didn't quite process what had happened. Maybe, in a few days, he'd realize his older son was gone. That he had died that day, as soon as the sun came out. Sam would have to deal with it too. He had no idea how he would explain it to him.

Even with all of this on his mind, John was able to sleep.

Bobby kept right next to the panic room's door. He heard several times steps that came and went, sniffing and growling every once in a while. He could have sworn hearing whining too. Soon, Bobby fell asleep. He woke up to a horrible sound of bones cracking and joints popping, acompannied by pained howling that became more human with every second. It was 6:38, still quite dark. The sun would not come out for another hour and Dean was already changing back. Opening the door, he noticed the air was colder than he had expected, almost at 32 degrees (a lot colder than inside his house). He saw some tiny snowflakes that came through the vent and melted before touching the ground. Dean laid on the floor, curled up over himself, his bare skin exposed.

Bobby ran to get the blanket before going to Dean. His back was facing him. The man placed a hand on his shoulder, touching cold skin and tense muscles.

He covered him completely with the blanket, rolling him over so he could see his face. Unconscious.

"Dean, my boy..."

Dean began shivering. 

Bobby wrapped him up better. He saw Dean's hands. They still had claws. In his mouth, the fangs were sticking out of his lips. It hurt him to see Dean like that. Moving him just a little, Bobby cradled Dean's face between his warm hands.

"Dean?"

Slowly opening his eyes, just enough to see, he focused on Bobby's face. As the mist that clouded his thoughts was dissipating, he recognized the man.

"Bobby...?" Dean said, his voice hoarse, not entirely sure if it was because he'd hurt his troat during the nigh or because he wasn't completely back to normal. 

Bobby looked at the wound on Dean's side, right on his ribcage. It hadn't been very deep, but still dripped blood. It also looked like it hurt like hell.

"I know I'm asking you too much because of the state you're in, but I need you to get up, kid. You have to go now." he said, helping Dean lift himself off the ground.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Your dad is here. I tried to not let him come down here. I'm so, so sorry, boy. He knows what happened to you and wants you to put an end to this."

Dean trembled when another shiver ran through him, his teeth chatteting. Bobby took off his own flannel shirt an placed it over him. Dean had managed to sit up, but was still very weak. 

"M-maybe dad's righ, Bobby... I don't want to live the rest of my life suffering because of this untill I die... I- I- barely remember anything about this night, but I remember attacking him. I didn't know who he was, but... I know there was something in me that sparked this rage. I still feel it burning inside me."

"Dean, you're strong. You can deal with this." 

Just after these words came out of his mouth, Bobby realized it had been the wrong thing to say. Dean's eyes filled with tears. 

"And why should I be strong to deal with everything? I need to be strong for dad, I have to hold on for Sammy, I have to keep going for myself. I have to deal with and control everything about this so I don't hurt someone. I've been dealing with stuff since I'm old enough to remember. This is just too much, Bobby. I'm tired..."

Both kept quiet for a while, Dean trying to hide his sobbing and his pain. The room lit up as the morning light came inside. Then, Bobby was able to see  more clearly the claw marks on the walls, the broken furniture, the white feathers scattered all around. He helped Dean rest next to the bed's base and left for a minute, before going back in with iodine, bandages and sterile cotton so he could clean the wound. He also cleaned the cut on Dean's face that he made when he threw the knife. As he did it, Bobby couldn't stop apologizing. 

"I'll look for a cure, Dean. I don't know how long it'll take me, but promise me you'll be here for when I find it" Bobby said as he was bandaging Dean's torso.

Dean laughed weakly. 

"Bobby, there's no cure for this."

"There is no known cure. That's different of it not existing. If it's not a cure, at least something that helps you. But promise me, Dean. If not to me, to your brother."

Dean said nothing. Sighing, he nodded, wrapping himself better on the blanket and trying standing up, stumbling as he did it. His clothes were scattered all over the floor, where he had taken them off. He dressed as fast as he could, his body sore. Some of his joints popped as they moved, relieving some of the tension. He wasn't completely back to normal still. He tried not to look at his hands, uncomfortable.

He left his boot's laces untied, and Bobby helped him walk through the basement. It was still really early in the morning, barely past 7:00. They got out the back door, quietly and quickly. Bobby sat Dean down on the front seats of the Impala, leaving to get the duffle bag. Dean was able to see the slow sunrise, bathing everything firstly in a faint blue tone. The sky was cloudy and a thin layer of snow had piled on the car hood of the Impala and all of the other cars that filled the surroundings of Bobby's house. As the man came back, he put his stuff on the back seats. Opening the driver's door, he took the car keys out of Dean's bag, and gave them to him, as well as a piece of paper folded in half.  

"Kid, I'm so sorry. Do you think you can go on your own?"

Dean though about it. Even with his whole body hurting, he was pretty sure he'd driven in worse conditions. He nodded. 

"Go to this place" he said, pointing to the piece of paper, folded and wrinkled. 

"John doesn't know about that place and he'll never find you there. You can spend a few days with her, but you'll have to tell her you know me. She knows things about magic better than I do and she'll send you to someone who can help you." 

"Why can't you come with?"

Bobby smiled, as he tried to comfort him. 

"If I went with you, kid, your father would easily find us. He knows me too well. Besides, I promised you I'd look into anything that could help you. Like I mentioned to your father, I always keep my promises."

With great effort, Dean threw himself at Bobby, hugging him as strongly as he was able to at that moment. 

"Thanks for everything, Bobby." He whispered as he hugged him. His voice low but sincere.

"Good luck, son."

Dean closed the car's door and placed the key on the ingnition. Pushing the clutch with his foot, he turned the key and heard the motor's deep growl. Before leaving, he took something off his neck, giving it to Bobby.

"Tell Sammy to take care of it, that he'll have to give it back to me when I see him again and... please, tell him I said goodbye."

Bobby nodded. He looked at the necklace. It was made of golden brass and had a horned idol's face. 

The car moved to the highway, making a crackling noise with the dirt under its wheels before speeding up, leaving the house behind. The smoke that came out the exhaust pipe stayed on the air a little longer, not dissapearing as easily because of the cold. Bobby kept standing outside untill the engine couldn't be heard anymore. Once the cold became too unbearable, he went back inside. 

Chapter Text

Dean woke up in a green field, covered by long strands of grass and with several sheep, white and fluffy as clouds, surrounding the area where he was in a circle and looking down at him with curiosity.

He'd driven for about half an hour before needing to make a stop. While driving through the highway, his vision had gotten cloudy, seeing his surroundings less and less, hearing the motor and the gusts of wind that hit the car every now and then, distant, as if the sound came through a wall before reaching him.

He managed to pull over to his right, slamming the brakes, getting out of the car and leaning on a giant willow tree that stood in the field's border. His stomach felt weird, making him more and more nauseous with each second, untill he vomited.

Taking deep breaths, he tried to slow his heart, feeling his temples about to blow up. He stepped away from the tree right before stumbling down on what seemed to be the sheep's pasture. That was the reason he saw about five of them leaning into his space right above him. As he lift himself up, he saw the Impala, gleaming under the sunlight, the driver's door wide open. He tapped his front pocket, feeling the keys in it and relaxing immediately. From where he was, the grass looked like a green ocean, with waves coming and going as the wind caressed the grass blades.

As he stood up on both feet, his legs trembled, still feeling a bit dizzy. A huge ram, white and with its face spotted with black stared at him from afar. Dean thought it looked like an album cover he'd seen somewhere. When he was able to walk without falling, he moved carefully, away from the flock and the green field. The ram kept looking, untrustingly while some sheep just gave curious stares, keeping their distance.

Getting to the Impala, he took the keys out, not being able to ignore that his hands were shaky, but back to normal. A thought crossed his mind, that he'd never want to see claws instead of nails, knowing deep down that was impossible. He felt the presence of both arms and legs, aching but now human. He breathed in, the fresh morning air filling his lungs and suddenly stopping as a stabbing pain appeared on his side, left there by the knife. The sun bathed his face in a warm, golden light, making him feel the itchy cut on his cheek.

Even as uncomfortable and lost as he was, he felt alive. Present. He took a couple more breaths, clearing his mind and his lungs... he felt better. He jumped back on the car. Some of the sheep were right outside the door, staring. He stared back, annoyed, and some of them ran away as if the understood that it was better to leave him alone. Looking at the crumpled piece of paper Bobby had given him, it had an address, scribbled on it with black ink. He looked for it in a map he kept on the glovebox and started the car again, driving to Watertown. It was at about an hour and a half from there. 

There weren't many things to see on South Dakota's highways, so the trip was quite monotonous. Once in Watertown, he looked arround to find the exact street the address told him. It was in the so called suburbs that would only made sense they'd be called that if Watertown was an actual city. The trip had drained all his energy, feeling quite cold and shivering every once in a while. Touching his forehead with the back of his hand, he noticed a bit of sweat. A fever was the last thing he needed right now.

As he got closer, he saw the place. It was a simple house, lined by juniper trees, planted next to the porch. He was sure this was where Bobby had sent him to, but it wasn't at all what he expected.

Dean parked the car in front of the garden and got down, walking to the door and scared that his legs would suddenly stop working for how tired he felt. He was sure his face was quite pale, the pain from his side pulsating. The paper had been made into a tiny ball, folded over itself. He had smeared the ink with his handling. 

As he knocked, he felt some kind of small but weird electric shock. He waited outside, completely still untill a man with long, blond wavy hair opened the door. His hair was styled in a way that hadn't been popular in a long time and Dean thought he kinda looked like Roger Taylor. The man had a dark red shirt, quite tight, buttoned just below the neck, bootcut jeans along with cowboy boots. Dean didn't notice him carrying a gun untill it pointed right to his chest.

"What the hell do you want?" he spoke, Dean noticed, with a slight british accent.

Dean tried to move but his feet were stuck on the ground. Literally.

"What the-"

The man asked again, pulling back the hammer of the gun with his thumb.

"Tell me who you are and what are you doing here. People have a reason to come, but you are not exactly people..."

"Who's at the door, love?" a voice asked from inside the house.

"Don't know. That's what I'm trying to find out" the man said, not taking his eyes off of Dean.

"My name is Dean Winchester. Bobby Singer sent me here. He gave me the address"

He heard hurried steps, lighter than the blond's. A dark haired woman appeared. She wore a gray tank top even with the cold weather, as well as low rise Jeans. A crystal Dean recognized as an amethist, hung from her neck, held by a leather chord. She pushed the guy to the side and walked to Dean. After looking at him head to toe, she spoke.

"He's fine, Jesse. Let him in."

"You sure? You did notice he's... you know..." he whispered this last part to her, but Dean heard it anyway.

"I know. I feel it. But Bobby sent him. He told me about two hours ago he'd come, and I trust him to not send people that would want to hurt us."

The guy, who's name apparently was Jesse, put his gun away, on the back of his jeans between his belt and his back. Waving a hand, he did something that made Dean stumble for a second before noticing his legs were free again.

"Even if he didn't want to hurt us, he could..." he mumbled. The woman hit him on the ribs with her elbow before looking and smiling back at Dean.

"Come in. You can sit in the kitchen" she said from inside.

Careful, Dean stepped inside. He walked to a small and round table, covered with a white tablecloth and surrounded by four wooden chairs. As he sat down on one, he felt the wood was hard but comfortable. Nervous, he looked around. Hearing steps behind him, he turned his head. Jesse was back, leaning on a corner, arms crossed. The woman closed the door and walked to the stove.

"You look tired. D'you want some tea?"

"Sorry?" Dean asked, not sure he heard right.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Jesse said from where he was.

"Oh, I don't mean to bother... but yes. Thanks"

"Not at all." she said, filling the kettle with water from the faucet. She placed it over the metal grid on the stove and turned the knob to light the fire.

"Jesse, can you call Bobby and tell him his boy is with us? His number is on the phonebook."

"Sure thing" Jesse went to another room, where the phone was. His boots clacked on the floor, walking to what Dean assumed was the living room, though it was very dark. Low notes of music played from there. He recognized Jim Morrison's voice singing The End.

"No safety or surprise, the end

I'll never look into your eyes again

Can you picture what will be? So limitless and free

Desperately in need of some stranger's hand

In a desperate land"

The woman sat next to Dean while the water heated up. Now that she was close, Dean noticed she was very attractive. Her long hair fell below her shoulders in thick beautiful strands.

"I didn't introduce myself. I'm Pamela Barnes. Bobby's friend since a while ago." She stretched a hand to him, making a sound as she moved because of the bracelets she had on. Dean shook it.

"Dean Winchester. You might know my father, John."

Pamela laughed softly. "Only by name. Bobby used to talk about your family a lot."

"Seems we are quite the celebrities with the people who know him" he said, mockingly.

"You might say so. But he never mentioned you being good looking" she said, winking an eye at him, playfully. Dean blushed a little. "I'm guessing he sent you to us... well, to me, because you needed somewhere to stay, right?"

Dean looked away, ashamed because of the fact that he was asking complete strangers that they allowed him to live in their home.

"We'll give you somewhere to hide from your father. I'm sorry but we'll only be able to keep you here untill the next full moon."

Dean's eyes widened. Before he could ask anything, she spoke again.

"Don't worry. It's not obvious. I'm psychic." she said, smiling in a warm way and leaning on the chair's back. "Bobby didn't tell you?"

Dean said no with his head. He faintly heard the talk coming from the living room but he didn't pay much attention to it.

"Jesse's a witch. The house is protected, and that's why you couldn't move before you came in. You set off some alarms because the moon's effect is still strong, considering it happened very recently."

With this, Dean felt surprised.

"What do you mean by witch?"

"That, exactly" Jesse said. He'd finished talking to Bobby and came back to where they were, standing behind Pamela's chair. Dean noticed both had a simillar smell, like incense and home. He thought they probably were a couple. He envied them a little.

"Let me guess..." Jesse started "You have a bad image of witches because you're a hunter, right?" he leaned on the table, placing a hand on its surface and pulling one of the four chairs to sit down.

Dean let out a quiet laugh.

"The only witches I've known always make deals with demons. I'm sorry if I'm not so keen to that concept."

"Relax. I only do white magic. Protection charms, cleanses, stuff with magic or medicinal plants. Nothing you should worry about." he said, that last part mockingly.

"Jesse..." Pamela warned him.

"What? It's true" he said.

"I know, but you don't have to bother him like that." Pamela stood to take the kettle of the stove as it began whistling.

"C'mon, Pam..." Dean didn't miss that he spoke to her with a softer voice "Don't you see how easy it is to annoy him?"

"Dude, I'm here. Right here. I can hear you." he said, annoyed.

"See!" Jesse Said.

Pamela chuckled. Her laugh made Dean relax a little, feeling that if something else got on his nerves, he wouldn't be able to avoid growling.

The woman took three cups out of one of the shelves, green, red and yellow ones. She also took three round tea infusers.

"What kind of tea would you like, Jesse?"

"Green, love, please."

From a ceramic jar, she took out a bunch of dry leaves with a spoon, and placed them inside two of the infusers. She added them with hot water to the cups and started a four minute timer.

"And you, Dean? Which tea do you like?"

Dean didn't know what to ask for. He almost never ordered tea. It just didn't have the same effect as coffee. He didn't know why he'd asked for a cup and was now regretting it.

"Oh! I- I don't know. Anything's fine for me."

"I think passionflower will help you relax a bit."

Dean didn't know what that was, but he trusted her.

Pamela took out another jar, now containing some olive green leaves. From his seat, he could smell them: like citrus, honey and flowers, along with a grassy smell, but the nice kind. Pamela poured the remaining water over the infusor an brought the cups to the table. As the timer rang, she took the infusers out. On the table, there was a tiny jar with honey and the sugar bowl next to each other. Dean drank his tea on its own, while Pamela and Jesse both added a drop of honey just for the taste. 

The tea was steaming, rising the vapor and smells into the air. He took the cup to his lips and sipped. It wasn't as hot as he had expected and it relieved a pain in his gums he hadn't even noticed was there. He tasted the tea before swallowing it, leaving a warm and soothing feeling behind, in his throat. 

"Let me guess: you like Zeppelin, right?"

Dean's face lightened.

"You kidding? It's my favorite band."

Jesse smiled. 

"Knew it. You have the type. What's your favorite album?" He said as he leaned down over a shelf under the record player. 

"The IV. But I really like Houses of The Holy and Zeppelin II as well"

Jesse stood up with something between his gands. He gestured to Dean to come closer. When he was next to him, Dean saw it the record he was holding, was Houses of the Holy.

"I don't have Zepp IV, but I do have this one. Houses and Physical Graffiti are my faves. I've got Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin III, this one and CODA. I'm more of a Floyd fan, but love Plant's voice."

Dean noticed that, where Jesse had leaned over, there was a small record collection. About thirty of them. Several were Pink Floyd's, some The Velvet Underground's, some Bob Dylan's. Some he couldn't name. 

As they finished, they offered him something to eat, but Dean refused politely, still feeling his stomach uneasy, besides not being really hungry. Both Pamela and Jesse showed him the guest's room, downstairs and next to the living room. It was small, with a single bed, a nightstand and a window that showed the garden. It had a metal window grill with a beautiful design, having swirling patterns that turned and twisted the metal to make shapes. He had just noticed that all of the house's windows were the same. The room was painted in green and white, that have him a warm feeling. They let him place his stuff inside and rest if he wanted to. 

Being honest, he did want to sleep. 

Closing the door, he took ut several things from his bag: gauze, cotton, micropore, povidone iodine and bandages. He took his shirt off and looked at the wound on his side, between his ribs. He cleaned it carefully, with slight, soft taps to disinfect it. It wasn't too much help to do it, still hurting like hell. He felt ashamed of himself when a deep sound came out of his throat as he felt a stabbing pain while cleaning the cut, being sure that he had just growled. 

Once done, he laid down on the matress, feeling his head sink on the pillow and his eyelids close themselves. He was comlpletely tired and had no clue of how he had stayed up for so long if he  technically hadn't slept through the whole night. 

Was it normal to end up this tired after a full moon?

He should ask James later.

He slept for about half an hour before seeing what he felt were memories from last night. The fear of being locked in a small space, of not finding an exit, of seeing someone come in with a knife and then, someone with a gun. Ready to hurt him. He remembered a swadow standing in front of the door and the hate he felt as he saw it. He wanted to hide that feeling that burned him from the inside, but it was useless. He remembered  throwing himself to the man in front of him with the full intention of putting his fangs through his neck untill he heard his bones break under the strenght of his jaw. But it wasn't just any man who he had attacked: he was his own father. He wanted to pretend not knowing who was in front of him as he attacked. He was scared to admit he knew it was John, that the fact that it was his father only made him want to hurt him more. He felt again the strong smell of blood, but not John's, but his own. A burning feeling in his thorax.

He woke up suddenly, pale and soaked in cold sweat. He uselessly tried to lift himself up. A pulsating pain extended through him from his left side. Placing a hand over the wounded zone, he felt something warm and wet. He was bleeding again, more than he would've ever exptected. He heard Pamela come down the stairs with Jesse behind, both opening his door. She ran to place a hand over his forehead.

"Dean, you're burning up. Do you an idea of why?"

Dean could barely say no with his head. He felt is mouth and lips dry, his body heavy, his muscles tense and his view blurry. All he could do was grip the cloth that was over the cut on his side. He saw Jesse say something, not being able to hear a single word. Jesse placed his hand over the wound and closed his eyes, focusing on something. With a worried look, he turned back to Pamela. He leaned over Dean to tell him something. 

"Dean, were you hurt with a silver object?"

Dean was about to say no before remembering the knife he had seen in that weird memory-dream. He nodded.

"I think so. I can't barely remember anything from last night, but I- think I remember a knife" he said, struggling to mutter something comprehensible.

"Pam, bring the first aid kit that's inside the bathroom. There must be some alcohol, tweezers, antiseptic and gloves. Dean, do you have needle and thread for sutures?"

Dean lifted weakly his hand and pointed to his duffel bag, next to the bed. 

"There's also cotton and gauze there..." he whispered. His voice no longer able to work.

Pamela rushed back in, first aid in her hands. Jesse put on the latex gloves, pulled out a few cotton balls that he wet on alcohol to disinfect a small x-acto he held between his fingers, along with some metal tweezers that he placed over the gauze. 

"On a scale of one to ten, how well can you handle pain?" Pamela said to Dean.

Dean tried to say something, but all that came out was a deep gutural sound.

Dean took in a deep breath.

"Even though it's bleeding, the opening is now smaller than it was before, so I'll need to reopen it. I don't have any anesthetic and even if I did, it wouldn't have much effect. Do you think you can handle this?"

Dean nodded again.

"Lift your hand up so I can see the cut better"

Dean did as he was told, dropping his hand beside his head. It was stained red and had that sticky sensation that blood always leaves. Jesse lifted Dean's shirt to his ribs and put the blade over his skin. At first, he felt nothing. Then, the wave of hot pain appeared as the blade sunk deeper into his flesh. He tensed more than he believed was even possible, feeling that same tickling sensation, identical to the one from last night. He had always been sure he couldn't change without a full moon, untill he looked at his hand: the claws were back.

He felt Jesse put something cold inside the cut, assuming it was the tweezers. They moved a little inside before colliding with something hard inside the wound. The movement of the metal shard caused a terrible agony. He gripped the bedsheets, wrinkling the surface and screamed. His voice coming out like something between a scream and a howl. 

"I'm so sorry, Dean... Don't move, please. It's almost out." Jesse said, focused on his task.

Pamela stroked Dean's hair, trying to soothe him and brushing his short hair back. His forehead was wet with sweat. Dean still didn't open his eyes, breathing in quickly but with an odd rythm.

Finally, the pain became weaker and weaker.

"Got it!" Shouted Jesse.

Dean inhaled as best as he could, trying to steady himself. He opened his eyes to see and looked at what Jesse was holding: a small piece of blood covered silver. It looked like the tip of a knife.

"Thank you..." Dean said, exhausted. His voice was deep and raspy.

After the struggle to get the piece of silver out, everything was silent, both Pamela and Jesse not entirely sure if what they had just witnessed had happened. 

"You saw it too, right?" Pamela Said, turning to look at him.

Jesse nodded.

"He changed without the full moon. Not all the way, but a bit."

"Do you think a session will help him?"

Jesse turned to her. Both were the same height and stared at each other, Pamela with a sincere look to her. He sighed.

"It's possible. But if we do, we have to be careful. He might put his fragments together, but he also migh not be able to, losing all of the control he barely has over this."

Pamela nodded.

"We should just let him sleep for now. He's been through too much."

Both walked out of the room and closed the door behind them. 

Chapter Text

Both Pamela and Jesse came back just a moment later to clean Dean's wound. He was completely passed out, breathing rythmically and slow, finally having a moment of peace. They placed micropore tape around the cut to help heal the broken skin, deciding that Dean would probably wake up if they stitched him up, and doing their best to join both sides of the cut. Only to find out that after ten minutes in absence of silver, the cut had healed on its own only leaving behind a small pale scar. 

Dean woke up six hours after that, his body aching and joints popping as he moved. He searched for his phone and unfolded it. It was past six p.m. He sighed, feeling a little bit better. Checking his mailbox, he decided a call was probably better.

The sky had deep blue tones and his window let in the faint sunlight that still remained, making shadows with the tree's branches and the window's bars on the opposite wall. 

Looking for the number in his contact list, he called. The line rang three times before he heard a sound.

"Dean?!" the voice asked, scared.

"Hiya, Sammy."

"Dean, where are you? Dad says you ran away from him. I don't know what the hell's wrong with the man, but he talks about you like you were a monster... he said something about last night, that he saw you here at Bobby's, but I told him that was impossible because you were at the doctor's. Dean, I don't want to stay with dad. He's already packed everything up to leave in his truck, but I wanna go with you. Please." Sam spoke in a single breath, desperate. 

Dean felt a stab in his heart hearing his dad had considered him a monster this quickly. Even though he was right, it hurt. 

"Sammy, listen: you gotta stay with Bobby. Dad's stubborn. Go with him but run away first chance you get. Leave him and go back to Bobby. I left some money under my mattress. Take it and use it to buy a bus ticket."

"Tell me where you are first" Sam said, agitated.

"I can't. I risked you too much staying this long next to you. I can't let you come here or dad'll become suspicious of you too."

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean? Tell me what's going on. You promised me that if something was happening to you, you'd tell me, remember?" Sam's voice broke.

"I r'member. But I can't. At least not right now."

"Dean, please..." Dean knew sam was crying as he heard is pleading voice.

" 'm so sorry, Sammy. Last thing I wanted to do was leave you behind."

"Will I see you soon?"

"Maybe. I don't know when, but I'll visit you."

"And where will you go?"

"Don't know. But I'll be fine. Promise me you'll go back to Bobby's as soon as you get away from dad"

"Yeah, I promise..." He said, resigned.

"Be careful, Sammy."

There were some seconds of heavy silence.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

He heard Sam let out a laugh. Short, but real.

"See ya later, Sammy."

It was almost seven.

He sank back into the bed, now being even more depressed than before. To distract his mind, he closed his eyes and focused on the sounds that surrounded him: the wood of the house creaked because of temperature changes, Pamela's neighbours were dining, making clinking noises with their plates and glasses. The trees waved their branches and leaves with the wind, the cars passed through the street, the dogs barked at pedestrians and...

Pamela and Jesse were discussing something. 

He didn't want to be nosey and kept himself from listening untill one of them mentioned his name.

"Love: as much as he's a friend of Singer's, he cannot stay that long with us. He seems nice, but you know he's a risk."

"I know, but... where the hell can he go? He's got nowhere to stay."

"We can keep him here for a while, but before the next full moon he will have to leave. I don't like the idea either, but we live in an urban area. Even if we locked his room, he could escape."

"Alright... but we'll have to find him a safe place. He's kind of our responsibility now."

"We'll find something. Anything will suffice as long as he's away from civilization."

"I can work with him. You saw what he did. It's strange to see bitten werewolf do what he managed in such little time. Some can't ever even do it."

"I know, Pam. But that could also mean his control is too little. He changed, yes, but only when feeling something strong like pain, not because he wanted to. If you push him too much, he might lose himself"

Dean listened to that last part carefully. He thought because of the agony he had imagined his hands changing. Apparently, it had been real.

He felt scared. Lying down again, he tried to get some more sleep.

He woke up again, some time later, not knowing how long he had been asleep. The night was really dark now, his room lit by the moon, its lighr a little dimmer. 

Still lying on the matress, he looked at his hand against the light, turning it around to see the palm and its back, scanning with his eyes every inch: his fingers, his knuckles, the little scars from cuts he had gotten by accident or in hunts, the white spots on his nails. It was all him.

He thought about doing something a bit stupid.

He closed his eyes, frowning and tensing his body in a similar way he felt them when he shifted, thinking about the tingling sensation in his fingertips. He focused on that, now noticing the tingling reappear and get more intense with each second, so he kept pushing. It seemed as if he had to break the inertia or push enough to break certain barrier. He kept going, not realizing he had been holding his breath. At one point, he suddenly felt a pull, like a rope snapping inside himself. 

He inhaled again, now through his mouth, filling his lungs as he noticed that he desperately needed oxygen. Simultaneously, he opened his eyes and raised both hands, facing the light. Both had pointy claws again, not as long as he'd seen them with the full moon, but they where there. 

It was in that moment that the tingling came back stronger. 

His claws got longer and he felt several of his bones threatening to shift position again, pushing each other out of the way. He felt something appear on his skin: his back and arms covered in short, sandy brown colored fur.

"No. No, no, no..."

He closed his eyes again, shrinking into himself, holding his own arms and rolling onto his side, as if he tried to stop something to come out of him.

STOP

His jaw tightened. He quickly took a hand to his mouth, trying to prevent it from changing, his fangs touching the skin in his palm and pushing against it. He heard noises inside him. The other hand over his thorax felt movement under his skin, making him nauseous. The more he tried to stop it, the more it insisted in happening. For playing with the idea of changing at will, he was losing control. The little control he had. He could tell something wanted to come out of his throat, a sound that was not his voice. Something deep, crude, visceral. It seemed his heart was about to explode.

Someone touched his shoulder, calling his name. 

Opening his eyes, he jolted back up, breathing heavily and sweating quite a bit. He turned to look around and saw Pamela, sitting over the mattress, next to him. 

"Dean, are you hungry? We ordered takeout"

Dean sat there, startled. He looked at his arms and hands: completely normal. Pamela felt something was wrong, noticing how agitated he was. She cupped her hand and placed it on his cheek, carefully, turning his head around to see better. There was something. A note of worrying or fear. He had tiny half moon shaped marks on one of his cheeks, made by his own nails. She rubbed them gently with her thumb, the skin turning a bit red because of the friction. 

"Are you alright?" she asked, sweetly. 

"I... think so... I don't know..." he said with a shaky and unsure voice, as if he were trying to convince himself whith what he said. Dean glanced once again at his intact hands. He discretely touched his arms and ribs. Everything felt... normal... His arms had a ghostly feeling of fur that had never been there. He had dreamed it. 

Pamela put her hand down, leaving a absent feeling in Dean's worried face. She knew something had happened but didn't push. 

"You wanna come eat? We ordered burgers." She said, walking to the door. She turned the light on, bathing everything in the warm light that the lightbulb gave. "Hope you don't mind. I get you see well in the dark, but I almost tripped coming inside. We'll wait for you in the kitchen, Dean."

Once again, Dean let himself fall over the bed. He looked at the time on his phone: 7:36. He didn't think more that half an hour had passed since he heard Pamela and Jesse talking, but apparently, he had spent quite a long time sleeping. 

His stomach protested, telling him it was time to eat, given he hadn't eaten proper food in the whole day. Walking to the kitcher, he sat next to Jesse's chair. They had already put his burger in  a fiestaware dish of a vivid green, the fries next to the bun and a glass of cold root beer in front of the plate. 

"Excuse us for the root beer, but we just ran out of actual beer yesterday. Besides, it'll probably be better for you. Your body needs a lot of calories after every change or you'll end up losing weight." Jesse said, pushing the plate closer to Dean "you also need to hydrate."

Dean sat in silence for some time, looking at the plate with the delicious food in it. The kind gesture of them wanting him to eat at their table, right next to them. 

"Why are you nice to me? You don't know me and I don't know you. I showed up here out of nowhere and still..."

"You're a friend of Singer's." Jesse said. "That's enough for us."

Dean didn't look very convinced.

"If you need another reason, is because you needed help and we are not the kind that turn their backs on people" Pamela said.

"Also, you're young, Dean. How old are you? Twenty?"

"Twenty two" he said, not knowing where Jesse was going with this.

"Twenty two. I can't imagine all of the things I would have stopped doing, all the chances I would have missed if everyone had turned their backs on me and, why? Because of one stupid day of the month? You don't desserve to lose your entire life for twelve or thirteen days out of the three hundred and sixty five. And it's not even a whole day, it's less than twelve hours." Jesse had placed his hands on the table and looked right at Dean. "Let me ask you something, Dean. If a wolf kills a deer, is that cruel?"

"No. It's natural."

"Why does the wolf kill?"

"Because it needs to. To feed."

"And if you saw a wolf eat a deer, would you shoot at it?"

"No..."

"Exactly. It has the right to live because it hasn't done anything wrong. It followed what insctinct told him to. Now, if the wolf attacks a person, would that be bad?"

"...No..."

"Right, because, again, it was following its nature. Same applies to you. Lycanthropy is guided by your fears and emotions. We can't blame you. You are not conscious of what happens. If you knew it and still killed, simply because you enjoyed doing it, then it would be cruel."

"Still, those are lives. Even if I don't kill, I could hurt someone."

"In that case, have you hurt anyone?"

"No... or at least, I don't think so."

"Then it's like I said. You have every righ to live as any person or wolf." Jesse concluded, leaning over and stealing a french fry out of Dean's plate.

Dean felt like he'd just been lectured, but at the same time, comforted. He'd never thought about it like that. How many of the werewolves they'd killed weren't even conscious of their actions? And not only werewolves, but other creatures too. There had been some who knew the damage they were causing, but what about those who hadn't? Could they have adapted to another lifestyle if only they had been given the chance?

He didn't want to keep thinking about it or his head would hurt. Again. He ate the burger which seemed like the best burger in the whole world. The three of them then started chatting, specially Pamela, telling funny stories about some of the clients which she made seances with. Jesse listened to her, giving her his full attention. He had placed an arm around her shoulders and Dean saw he was completely smitten. Dean couldn't blame him. 

After a while, Pamela spoke to him.

"Dean, Jesse and I want to tell you about the sessions."

"What are they?" Dean said, with his mouth still quite full with the last bite of the burger.

"Hypnotism sessions, mainly. We think it could help you remember memories you have blocked, like the moons or to help you have more control" Jesse said.

Dean put his right hand over his left arm, rubbing it up and down, uncomfortable without being certain why. If it meant imagining things like the one he had just dreamed, he'd refuse. Looking at his sudden worry, Pamela spoke again.

"We'll only ask you to focus an remember something specific. Your memories are still there, only clouded and hidden in another part of your conscience. We think they'll help you feer more at ease if you can remember what hapenned. If you don't want to we understant, so no pressure."

He thought about it, realizing actually feeling uneasy not remembering.  He was more or less certain that he hadn't done anything last nigh, but he didn't like not being certain. Every time he tried to remember, his head felt like exploding, something keeping him away from digging too much. Not having control over his body was enough, the least he could do was try to have control of his mind.

"I'll do it."

Both smiled at him. They stood up and took the plates to the sink before going to his room. He followed them inside. 

"Lay down, please." Pamela said.

He did.

"I'm going to take your hand, is that alright?"

"Yes" Dean said.

The feeling was nice. Pamela's skin was soft, and her hand let out a comforting warmth.

"Alright. Close your eyes, Dean. Relax and try to not think of anything, let go everything that's worrying you. Ignore anything that makes you uneasy. You are now here, present, in your room. We are in Watertown and it's eight fourty seven p.m."

Dean felt his body relax.

"I want you to picture the place where you were last night, how it looked, smelled, what you cound hear, what you could feel. Tell me about your surroundings. Where are you now?"

He opened his eyes as he percieved that more light came in than that from the window, only to notice he was back in Bobby's panic room.

"I'm inside a room with iron walls. Bobby let me stay here. It's getting late and light is getting dimmer." He said in a calm voice, almost whisper-like. He hadn't moved his mouth yet he had spoken. It was like if everything he thought was said automatically.

"Good. Now, go forward in time. What do you see now?" Pamela's voice was muffled now. The room's inmediatly warped, blurring for a second only. When it went back into focus, it was night.

"I see the room again. There is a smell of fear. The air feels thick and hot. I can see my clothes and my shoes on the floor."

"Is there anything else?"

He was about to say no when a man came in through the door. His face indistiguishable.

"I see someone coming in. It's a man, but I cannot tell who he is. He's scared, I can smell it. He has something in his hands that lets out a sweet and metallic aroma. He's talking to me but I cannot understand him. They're only sounds he's making. I see he is carrying a knife and I back away, in defense. The man also steps back."

"Why didn't you attack him?"

"He didn't seem agressive. Besides, I'm more scared than he is. I don't understand why I'm there, why I'm trapped." 

"Keep going, please."

"He pulls something out of the thing he's carrying and throws it at me. It doesn't look like it's meant to hurt me, so I lean closer. It's food. It has a weird taste but enjoyable. When I'm done I look back at him. His face seems clearer... He smells familiar. He backs away with the knife in hand, and even though it doesn't seem he wants to use it, I am still careful, walking around the room, keeping my distance. Then I see an exit and I run to it. He leaves through it but throws the knife at me."

"What happened next?"

"I kept circling around the room, each second getting more anxious and wanting to get out of there. I broke some stuff." Dean said, in a tone that implied he was ashamed of what he had done.

"Tell me what happened when someone else came in."

The room went out of focus again, and settled on another time.

"I hear steps and voices while I hide in the darkest part of the room where they can't see me. My heart's racing for some reason. Another man comes inside, holding a metalic thing that smells like fire and gunpowder. He talks to me and says something the other man said before. I didn't know why that sound was familiar."

He stopped talking, shifting his position a bit, uncomfortable.

"It's OK, Dean, you're safe. It's only a memory. What happened next?"

"The man didn't smell like fear. It was me who was afraid. I did something to tell him to get away, but he only came closer. I insisted that he should leave me alone, moving to the side. I realized somehow I knew him. His voice, his smell, his stance, the way he'd said my name."

"What do you mean by your name?"

"The thing he'd said before. He had said my name and, for some reason, the way he said it seemed like I had heard it a thousand times before. Untill I got closer, I realized why. I did know him. He was someone who'd hurt me and someone I love. His gun suddenly smelled too much like fire and grease and soot, and I knew he was going to shoot me."

"Did you know who the man was?"

Dean paused. He didn't want to answer that. He didn't want to admit he'd known this whole time and had been hiding it to protect himself.

"It was my father. That's why I ran at him, trying to knock him down. He shot a bullet but missed. He tried to choke me with his hands while I tried to bite his neck. I wanted to hear his bones crumble under my teeth for making me this. For leaving us behind."

"Us?"

"Me and..."

"You said it was someone you loved. You should remember their name."

Again, Dean focused. Something scratched inside his head, wanting to keep him from remembering. His chest ached with a burning feeling, clouding his mind with rage. He tried harder. 

"Samuel. Sam..." a few seconds passed "Sammy. For leaving my brother and I behind."

"What happened to your father?"

"I almost managed to do what I intended, stopping when I felt a stab on my left side. Now I remember it was the knife that had ended inside the room. I backed away and tried escaping once more through the door as it opened while someone pulled my dad outside. I still didn't manage to leave."

"Did something else happen?"

"Not untill there was some light again. The whole night I was in pain. Then something changed and ended up on the floor. Bobby woke me up in the morning."

"Please take three deep breaths, Dean"

His lungs filled and emptied with the air.

"I want you to clear your mind again. Don't think about anything past or future, just my voice."

"..."

"Open your eyes."

Dean did. He was back at Pamela's. He sat up quickly over the bed.

"Great job, Dean. You did really well."

He felt something on his cheek, cleaning it with the back of his hand and noticing it was a tear: he was crying. His view turned blurry because of the tears forming. He didn't know why he did it.

"It's OK. It's normal, Dean" Pamela Said, sliding her thumb over the back of his hand "Reliving this is tiring on your body and your mind, mainly because they're not pleasant memories. But you were able to remember what happened." Pamela kept holding his hand, tightly. It wasn't anything more than a way to calm him down, to make him feel secure.

He let his head fall on the pillows, his body heavier than ever. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole, feeling ashamed of what he had said about John. It has been strange knowing it, but it was worse saying it out loud. Admiting in front of the people who were helping him, who were trusting him inside their home that he had wanted to kill his own father by breaking his neck with his own teeth, was horrible. 

"How are you feeling?" Jesse asked. He had spent the whole process leaning on the doorframe. 

"Like shit." Dean answered, shielding his eyes with his free arm.

"You'll feel better soon. I know the sessions can be heavy on you and you may not want to do another one, but I'm certain that they'll help you more than you think, Dean. They're not nice, but they have their advantages." Jesse was speaking now with a calmer voice than usual. 

"We're gonna let you rest again. I think you need to forget about the stress of today and last night." Pamela stood, letting go of Dean's hand. She and Jesse walked out, closing the door behind them. 

Dean didn't feel like sleeping right then after that whole thing, so he looked in his contact list again and called, even more depressed than before, if that was possible. The line rang two times now.

"Hello?" said James' voice.

"Hi, James" Dean said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat.

"Dean! We were thinking about you just now. How are you? How was the moon?"

"It sucked. Hurts. A lot."

"The first moon is usually the worst for the bitten. Give it some time and it'll get easier to shift. If you need anything, we're here to help." he said, in a voice much more kind than ever.

"I actually have some questions. Don't worry if you don't have time." Dean said. He was getting suddenly very tired, yawning as he finished the sentence.

"Sure. Shoot." even though Dean was used to James' sarcastic way of talking and making fun of him, this time he even sounded worried.

He wanted to ask about his nightmare. He decided not to do it and ask the other thing that had been bothering him.

"I remember that in that night I went to the cabin, where the wolves I hunted were, they changed untill midnigt. I wad my wristwatch on me and as soon as it hit midnight I could hear them change. Last night it happened earlier, around eight or nine. Can't recall. Why did it happen that soon?"

James stayed silent for a few seconds.

"Are you sure it was midnight?" he asked.

"Pretty sure. It was half past eleven when I left Sam at the motel and midnight struck as I was in the forest."

"Dean, the change happens as soon as the full moon is out and the sun is not shining anymore. More or less around nine o' clock. Sometimes a bit earlier and sometimes a bit later."

Now Dean was the one speechless. If he thought about it, out of all the werewolf hunts he had made, he had never actually witnessed the transformation of any of them, always hunting them past midnight. He never thought that it could happen since so much earlier. 

"Dean, do you know how good are the news you're giving me?" James now spoke with exitement. 

"No?..."

"That moon, the one you were bitten on, happened more or less around half past eight. The fact that they managed delay their sift about three and a half hours is great! The most I've managed is one hour."

Dean kept quiet.

"That means you may have the same habilities! Maybe not as strong given you wouldn't be a pureblood, but you can try and manage to control yourself more during the full moon."

"I wouldn't be so sure, James."

"Why? Did something happen?"

Dean shifted positions, not wanting to talk about it again.

"I remembered something about last night. My dad found out where Sam and I were staying and found me. I think... I know I attacked him. For some reason I wanted to kill him. I knew he was my dad and I still tried to."

There was another pause.

"Dean, you cannot expect to have full control on your first shift. Your father should have known better. Righ now you are... split. There is a part of you, reasonable, coherent and human. Your conscious mind. Lycanthropy anchors itself to the things you hide, the things you repress, like hate or fear, and brings them out. Your emotions don't come out of nowhere. John should have been there to protect you, but he didn't. It's understandable you feel that way towards him."

"Still, it's really strange to feel this deeply and strongly."

"You'll work on it. Like I said: first night's always the worst. I'm so sorry that you dad found out. Are you alright?"

"Where's Sam?"

"He's with Bobby. Still haven't told him, and I don't think either Bobby or my dad will want to tell him."

"If you need somewhere to go to, you can come with us, Dean. Because of the full moon, I mean."

"Thanks, James. I'll think about it."

"Don't think too much or the day will come sooner than you expect."

Dean laughed.

"I won't. Thanks again."

"Don't mention it, Dean. Liv told me she says hi."

As soon as he mentioned her, Dean's cheeks turned red thinking Liv had remembered him.

"Tell her I said hi, as well. To your family too."

"Sure thing. Later, Dean."

The call ended. 

Dean felt lonely.

Chapter Text

Dean spent his days after arriving at Pamela and Jesse's  talking with both, but being honest, he found hard to be motivated to do anything for himself. For some reason, the idea of going outside made him uncomfortable which is why he constantly tried doing something indoors, wether that was mowing the back garden lawn, washing the dishes or cooking  for everyone. He noticed how food tasted so much better when he didn't have to skip ingredients. Both Pamela and Jesse were trully grateful for the way Dean helped them out, but still they couldn't help feeling a little worried about him. 

He still felt pain from the cut left by the silver knife. Even though his skin was already closed and scarred, it seemed like he also had to heal internally. A large purple bruise spreading over his ribs showed it, hurting when the shirt brushed over it. 

Dean couldn't stop thinking about how he'd only been dealing with this for a little over a month and he had already gotten three scars. Whith his luck, there'd probably be a lot more. He didn't mind them too much as long as they were hidden, like the one on his ribs, but the ones on his face made him feel uneasy every time he looked in the mirror. They felt as a reminder of what had happened to him.

Fortunately, several of the effects had stardted to fade: he no longer heard everything so intensely, smells were much more tolearable, his joints and muscles no longer ached, and light seemed to bother him less. He'd never thought that, in order to see well in the dark, his eyes required a higher sensibility to light.

 Someting else he'd noticed was that his hair was longer. Partly, it could be because he hadn't had a haircut in the past two months, but this was excessive. It had grown about an inch since he had been bitten and suddenly felt a need to cut it. Constantly feeling his own hair on his neck and forehead was annoying. 

During his first week, Dean struggled to rebuild his trust with Pamela and Jesse because of what he'd said. He felt ashamed and unsure if any of that had changed the way they saw him. He kept quiet most of the time, focused on helping on anything he could, as if trying to prove he could be useful and not a threat to them. 

Several of his nights were spent listening to his cassette, rarely getting up to eat breakfast or any other meal, only snacking on small things like fruit to keep his his stomach from feeling empty. This went on for several days untill Pamela decided to make him breakfast without asking, almost forcing him to eat in the mornings. Dean had little to no apetite most ot the time. Having left Sam behind was heavy on him. He'd called his brother several times, but the calls never went through. He also tried calling Bobby, but the line just kept ringing until it sent him to voicemail. This did nothing to help with his anxiety, especially since, as far as he kew, Sam had tried going back to Bobby. 

As his second week began, Pamela and Jesse mentioned him that they needed to leave town for a while. 

"It'll only be for four days" Pamela said during breakfast. 

Dean had heard some noise upstairs the night before, things moving, footsteps and voices. Since his senses were almost back to normal, he wasn't able to listen to what they were talking about. He knew something was going on and was only waiting for them to tell him. 

"It'll be a short trip to Duluth. I promise you it won't take us longer than four days. Do you feel good enough to take care of the house while we're gone?" Jesse said while patting Dean on his shoulder, sitting next to him at the table.

Dean nodded.

They left him about two hundred dollars to buy whatever was necessary and whatever he wanted to eat. Jesse gave him full permission to use his record player. Dean told him he didn't have a problem with staying and being on his own, but only now he realized that solitude was hard.

He tried phoning James, the only person who seemed to have his phone near but he couldn't reach him, probably not having any signal back at the farm. 

He played some records to entertain himself: The Dark Side of the Moon, The Velvet Underground and Nico, Green River, Aladdin Sane, Sticky Fingers and Morrison Hotel following his own likings and Jesse's recomendations. Trully, it was a collection to be envied. From his own Zeppelin cassette, Going to California sounded sweeter than ever and filled him with some sort of weird nostalgia.

His first two days alone he spent them wandering around the house and the neighbourhood noticing that mostly old people lived there, as well as a few families with kids. He became aware that some of the pets seemed uncomfortable or alert while he walked past their homes, some cats even hissing and showing their teeth. Dogs acted different, more nervous, like he could snap an them at any second. 

Given that Pamela was not home, Dean completely forgot about eating breakfast as she was the one who practically made him eat. The next day he forgot about dinner and on his third day, he became aware that he hadn't eaten a single thing after waking up in the afternoon and drinking some water, feeling it fill an emptiness in his stomach he hadn't even noticed was there. 

It wasn't untill the fourth day he felt something: his stomach hurt, not being this hungry for a very long time. He woke up in the morning, around six with that horrible sensation, like wanting to puke, except there was nothing that he could vomit. Drinking some more water helped ignore that sensation for a few more hours, going back to sleep again before the hunger came back again. 

Giving up, he walked back to the kitchen to make himself something, stomach growling loudly. As soon as he opened the fridge, he realized why Pamela and Jesse had left him money: there was only a mosly empty gallon of milk, an eight of what had been a block of cheese, two bread slices and a few carrots. On the fruit basket there was a really ripe banana (too ripe for his liking) next to an apple. Deciding to eat what was at hand, he made himself a grilled cheese, drank what was left of the milk and ate the apple. When he was done, it was like he hadn't eaten a thing, still incredibly hungry. 

As he prepared to go out, he felt more and more anxious. About what? Going to a crowded place?

That was ridiculous. He had hunted a thousand different monsters and now, he was scared of going to a supermarket? 

Putting on a pair of old, wide jeans, a plain grey shirt and a green, warm jacket that James had given him, he took the money, the cloth shopping bags, Baby's keys, and drove to the nearest supermarket. The smell in the air indicated rain, some grey clouds making a dome over the city. He parked on the nearest spot to the door under a thin, long stick that pretended to be a tree and went inside. 

It was strangely uncomfortable being there. The lights seemed excesively bright, the TV's sounds that had movies and stuff on them were too much, making an unbearable cacophony. The horrible covers of his favorite classical rock songs drilled into his ears, the fruit section smelled like fermented food. Weren't his senses suppossed to be back to normal? Maybe this particular market was specially annoying.

Hurrying to spend as less time as possible there, he filled the cart with what he had seen Pamela have at her house: pineaple, papaya, apples, a few oranges, bananas, lettuce, spinach, a small bag of russet potatoes, oatmeal, white bread and milk. He moved fast through the aisles, his head beginning to hurt, his mouth filling with saliva the same way it did when he was about to vomit. He hoped that wasn't the case.  

It wasn't untill the meat aisle his stomach twisted with hunger.

Dean stopped abruptly when, to his horror, the smell of blood seemed almost sweet. He had been avoiding meat for the strange satisfaction it gave him and because he constantly thought about how it would taste raw instead of cooked. Fresh instead of sliced. Warm instead of cold. 

Stop it. Why the hell was he thinking about that?

He swallowed, suddenly feeling his jaw very tight, as if trying to keep down the impulse to eat. His gums hurt, his mouth watering. He felt dirty, like buying something off of the black market, as he placed on the cart some trays with freshly packed beef, hands shaking as he got closer to the refrigerator filled with all kinds of meat. He tried not to breathe too much while standing in front of the fridge full of animal products.  

He practically sprinted out of there.

Once at the checkout, his hands weren't responding with the usual dexterity while grabbing the coins and bills, which slipped out of his grip. The supermarket sounds made it hard to understand what the cashier was saying when she asked if he wanted an extra bag, donate for a charity, add credit to his phone and other four things that Dean didn't even listen to, only being able to look at the woman's mouth, trying to process the words. When he tried answering to something, his jaw hurt with a sharp pain that he felt through his whole mouth. It became worse when the raw meat smell was the only thing he could think of, only making it harder to interact with someone. Finally, he payed in cash and put the stuff inside the bags, carrying them to the Impala and leaving them on the back seat. He was still hungry, even more than before, but he'd get home, make a stew or something for when Pam and Jesse arrived, eat untill he was full and try to sleep a bit to make the headache (that was almost migraine now) go away. He dropped his whole weight on the driver's seat regretting it almost instantly as an electric kind of pain made his whole body shiver, it going from his tailbone to his head through the spine. 

On the road, the weird sickness began to turn worse, his body not responding properly like being tired. He felt drowsy, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, which was ridiculous, since it was freezing outside. Managing to park the car in front of the house not without doing a titanic effort to stay awake, he took the bags and walked unsteadily to the porch, almost dropping the keys twice before going inside. He put the sopping bags over the kitchen table right before walking to the couch and falling over it, bouncing back a few times over the fluffy surface. He scrubbed his eyes, hearing his own hearbeat on his ears. The hunger was still there, now more intense, ravenous, but the tiredness was stronger, his body aching horribly head to toe. Closing his eyes, he slipped into a deep sleep in a few seconds.

The strange tingling was back. He knew he was there, but absent, having no control. Something made him move, go somewhere, even when he insisted on stopping. Why? Heart racing, breathing fast, but curiously, the hunger was going away. The more he let it happen, the better he felt. 

He let himself go. 

Firm ground under his hands, weight over his arms and legs. Movement.

Dean woke up after feeling his strenght back, full and better. He opened his eyes slowyly. Lying now over the bed, curled up and using as little space as he could. The first thing he noticed was the sour and metallic smell in the air. This made him jump up in one sudden movement, scared. 

The second thing was the state he was in, feeling different. Maybe more than ever. 

Once again and, to his horror, his hands, now half-human, had claws, razor-sharp and long, but not only that: fur covered the upper part of his arms down to the back of hands, having the same sandy brown tone as his hair. The clothes were tight and itchy over his chest, pressing down on the fur that peeked out under the neck and the hem of his shirt. His jaw felt longer than usual, and as he opened his mouth, he felt fangs graze the inside of his lips.

The shock made him fall off the bed and hit the floor with a dull thud, hurting the back of his head once again. Groaning with pain, from him came out a strange guttural sound, like a growl. His legs had taken a different form. Trying to stand up, not without a struggle, he managed to do it, realizing he now had to tiptoe, given his new anatomy demanded it. His feet had turned into something more canine shaped. He tried to ignore the strange feeling on his tailbone, as well as the pain on his lower back, persistant even through all of it. 

He walked with little balance towards the kitchen, noticing how everything suddenly seemed different. Smaller. Was he taller? Leaning against the doorframe, he was able to see what he had done: the shopping bags were torn to shreds, groceries scattered across the floor, the meat packages destroyed, empty and with that red substance that meat sometimes left staining everything. That was why he had felt his hands sticky and gross, the liquid drying over the fur and claws. There were scratches all over the wooden floor and table, and a glass bottle with flowers that Pamela had left before leaving had been knocked over, dripping its water over the dry petals.

He felt nauseous. He had eaten raw meat. Worse than that, the full moon was too weeks away and still he was... like that. And he still couldn't shake off how good it had felt to let himself go. 

His temples throbbed while trying to remember what the hell had happened, like he had to break some kind of binding inside himself to know. The rest of the house was locked, the windows had big iron bars that made it impossible for him to have gone outside. That calmed him a little. Still, he was on edge. He didn't have the slightest idea for why he had changed, much less why he still wasn't back to normal by now. It was a horrible feeling having to not just see, but feel his body completely turned into something else. Different. Uncomfortable.

And why the hell was that weird pain on his lower back still there?

Resigned, he had decided to clean that mess even though it would cost him a huge effort and a broken back when he heard the engine of a car, still far away. It made him feel even more uncomfortable (if that was even possible) as he noticed his ears follow the sound, moving slightly. The thing about having no control over his own body bothered him. A lot. 

The sound of the engine became louder, suddenly recognizing it as Pamela and Jesse's car. 

SHIT. 

He panicked and slipped on his way to the window, not being used to walking like that and losing his balance, sensing some strange weight on his back, under his clothes while straigtening back up. He peeked outside through a slit through the dark curtains on the living room and saw Jesse already getting out of the car, Pamela behind the wheel. She still hadn't turned off the engine, like she was just dropping him off. It really was that. Jesse said something that Dean heard perfectly (to his surprise) and walked to the door.

SHITSHITSHIT

Dean didn't know what else to do except go back to his room and lock the door behind him, stressed. He leaned on the door, pressing his back against it . Then he slid down, letting his own weight pull him to the floor, only to regret that instantly just as he fell over his tailbone and experienced one of the worst pains he'd ever felt. Piercing. Why the HELL was his lower back hurting so much?

Still sitting down and back to back with the door, he reached behind him with one of his hands, trying to sooth the pain with the warmth of his palm, when he felt something unusual. He stopped abruptly, not sure of what he'd felt and trying to convince himself that the fabric had just folded in a weird way. 

He touched his back again. Something extended downward, hidden by his clothes. A shiver went through his spine. Soflty he pressed with his fingertips, still hoping he was imagining things, only to feel a pull that went beyond where his spine would normally end. The skin and muscles felt sore and tight, as if he'd never used them before and was asking too much of them now. In a way, he was. 

This had to be a joke. A fucking joke. A fucking joke that his body was playing on him. Why the fuck did he have a...?

The jangle of keys pulled him out of his thoughts. Jesse was opening the door. 

Chapter Text

Pamela dropped him off in front of the house. She still needed to gather a few things that would be useful for repotting the special plant that laid on the back seat. That was what they had gone to Duluth for.

Bobby Singer had called them a few days earlier from a phone that was not his house's to tell them about something he'd found on a book: apparently, the myth that said that aconite had an effect on werewolves seemed to be true. The common name "wolfsbane" wasn't a coincidence. It was mentioned in one of the chapters how consuming the plant in any way had an effect on the transformation, being supossedly used as a way to be more controled during full moons and even  completely avoiding shifting. It all depended on how much was used. The flowers and leaves could be prepared in any way. The roots were used for a stronger dose.

Jesse had to admit that it sounded almost too good to be true, but they'd decided to put it to the test, almost certain that Dean's highly functioning system could handle a small dose of the plant if he decided to try it. If it worked, it wouldn't be a cure but perhaps just what Dean needed.

The thing was that aconite was rare to find. Duluth was one of the few places where the plant had been seen growing in the wild or in parks, no one suspecting of its pretty purple flowers. Besides, there was no guarantee that they'd find one on their trip, so they decided it was best to not tell Dean about their reasons to go to Minnesota untill they found the aconite and returned home with it.

Now, there they were, with one of those inside a plastic bag filled with dirt. Its leaves wilting a little because of the lack of water and the long trip. Jesse pulled it out of the car, careful  not to touch it with his bare hands. It was highly toxic all over, and even if he wasn't entirely sure he could get poisoned by contact, it was best to not risk it.

Carrying the plant to the door, he left it on the porch while pulling the keys out of his pants pocket. Something made him shiver as he touched the doorknob, though he wasn't really sure why.

As soon as he stepped inside, the air felt heavier. Denser. Something had happened.

He walked to the kitchen, uneasy. The kitchen was a mess: groceries scattered all around the table, a stain of what seemed to be blood on the wooden floor, clawmarks and an unsettling silence. The atmosphere was tense, heavy with fear and frustration.

"Dean?" he asked in a normal voice. Not hearing an answer, he spoke louder, inmediatly worried.

"Dean?!" he shouted.

Nothing. The house was as quiet as when he'd arrived.

He began to feel flooded by fear. The door hadn't been forced from the inside or the outside. All windows were barred. It was hard to escape, given that everything was locked. Besides, they weren't even near the full moon. Unless John had found where his son was...

"Fuck..." he muttered, angrily. He ran to the phone to call Pamela. He had to tell her quickly. If he'd been taken, there was still a chance to find him. Just before dialing the last digits of her number, a shadow moved from behind Dean's bedroom door. Something was blocking the light that passed through the gap left between the door and the floor. Cautiously, he walked to the room, ignoring the feeling in his gut that told him to back away. The closer he got, the more anxious he felt about something. He knocked softly twice.

"Dean? Please tell me if you're in there" he said in a pleading whisper, almost as if he was talking to himself.

On the other side, Dean hesitated. Jesse sounded genuinely worried. He hated wasting his time and dragging this out, but he wasn't sure it was even possible to speak in the condition he was righ now. He tried anyway.

"Yeah..." It was hard to articulate, as if the words slipped from his mouth. His voice had also come out deeper, like a growl. Realizing this, he closed his eyes tightly, frustrated.

There was a pause.

"Are you alright? Can I come in?" Two questions for which the answer was a simple no.

With effort, Dean spoke once again.

"...No... door's locked anyway... " God. It was so akward to say anything with fangs.

"What happened in the kitchen? Are you hurt?"

This surprised him. Even though he was acting really strange, Jesse worried about his well-being first. That he was okay.

"I lost myself... I don't know why but-" he cut himself when he could no longer utter words, a growl coming out of his throat instead. He tried again.

"I don't know what happened. I was fine this morning, went out for food and then I felt exhausted and weak... slept for I don't know how long and ended up making a mess." he said, resting his face between his hands. He could feel the claws on his fingers, and the slightly lengthened shape of his jaw.

A rustling sound told him that, on the other side of the door, Jesse had sat down and moved closer to hear him better.

"You didn't make a mess, Dean. You didn't do anything we couldn't fix or clean. Has anything like this happened before?"

"No. I still don't understand what the hell happens during the the shift or why I changed out of nowhere" Dean sounded understandably frustrated.

"We'll figure it out. You're not losing control, Dean. If you were you wouldn't be talking to me right now."

"I wouldn't be so sure. I still have no idea on how to shift back or why I don't shift back..." he said hopelessly.

Jesse felt his stomach sink. He knew something was different about Dean, but he had attributed it to just a bad feeling, more than it being an actual thing. Dean had changed and couldn't shift back.

Maybe it was the perfect time to put it to the test.

"Dean, do you know what aconite is?" He said calmly, from the other side of the door.

Dean thought about it for a few seconds. The name sounded familiar, probably from some myth or legend.

"Isn't that a magical plant?"

"Partly. It's not very well liked because it's extremely toxic. People call it wolfsbane. Apparently the name not only comes from its use as a posion but also because it has properties that affect lycanthropy."

Dean couldn't help but let out a chuckle as he now realized where he had heard about the plant. It hadn't been from John. It had been from Harry Potter. He had to blame Sam for that.

"Pam and I went looking for one in Duluth. We didn't want to tell you because we weren't sure if we'd find any, and didn't want to let you down, but we managed to get one for you. Bobby told us that, according to a book, it might help controlling the transformation, not losing yourself and being more stable."

Dean couldn't help feeling guilty. Because of him, Pam and Jesse had traveled a long way. Also, he was almost certain that Bobby hadn't answered his calls because he was busy gathering information from various sources elsewhere. All these people were doing something to help him and, what had he done for them? Destroy the house and hide away. He didn't deserve this interest in his well-being and comfort. But still it felt... Nice. Like he wasn't so lost right now.

"I- don't know what to say... Thank you." His voice was still a little rough, but less now. The words comig out softer.

"A thank you is enough. I wasn't given any proper instructions on how you should consume the aconite, but I thinkn a tea is possible. There's no guarantee this will work, but would you like to give it a go?" He asked. Dean knew Jesse was giving him an actual choice. He wouldn't force him to eat or drink a thing if he didn't want to. Even so, he felt compromised because of all the troubles both had gone to help him out. He also was desperate enough to use anything that would change him back to normal.

"I'll be right back. I'm gonna go put the kettle on"

Dean listened how Jesse stood up and walked away, going outside to the porch and dragged something inside. As soon as the thing crossed the entrance, a faint smell of dirt and radish reached him. He assumed it was the aconite. The scent intensified as Jesse snipped some leaves off.

He waited behind the door, not very enthusiastically and without much reason to move, not to mention it was a way to avoid feeling his changed body. Moving meant noticing every single thing that was different with his legs, arms and torso once again. The only thing he was unable to ignore completely was his back, alongside with the tail he apparently had now. Sitting over it was incredibly uncomfortable. He felt ridiculous and stupid.

Closing his eyes, Dean tried torecreatue what was going on the other side through what he could hear, trying to distract himself: the kettle had just begun whistling and Jesse turned the stove off immediately. He pulled a cup out from the cupboard (Dean could bet it was the red one) and listened to the steaming hot water pour over the wolfsbane leaves. The spicy smell of radish filled the house in less than a second.

Jesse walked back, his boots making that curious clacking noise on the wooden floor. He stopped right in front of the door, waiting for a sign of what he should do.

"Dean, would you like me to come in or would you rather I leave the cup by the door?" He said with a tone filled with sincerity and patience.

Dean got up as best as he could, trying to straighten his back but landing on his knees, as he didn't want to lose his balance. Some of his joints popped and he couldn't tell if it was just a readjustment from sitting on the floor for so long or because the change was threatening to happen again.

"Leave it on the floor, please."

The ceramic made a sharp sound as it touched the floor. Jesse sat down again, this time cross-legged.

Taking a deep breath, he encouraged himself to open the door, his claws grazing the surface of the brass knob. He opened the door just enough so he could slide his hand throught the gap. The sky was already quite dark, dusk coming really early in the winter. That was why Jesse couldn't tell what was inside, only seeing a dark shadow against the dim light. Dean's eyes glimmered from the blackness, reflecting the light that came from the kitchen. As he reached for the mug, the claws clinked on the ceramic. Jesse couldn't help feel uneasy. The change had been more intense than he had expected. Dean's hand barely looked human, his silhouette, backlit by the window, was bigger, more robust. He didn't react untill the door closed again, the cup now on the other side.

Dean held the tea firmly, warming his hands on the hot ceramic and feeling the steam tickle his face. The room had no lights except for the one coming from the street. Still, he could see perfectly. The tea smelled stronger now, definitely like radish but something else too, something sweet. Leaning the cup a little, some of the plant's leaves could be seen inside, palm shaped and a dulled green because of the scalding water. A small purple flower could also be seen on the bottom. The water had gained a slight yellow hue, almost imperceptible. He blew on the cup a few times to make sure he wouldn't burn his tongue (even when healing fast, it still felt as unpleasant as usual) and brought the cup to his lips to drink, almost gulping it down in one go as the incredibly bitter taste hit him like a ton of bricks. It left behind a disgusting aftertaste, aslo burning his throat a litte.

The bitterness was really intense, similar to the one that motion sickness pills had. It made him horribly nauseous. He had to hold his breath for a few seconds to keep himself from throwing up. He remained seated, now hunched over and still holding the cup between his hands, waiting for that burning sensation to go away. All it did was get stronger.

He realized the pain wasn't being caused from an actual burn, but from the aconite itself.

It wasn't intense or painful, like when he touched silver, but rather like he'd eaten something spicy. He imagined that maybe this was what heartburn felt like.

Heat started flooding him, beads of sweat pearling his face. The fur didn't help at all, itching once again.

Spasms ran through him. He felt his body become rigid, each muscle contracting, sudenly and painfully as tendons stretched and tensed. His hands tightened his grip on the cup, only pressing harder on it with each second. It was hard to breathe, only managing to take in short gasps. He let out a whine that could barely be heard, his throat not responding to what he asked of it. He wanted to scream. The ceramic cracked a couple of times before shattering with a loud crash. Dean fell on his side, hitting his head on the hard wooden floor.

Jesse swung the door open as the noise reached him, yelling his name. Fortunately, Dean had forgotten to put the lock back on, and Jesse crouched next to him. He could barely tell what was going on with how dark everything was, but he managed to place one of his hands on Dean's shoulder.

Bones began cracking again, shifting to a familiar position.

Jesse felt Dean's skin an muscles tense, pained and feverish. Some joints snapped and soon, his body began srinking, the hand over the shoulder feeling how it returned to its place with a snap and the fur disappear. While Jesses eyes accustomed to the dimness, he noticed the shadow of his face become shorter, just as the legs did too. Dean shivered under his touch as the change happened, barely breathing

As soon as his body relaxed, he heard him inhale deeply.

"Dean?" Asked Jesse, just in case he was conscious after all of that.

He didn't answer. Jesse turned Dean's body around so he was lying on his back and held his head between his hands, trying to tell if the fever was gone. He was still warm, but less so now.

Pressing two fingers to the neck, he felt the steady but fast heartbeats on the carotid arteries. In any other person, the aconite would've stopped their heart. Everything seemed to be in order and that made him feel a little bit better. 

Still...

It had seemed agonizing. Horriblu painful. They were expecting the shift to come smoothly, not for it to be torture.

"You can't always get what you want" he though.

The truck could be heard from the distance. Pamela was coming back with fertilizer and a pot to put the plant in, given that it could poison its surroundings. Dean still wasn't awake, and Jesse tried his best to lift him off the ground and onto the bed. As he moved him, he noticed that, in his sleep, Dean made a pained expression, thrashing a little in discomfort.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry. But I need to move you" he said several times as he slid both hands under Dean's back and legs to lift him, before gently placing him on the bed. One of his hands dangled from the edge of the mattress. As he gently moved it up to place it on the bed, Jesse noticed it was wet with something warm. Suddenly, the smell of blood became more noticeable, thinking earlier that it had been imaginating it. Dean had cut himself with the cup as it broke. Odd thing was that the wound wasn't healing on its own.

The cut wasn't very deep, but blood still dripped from it. Jesse turned on the lights and looked for cotton, disinfectant, gauze and bandages in Dean's duffle. It was a bit worrying that this was the second time he'd done this in less than a month.

He wrapped the hand and lifted it up to the mattress, palm up, just as Pamela came inside the house, basically juggling a bag of dirt under her arm and two fertilizer ones under the other. She was carrying at least twenty six pounds.

"Y'know, a little help would've been appreciated" she said in a huff, like she couldn't afford to waste much breath "I know independence is good and all but—"
Turning around to look at the kitchen, she spotted the mess that was still there. Jesse hadn't bothered to clean up, given that the tea thing had been more urgent. The bloodstains from the meat could be visible on the scratched floor, the food from the grocery bags was everywhere.

Pamela bent low just enough to let the things fall off her arms without them making so much noise and looked toward Dean's room. Jesse was coming out of it, quietly closing the door, letting Dean sleep. He turned to Pamela, giving her a smile that was mostly to show everything was fine.

She almost threw herself at him, holding Jesse by the arms and examining him head to toe for injuries "Oh my God, are you okay? What happened?" She said, looking him in the eyes.

"And I thought you were a psychic" he said, jokingly. That earned him a strong, mad slap on the shoulder, while Pamela looked annoyed, hands placed on her hips.

"I'm serious. Where's Dean?"

"Sleeping. When I got here he'd shifted. I don't know all the details, but I believe he ate the meat he'd bought at the supermarket. He has no idea why he changed" said Jesse.

"Did he hurt you?" said Pam, taking Jesse's hands between hers almost instinclively.

"No. He had locked himself inside his room before I got here and he didn't let me see him, but the talk we had was really coherent. We tried the aconite and-"

"Did it work?" Pamela looked exited, her eyes glowing under the light, a smile appearing in the corners of her mouth. She squeezed Jesse's hands a little. 

"It did, Pam. But I don't think it was pleasant. Actually, it looked really painful. I don't know if using it is a good idea after all. Also..."

Pamela looked at him, expecting him to continue. Both had been mentally preparing for something to go wrong with the plant, given that it really sounded too good to be true. Still, they had had faith. She braced herself for the bad news.

"Also?"

"It seems to have affected his healing abilities. He cut his hand a little while shifting back but the wound didn't close. That migh make him vulnerable."

Both stood there in silence, thinking. Jesse saw that Pamela was biting the inside of her lip while wondering what to do next. Finally, she met his gaze again. 

"That's Dean's decision. If he chooses to not use it again, we'll get rid of the plant. But if he wants to take it again, we can't stop him. We'll have to tell him that he'll have to be a lot more careful than before to not end up seriously hurt, specially with a silver object." said Pam with determination in her voice. She was right. 

"I know. I know it's his choice. But still, I can't help but worry about him." Jesse said. There was something about Dean that moved him. He'd grown really fond him during the two weeks he'd been living there, even if Jesse hadn't trust him at first. Given that Singer had asked them to look after him, he felt responsible for his well-being, not really sure why. Maybe because this whole situation seemed unfair or maybe because he wanted him to have a normal life, or as normal as possible.

"He's a good kid." said Pamela. "He has a good heart and his sense of morals is a little rigid but in the right place. I think he needs someone who looks after him after always taking care of his brother. He's rarely had anyone who worries about him." she said, her voice somewhat sad. 

"Listen, I know I said that he'd had to leave before the next full moon but... I don't know where he will stay after he leaves. It's dangerous to go back to Singer's. His dad might show up  at any moment. We can't let him leave here without a safe place were he won't have to worry about harming others or himself" Jesse sounded resigned. He'd walked over to the living room, dropping his weight on the sofa, sinking in the soft cushions. Pamela followed him, resting her head on his shoulder. Jesse ran a hand over his face.

"We need to find a place where he can spend those nights without any risks, and then he could stay with us again. House's yours, Pam, so you have the final say in this. What should we do?" He also leaned his head untill it rested on top of Pamela's while both took  each other's hand and intertwined their fingers. His leg bounced up and down, rapidly.

"We can let him stay for as long as he'd like to. But it's urgent to find him a place where he'll stay this next full moon. We'll think about it tomorrow. Right now we should focus on taking care of the plant."

"And cleaning the kitchen..."

Pamela sighed.

"Right..."

Chapter Text

For the past ten minutes, there had been an argument going on downstairs. 

Sam woke to raised voices, gradually growing louder until words were no longer spoken, but rather shouted. 

He tried to ignore them, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling until he heard his father mention his name. It was still quite early in the morning, barely past seven. He didn't understand what the hell was so important that it was necessary to argue about it when the sun hadn't even come out. 

He carefully opened his door, turning the knob slowly and trying to make as little noise as possible. He didn't bother putting on shoes as the socks padded his steps. Sam stood right at the top of the stairs, staying out of sight behind the wall. It was barely dawn and the inside of the house was enveloped by a bluish light, typical of the early hours. His father spoke loudly, and Bobby replied to him in the same way. He listened to what they were saying:

"...who knows what the hell he'll do now because of you, Bobby."

"Because of— Don't try to put the blame on me, Winchester. I wasn't gonna let you give him your moronic speech so he'd buy that stupid story and do it." Bobby shot back. 

"And now he's God knows where. You know you can't trust things like him, and still, you let him go!"

"Oh, so now he's one of those things?"

Sam could hear someone pacing around in the kitchen. By the weight of the steps, he guessed they were John's.

"Don't tell me you still believe he's the same."

"Yes. And I'll believe it even when he's like last night."

"Don't be stupid. The thing I saw down there wasn't him. Tell me where he's gone. Sam and I will find him."

Sam had no plans to leave. The last thing he wanted to do was go hunting with his dad. They'd go get Dean to the hospital or wherever his doctor was. Both would decide to stay with Bobby and they'd make John leave them alone. 

"I don't know where he went." Sam knew by the intonation that Bobby had practically spat the words at his father.

"You're a fucking liar. You helped him escape!"

"I helped him live. And I'll tell you again: I don't know where he is." 

"Fuck. It won't be easy to track him down. Dean knows how to stay under the radar."

Dean?

Sam went down the stairs, interrupting the next explosion of voices. Both men turned around to look at his thin, tall figure, his hair (longer than his father would have liked) sticking up in some places. He looked at them, concerned.

"What about Dean? I thought he was under observation in the hospital..."

Bobby and John, petrified in front of him, didn't say a single word. His father looked tense. So did Bobby, but for an entirely different reason. Both had this tired and heavy look in their eyes. 

"Your brother's gone. Although I'm not sure we can call that thing Dean anymore." John said. 

"What?"

"Don't listen to him. Dean's the same as always." Bobby looked at him, begging to not take John's words seriously. 

"Oh, right. He's the same even though he tried to kill me in your basement last night."

"Serves you right for treating him like you did!"

"Kill you? Dean?" Sam said, confused. He didn't understand anything that was being discussed.

"Dean's not himself. Bobby was an idiot for letting you live under the same roof with that thing." John turned to Sam, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him towards the door. Sam managed to break free, yanking his hand towards his chest. His father had grabbed him too tightly, and a red mark began appearing on his arm. Bobby walked behind Sam and placed both hands on his shoulders, protectively. 

"Sam, we have to leave now," he said, sounding desperate.

"I'm not moving until you tell me what the hell is going on and what happened to Dean."

John froze at the door, one hand already on the knob. When it seemed he was going to say something else as he opened his mouth a couple of times, he sighed and flung the door open, the cold February wind seeping inside. 

"Damn it. I don't have time for this. I need to find him before he gets too far."

Striding down the porch, John was in front of the truck in less that five seconds. He started the engine and sped off, heading toward the highway, leaving a trail of smoke and dirt behind him. Taking a good look outside, Sam could see the Impala wasn't where it had been last night. In fact, it wasn't anywhere.

"Bobby... where's Dean? Did— did he really leave?"

He turned around to see the man standing behind him. Bobby couldn't bring himself to say anything, only staring at him with a sad look.

"Was he ever actually sick?"

"Yes."

"But how come dad saw him? Why did he mention the basement?"

"It's... complicated." Bobby didn't know how he could answer without revealing too much. Even with Dean completely safe, it was hard admitting the truth to him. 

"Then why did he leave? Why did he leave without me?"

Bobby looked at Sam. The kid had put on a face that made him feel like he'd kicked a puppy. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, judging by the way his eyes reflected the light.

"Kid, the last thing Dean ever wanted to do was leave you," Sam kept noticing how Bobby seemed to be evading any mention of what had happened to his brother.

"Then why didn't he take me with him?"  

Bobby bit the inside of his cheek before answering, looking for a way to respond without giving too much away.

"Dean can't take you with him. He thinks it's dangerous."

"Why?"

No answer.

"Bobby, please."

The hunter didn't speak for a second time, dealing with the internal conflict of whether he should just tell Sam everything or respect what Dean had asked of him.

"I can't tell you, Sam. And I'm not gonna argue with you about why," he said, as soon as he saw Sam open his mouth to say something. "But I want you to know one thing: he loves you more than anything in this world. Your father's responsible for Dean leaving. But if it was up to your brother, he would've taken you with him like he always has."

Standing there, defenseless, Sam looked smaller, even if he was half a head taller than Bobby. The man couldn't stop thinking about the ten year old boy with the same hazel eyes and the same look of loss each time he stayed at his house, each time Dean said goodbye and left for a hunt. Except this time there hadn't been a goodbye. 

He sighed, trying to get rid of the weight that had suddenly appeared on his chest.

"Come on, son. You better get some breakfast. Your father won't be back for a while." Bobby practically had to gently guide Sam to the kitchen, hand placed on the boy's back. He knew the kid was thinking about too many things at the moment, so many that he couldn't focus on any. Sitting him down in one of the chairs, he watched Sam practically fall on it, resigned. As he rubbed his hands nervously over his pants, he felt something in one of the pockets. He pulled it out and saw the golden amulet that gleamed under the first light of morning coming through the window. It felt heavier than usual.

Walking up to Sam, he took one of his hands, feeling it a little cold, and placed the amulet on his palm. The kid shot him a surprised look, lifting his head up and letting his bangs fall over his eyes. Bobby smiled at him. 

"Dean said you'd take care of it, and that you'd return it to him when you saw him again. Take it before I forget to give it to you."

Same made a fist around it, Bobby softly sliding his hand away before walking to the stove and started making some food. Sam opened his hand and saw the tiny bronze idol that always hung from around his brother's neck. Dean wasn't completely gone. He'd left a part of himself with him.

He adjusted the cord so he could slip it over his head, tugging at the leather string, shortening it so it had a comfortable length, the heavy metal pressing down slightly over his chest. He tucked it into his shirt, as if having it closer meant he could ignore the fact that his brother was gone. The cold metal slowly warmed against his skin. 

He tried eating, but only managed to muster enough appetite for a glass of milk and two bites of the jam sandwich Bobby had made. After a little insistence, he was able to finish the entire breakfast. Bobby kept him company for a while, running his hand over Sam’s hair and back like he did when he was much younger and scared. 

John came back four hours later, unable to follow Dean's path. He hadn't found the Impala parked anywhere like he'd hoped to. It hadn't occurred to him to take the same road as Dean, thinking that maybe he must have gone through an alternate route instead of simply driving down the highway. By then, Dean was far away.  

When he arrived, he didn't immediately go inside, instead staying on the driveway, looking at maps and talking to someone on the phone. Sam could see him from the window. He'd gone back upstairs to try to talk to Dean. Unfortunately, the calls weren't coming in. Sam assumed it probably was because Dean had no signal, but that only worried him even more. He wanted to make sure he was okay. Hear from his own words what had happened.

He couldn't stop thinking about how John had talked about his brother, as well as  everything he'd said: that Dean wasn't himself, that his brother had almost killed him, that he was dangerous. He'd even called him a "thing".

Sam knew his brother. Dean was still the same as always... although he couldn't deny having noticed a slight change in his behaviour and mood over the past few weeks. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, other than Dean being less annoying and kinder toward him. It was just that Sam got a little worried when he caught him staring blankly at something, with an absent look. He sometimes bit the inside of his cheeks or bounced his leg up and down. Other times he fidgeted with whatever he had at hand or placed his thumb over his lips, clearly thinking about something. Sam hadn't mentioned anything about it, but he was sure something had been going on, even if he didn't know what that was.

But Dean definitely wasn't different, no matter what his dad said. 

He spent most of his day inside his room, until the sky began to darken again, not knowing what to do or think. It wasn't until his father walked inside that he turned around to look at him. He'd been lying down on the bed, fiddling with the amulet. John didn't bother asking if he could come in, walking straight over to Sam. 

"Pack your stuff. We're leaving in an hour and a half," he said, his tone sharp. 

Sam sat up slowly on the bed. 

"What if I don't want to go with you?" Sam used an expression and tone that John had never had to deal with before. 

"Don't be ridiculous. You only have me now. Dean's not someone you can trust. Neither is Bobby, given he lets anything inside his house."

Sam looked away, unable to look his father in the eye, feeling that he'd explode furious if he did so for one more second.

"Funny thing is, no one has told me why I'm not supposed to trust him."

John stood there, quietly, his eyes moving slightly side to side thinking about something. 

"The Dean you've spent these last weeks with isn't your brother. It's one of the things that we hunt and I should have killed it when I had the chance. Bobby should've done it too as soon as he knew what it was and that it was with you. He risked your life and the safety of this town for not having the courage to finish it off."

Sam scrambled to his feet in a single move. In one swift motion, he tried to punch his father directly in the face. John reacted quickly, moving aside and sending Sam stumbling a few feet before regaining his balance.

"Don't you dare talk about Dean like that. You know nothing because you weren't there for him when he needed you. If anyone knows Dean better than anyone, it's me, and I can assure you the one I was with since you left was definitely my brother. I don't even want to know what the hell goes through your mind that you think I'm going to fall for that stupid story"

"Think whatever you want, but I'm telling you the truth! You have an hour to decide to come willingly. Whether you like it or not, you're not staying here." John was agitated, his voice raised and body tense. Walking around Sam to get out of the room he left, slamming the door.

Sam stood in that same spot for a minute, breathing heavily before letting himself fall down onto the bed, sinking in the comforter and blankets that still smelled of detergent and moth balls. He felt alone.

His phone took him by surprise as it began to vibrate. At first he thought he was imagining it until a second look at the nightstand confirmed that he did have an incoming call. A call from Dean. His heart raced, nervous. With shaky hands, he unfolded the phone and answered, his voice cracking under pressure as he barely sat up on the mattress on time.

"Dean?!" he asked, his voice trembling..

"Hiya, Sammy." he replied, sounding exhausted. 

"Dean, where are you? Dad says you ran away from him. I don't know what the hell's gotten into him, but he talked about you like you were a monster... he said something about last night, that he saw you here at Bobby's, but I told him that was impossible because you were at the doctor's. Dean, I don't want to stay with dad. He's already packing up to leave in his truck, but I wanna go with you. Please."

Dean kept quiet for a few seconds, processing all that Sam had said and gathering the courage to speak again. 

"Sammy, listen: you gotta stay with Bobby. Dad's stubborn. Go with him but run away, first chance you get. Leave him and go back to Bobby. I left some money under my mattress. Take it and use it to buy a bus ticket."

Sam repressed an exasperated sigh.

"Tell me where you are first" he said, agitated, his voice about to break again.. 

"I can't. I risked you too much staying near you for this long. I can't let you come here or dad'll become suspicious of you too."

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean?" It was strange hearing him say that. They hadn't gone hunting for Dean to say he'd risked Sam's life. What did he mean by that?

 "Tell me what's going on. You promised me that if something was happening to you, you'd tell me, remember?" he couldn't hold back a sob thiis time. 

"I r'member. But I can't. At least not right now." Those words stabbed him.

"Dean, please..." he pleaded.

"'m so sorry, Sammy. Last thing I wanted to do was leave you behind." Dean's voice sounded sincere even when being a little distorted by the phone's microphone.

"Will I see you soon?"

"Maybe. I don't know when, but I'll visit you."

"And where will you go?"

"Don't know. But I'll be fine. Promise me you'll go back to Bobby's as soon as you get away from dad,"

"Yeah, I promise..."

"Be careful, Sammy." There it was again. That affectionate nickname Dean had given him for as long as he could remember. His throat seemed to have closed, not letting him say anything else. Several seconds passed until he managed to mumble something out.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

He couldn't help but laugh, certain that Dean could hear him. 

"See ya later, Sammy."

He lay back down on the bed, closing his eyes, his vision blurred because of the tears, now sliding over his cheeks and dampening the pillow. Breathing became harder, a tight pressure in his chest. He didn't think he could move for a while.

Dean had always been there to back him up, but now?

No. He didn't care what Dean thought was best. Even if Bobby offered him refuge, it wasn't the same without the certainty that Dean would be fine. If he went with John and escaped, no matter how much it hurt, he wouldn't go back to Bobby's. He'd do anything in his power to find his brother. Maybe he still wasn't eighteen, but it wouldn't be long till his birthday, only less than three months away. He knew very well all the strategies both Dean and his dad used to keep a low profile, hidden from cops and feds. He was perfectly able to take care of himself, find Dean and go back to their usual dynamic. After all, once he turned eighteen, his father could no longer legally force him to stay with him. 

He had a plan, and that was more than enough. 

Standing up, feeling more determined than before, he packed all of his stuff as fast as he could, placing the most important things like his IDs (fake and real ones), his phone and wallet in a small and portable grey backpack. He placed one change of clothes inside, in which he hid half of his money, the other half in his pocket. Quietly, he went to retrieve Dean's savings, counting up to four hundred dollars. Dean seemed to have been keeping that stash for a long time, probably adding a bit more each time they stayed there.

When his dad came back, he was ready. The big duffle bag was mostly a distraction. He thought it was best to leave it behind and run away with only the backpack. He would manage to get more clothes later. 

John was surprised by the sudden cooperation from Sam. The kid awaited, sitting on the bed and looking out the window. The sky was already quite dark despite still being early. The glass was fogged by the cold temperatures outside. With slow steps, calmer than before, John reached his son and placed a hand over his shoulder. Sam shrugged it off.

"Sam, it's time. I'll wait for you downstairs."

Sam looked at him with disdain, returning his gaze to the window. He'd go when he felt ready. His dad grabbed the backpack and the duffle bag.

"I'll go put your stuff in the car. Don't be too long."

His heavy steps echoed through the hall as he walked down the stairs and past the living room. Bobby shouted again, saying something that seemed to be an insult at John. Before he could reply, there was a deafening gunshot. 

Startled, Sam jumped to his feet, running down the hallway and practically throwing himself down the stairs. The scene he was faced with was truly unexpected. 

Bobby held his shotgun with both hands, smoke still rising from the barrel and the back resting on the man's shoulder. He breathed slowly. The gun, pointed at John, had fired toward him. Sam's things had fallen off of John's hands, needing to bring a hand to his face. Droplets of blood fell from between his fingers, running down his neck and chin. 

"SINGER, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" John yelled, pressing his palm to the wound.

"Quit whining. If I'd wanted to shoot your head off I could've easily done it. Not saying I haven't thought about doing it, though. I know how to aim and, and as I said, I'm a man of my word" Bobby said, not putting the shotgun down. "You're lucky these are rubber slugs."

He loaded the gun again before speaking.

"You're not taking Sam. I can't protect Dean anymore, but I can protect him."

Before things escalated further, Sam intervened.

"Bobby, stop!" he shouted, standing on the bottom flight of the stairs. Bobby turned around, surprised. He seemed to not have noticed that Sam had been watching them.

"Sam, go back upstairs" he replied, trying to hide the urgency with the firmness of the order as he raised the gun again, pointing at John.

Sam fixed his gaze on the man, walking down the last few steps. He walked to his side and gently pushed the barrel of the shotgun toward the floor. Bobby didn't fight him, although he didn't look happy but rather confused.

John stared at his hand, wet and sticky with blood. The pellets had only grazed part of his cheek, the most serious cut being the one right on his earlobe, still bleeding slightly. 

"There's no point in fighting, Bobby. No one ends up winning. It's best that I just go with him." Sam said, trying to speak as calmly as possible. His hands were shaking from the shock, and Bobby seemed to notice this, lowering the gun immediately and looking up to meet Sam's gaze. There was no fear or hesitation in it. He really was determined to leave. 

"Are you sure, boy?"

Sam pressed his lips before nodding slowly, without breaking eye contact. Then, he turned to John. 

"I'll be with you in a minute. Wait for me in the truck." he said.

John stared at him, puzzled. Sam had just indirectly given him an order to go to the car. Still, he listened, gathering all of the things he'd dropped and walking out the door. Rumsfeld could be heard barking at him softly from the outside.

As soon as his father was out of sight, Sam threw himself at Bobby, squeezing him tightly in a hug. He had to bend his knees a little to match the older hunter's height. Bobby hugged back. Suddenly, Sam was little again, ten years old, scared that something would happen to his brother while he was away. 

"I'm sorry, Bobby..." muttered Sam, resting his chin on Bobby's shoulder, still hugging him. 

"For what, kid?"

"For leaving you again. First Dean, now me. After all you've done for us, we haven't given you anything in return."

"A thank you is enough." Bobby let go of Sam, stepping back a little just as Sam did too. His eyes looked damp and sad. 

"Then thank you. For everything." he attempted a smile that didn't last more than a second. 

"Find your brother. He needs you more than ever, even if he doesn't want to admit it. I know where he is, but if you go with him, you'll need to keep in mind that, no matter what, Dean's still Dean. Don't listen to what your father says or how different he looks, he’s still the Dean you know and who loves you."

Sam nodded. He still didn't understand everything that Bobby  was telling him, but it was best not to question it. It didn't matter what happened now, nothing would convince him that Dean was different.

"You have to promise yourself that, no matter the state you find your brother in, he hasn't changed. Got it? He'll try pushing you away. Don't let him." Bobby took Sam's hands between his, holding them firmly, trying to make the importance his words really sink in. It wasn't necessary. Sam knew.

"I'll send you the coordinates. Go now."

Sam hugged the man one more time before walking to the door and waving goodbye. He locked it on his way out. His father waited inside the rusty old pickup they had lent him, impatiently and with the engine already running. The weather was quite cold and the night was already dark. The lights on the car illuminated only a stretch of the dirt road.. Rumsfeld walked over to Sam with a pitiful whine and began licking his shoes. The dog seemed to be saying that he didn't want him to leave. Sam scratched behind the dog’s ears a couple of times before walking towards the car. The door squeaked as he opened it. Sam sat down in the front seat, next to his dad. John was looking at a giant map. Because of its size he had to hold it with both hands, flashlight in his mouth so he could read it.

"Where are we going now?"

John shot him a quick glance, telling him he had heard the question. After staring at the map for a few more seconds, he took the flashlight out of his mouth to talk.

"Back to Oregon. I need to return the truck. We'll get another car but we'll probably have to pay for it by helping in some hunts." 

John had used "we". He was dragging Sam into this again. 

His dad released the handbrake, shifted to first gear and moved the car along the dirt road, slowly at first, speeding up while they got closer to the highway. Once the truck was over the pavement, he spoke again.

"Sammy, I—"

"It's Sam," he cut him off. John made a flat expression, clearly annoyed, but kept going.

"Sam. I'm sure you're still confused about that whole thing in the morning. I'm really not in the mood to talk about it right now, but I don't think it's right hiding this from you, especially because it involves your brother." Not for a single instance did John look away from the dimly lit road, completely surrounded by darkness. Sam wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want them to crash or because he didn't want to face him. 

He sighed.

"Dean's dead, or at least the Dean you knew. Let me repeat to you that the thing you have been spending time with this past month isn't your brother."

Remember what Bobby said.

He didn't want to imagine, not even for a single second, that what his father had told him could be true. That Dean could really be dead, that the one to whom he had given the cassette and the Walkman wasn't his brother, that he'd been spending time with something else. It was impossible. Still, he felt tense and agitated. He swallowed before speaking, restraining himself from replying to his dad in anger.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, since that night in Oregon, he changed. Don't tell me you didn't notice anything strange about Dean." He made himself be heard over the noise of the growling engine.

He thought about it again. The sudden kindness, that he seemed to be more alert, that he sometimes seemed to be lost in thoughts. Sam had assumed it had been because too many things had happened that night. Dean had almost died more than once fighting the werewolves, after all. Sam was sure of it for how many injuries he'd seen on him that day. It was normal for his brother to act a little odd.

"All creatures of his kind are affected by silver. Did you ever see your brother handle a silver knife or bullet while you were with him?"

"No, but it wasn't like we needed to use them... And what do you mean by ‘creatures of his kind’?"

"I mean shapeshifters. Something replaced Dean and managed to fool you and Bobby so you'd believe it was harmless. Singer risked a lot of people, including you, by letting him live."

Hadn't Dean mentioned something like that too? That he had endangered Sam's life? Maybe Dean knew his father already suspected him and that, by staying with Sam, he'd suspect them both. But then there was no reason for John to simply let him come with him without running a few tests.

With every word, he understood less and less.

Once he was far away, he'd have time to think about all of this. It was too much and he felt like his head would explode if another piece of this weird puzzle appeared. For now, he had to focus on running away. He'd wait until the next gas stop. He had a plan and couldn't afford to waste his one and only chance. 

Turning around in his seat, he searched for the backpack, feeling it with his hand in the darkness. Right at that moment, his phone vibrated with a message. Pulling his baggage to the front, he flipped his phone, his face lit by the screen. It showed a small text on a white background. It was from Bobby. The coordinates.

45-97

Sam looked over his Dad's shoulder, at the dashboard. Luckily for him, the glass needle was leaning towards the fuel symbol. It wouldn't take long before they needed to pull over to refuel the gas tank. 

It didn't matter that the sun had already set a couple of hours ago. He knew exactly which way they were going. West. Not north. Now, on top of everything else, he had to find a way to go back the same road they'd traveled and to really go north if he wanted to get to wherever those coordinates were sending him to.

Just as they left Sioux Falls behind it started to rain a little, clouds following them the whole way. John tried to entable a conversation a few times, but the kid's answers were brief and simple. He gave up half an hour later, traveling the rest of the way in silence. 

An hour later, they stopped. The town's name was Kimball, announced by a white sign on the edge of the road that seemed to have been hand painted half a century ago, judging by how sun bleached it looked. Sam got lucky again. The nearest gas station was in the inner part of the small town, not right next to the highway, really far from everything. He'd have a better chance of running and hiding somewhere, or even staying in a cheap motel. Strangely, his dad drove past the gas station. He kept going until he turned right, into a tiny parking lot with what seemed to be four small cabins next to it. They were advertised with a pale neon sign that barely shone, just enough to be seen from a block away. John parked the car in front of one of them and got out to pay for the night in the front desk without saying a word to him. It wasn't like he needed to. They'd followed that same routine for as long as Sam could remember.

This was even better. His chance to run away was right here. He'd just have to be quick. 

Clutching the backpack in his arms and carefully opening the door, he was faced with the cold breeze, a few raindrops could be heard pattering on the roof, some getting inside and falling over his shoes. 

John wasn't looking in his direction.

Now that he thought about it, he didn't even need to leave all of his stuff behind. He had enough time to escape with all of his belongings.

Once again, without taking his eyes off the reception desk, he pulled his duffle bag from the back seat, slung it over his shoulder with the backpack already on him. Carefully, he got out of the car, feeling the wet asphalt and listening to his footsteps splashing in the puddles. His father was still paying, not turning around.

It was now or never. 

He took a few steps back, walking in reverse and examining his surroundings. The motel faced an area filled with trees behind which houses were hidden, judging by the warm light that filtered through the branches and leaves. Without a second thought, he ran that way.

He ran like he'd never done before, feeling the cold air burn his throat, the streams of water that ran down the streets dampen the hem of his pants, the droplets fall on his face. The backpack along with his duffle bag hit his back and the side of his leg rhythmically as he ran. The idol on Dean's necklace jumped up and down, falling on his chest again and again, hidden under his t-shirt. The deeper he went into the woodsy part, the less clearly he could see where he stepped. He didn't care. Hitting weeds, grass that reached his hips and thorny branches that stuck to his clothes he stumbled several times, tripping over stones and roots. He ran faster as he heard John's voice calling his name.

He couldn't believe his plan, being so simple and improvised, had worked. 

Sam kept going for a long time, dodging bushes, jumping over small holes on the ground, almost falling into others. Several times he stepped in deep muddy puddles, some soaking him up to his ankle. His boots began feeling heavier and heavier. When he finally stopped, he did it right next to what seemed to be a river. The path he'd been following led straight to the body of water, judging by the smell of wet soil and the murmur of water that came from somewhere below him. He could barely see where he was going. His heart was racing and his breathing labored.

But he'd done it.

Letting himself collapse onto a small pile of leaves, he tried to recover. The place was as quiet as the edge of forests can be. Crickets filled the air with their songs, accompanied by the pattering rain that fell on the leaves.

He was soaked. His hair stuck to his forehead and ears, dripping onto his clothes, water came out of his shoes each time he put weight on them, the pants were wet to his knees, feeling heavy. And although he hadn't minded it before, his clothes were definitely absorbing the water from the soil where he'd sat. It didn't help that it was an unusually cold night.

The sooner he found a place to stay and spend the night in, the better. Going back to the motel was definitely out. John would surely be looking for him. 

The good thing about it being a small town was that people didn't worry too much about locking their doors or putting a fence on their gardens. Anyone could walk around, behind and in front of the houses without any problem. Knowing this, Sam approached the houses and looked inside each of them. Some still had lights on so he avoided those at all costs. Others were completely dark inside, but had clear signs that the owners were still there: a TV on, dishes left in the sink, some pets sleeping and some awake. It was still early, not past ten. It was normal that some people were up.

After inspecting about fifteen houses, he came to a small, single story one that seemed to be empty. He made sure of it by checking several signs. Furniture was still wrapped in plastic, no car was on the driveway, the water supply was off as well as the power. He made sure to turn these last two back on before he went inside.

Walking in silence and crouching, in case a neighbour might see him, he tried to unlock the back door with a lockpick he always carried around in case he needed it. After a couple of minutes, the lock gave away.

Inside, the house was considerably warmer than the outside by at least fifteen degrees. All windows had blinds, fully open. He closed them before turning on his flashlight.

The place had a room with only a wooden base for a mattress. The floor had been carpeted in a gray color that, by its appearance, seemed to be a recent addition. The living room was small, right next to a kitchen with just enough space to fit a medium sized fridge and a stove. There was a big blue sofa, enveloped in plastic wrap to protect it from dust. Sam discovered that he barely fit inside the claustrophobically small bathroom that had a porcelain toilet and sink, as well as a shower with an unexpectedly low roof. 

Leaving his stuff on the floor, he opened the duffle and from it, he took out a sleeping bag. It was really old, its stuffing poking out from some of the torn seams, but it was better than nothing. He could have easily slept on the couch, but didn't want to risk damaging it and leaving evidence of his stay.

He needed to warm up quickly and get rid of the wet clothes. Taking out the change of clothes he'd packed, he put them on, draping the damp ones over the base of the bed. As soon as he slipped inside the sleeping bag, he felt how his limbs, already quite numb, began to warm up in a comforting way. 

To his own surprise, he was actually pulling it off. Now, in a place where he felt somewhat safe, he began to try to piece everything together. 

What the hell had happened to Dean?

There were too many parts to this strange puzzle. He wasn't even sure that, after putting all of the bits together, it would even make sense. Reaching for the backpack, he pulled out a pen, taken from a motel in Texas more than half a year ago, as well as a small notebook he always carried around to write relevant information. The place was so quiet that the only thing he could hear was the rubbing of the sleeping bag against the floor and his clothes. 

Lying on his stomach, he placed the flashlight on the floor, angling it towards him. With the notebook spread out, his cold hands aching slightly, and finally with a moment of peace to think, he wrote:

"Dad: says Dean's not himself. Shapeshifters mentioned. Affected by silver. Creatures of  his kind. Dangerous.

Bobby: hints that Dean might look different somehow??? Constantly repeats that Dean's the same. Perhaps physical change. Maybe?

Dean: He said that he'd risked my life by staying with me. Why??? What Dad says is strange. Dean looked like he usually did."

He continued writing at the bottom of the page. He listed all shapeshifting creatures he knew were affected by silver. A voice in his head told him that it was ridiculous to think, for even a second, that his brother was one of them. Still, he kept going.

-Shapeshifters

-Skinwalkers

-Werewolves

He stopped at the last one. A piece began falling into place. Next to each creature, he wrote what he knew about them.

-Shapeshifters: they change into anyone, quick healers, eyes glow when light hits them. They mimic almost perfectly. If this Dean IS a shapeshifter, then where's the real one? Plenty of opportunities to get rid of me or Bobby.

-Skinwalkers: they change into a specific animal, either big or small. Change at will. No need for moon. Fully conscious of their actions. Heightened senses. Infectious bite. We've never encountered one. Dean being a skinwalker wouldn't make him need to leave, would it? VERY easy to hide.

-Werewolves: they change into wolves during a full moon. Superhuman agility and strength. Also heightened senses. They eat human hearts and flesh. Total loss of self. Infectious bite as well. Dealt with them recently. Dean didn't have a bite mark.

He hesitated. Was he completely sure about that? After all, his brother had come back so hurt, bloody and muddy that it was hard to see where the wounds were. Either of the other options meant that Dean would've had to encounter any of those two monsters while hunting the Oregon wolves.

Occam's Razor: the explanation with fewer assumptions is usually the most likely.

Anyone could screw up on a hunt. John leaving Dean alone opened a lot more doors for a small mistake to escalate into something worse.

To his horror, the more he thought about it, the more everything fit together: Dean arriving really hurt to the motel room, his brother's strange behavior that felt distant and lost. He had refused to go to a hospital for a broken rib and, a few days later, he didn't seem to be in any pain or show any signs of bruising. The rib was never mentioned again. Then, there was the incident with the bottle. Sam had clearly seen how the glass shattered under Dean's grasp. That time too, he hadn't wanted to be treated, despite the amount of blood that dripped from his palm and the glass shards embedded in his skin. Sam remembered perfectly how not even a day later, Dean used his bandaged hand with such normalcy it was odd. Also, Bobby had acted very strange the morning that Dean had woken up sick.

He hadn't thought any of these incidents were related until now.

Despite everything, he hoped it wasn't true, already feeling a lump in his throat. The room suddenly felt suffocated. Cold sweat appeared as reality dawned on him.

January 24th had been the date when they had left Oregon. A full moon. 

How long had it been since then?

Turning on his phone, he opened the calendar. The full moon had to have been on the 23rd so Dean could have gone hunting at midnight of the 24th. Today was February 23rd.

Yesterday, Dean had been sick. February 22nd.

He counted exactly 29 days from one date to the next. He recounted. 29.

He did it one more time.

29.

"Shit..." he sighed.

He felt— knew all of this was partly his fault. He hadn't made sure Dean hadn't gone hunting alone. He hadn't properly checked his brother after he returned, even though John had trained them to treat wounds as quickly as possible to avoid hypovolemic shock or infection. If only he had insisted, Dean would've been forced to confess. Even back in that town where they'd stopped and eaten that soup, he knew something was wrong. That in one way or another, he was losing his brother. But he hadn't insisted, stupidly trusting. Trusting that Dean would tell him the truth. 

He'd believed Dean had told him the truth. 

And why hadn't Dean told him? Did he really think Sam would want to kill him? That Sam saw the world in black and white?

Maybe he reminded him too much of his father. Maybe Dean saw that better than he could. 

Deep down he wanted it to be a lie, but couldn't help feeling that maybe, his brother was right. After all, John was the only one of his parents that had raised him.

Along with everything else, Dean had always been the one who looked after him. His dad never forgot to remind him that he, Sam, was his responsibility. He couldn't imagine how horrible it had been for Dean when he realized that he had been turned into one of the things he needed to protect Sam from. 

That was why he had left. That was why he never said anything. To protect him. He knew Sam would blame himself for not being able to help him.

"Fuck, Dean..." Sam said as he exhaled, pushing both the pen and the notebook a few inches away. "You had to keep what dad made you promise your whole life, right?" He rolled onto his side, face up, and pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes until he saw shapes and flashes of light swirling around. Then, when it hurt, he let both arms fall on their own over the carpeted floor, staring at the textures on the ceiling for a couple of minutes in complete silence. He didn't know what to think.

He only hoped Dean was okay.

He felt... sad. Alone. Tired.

Taking the flashlight, stretching an arm over his head, he turned it off, closing his eyes as darkness surrounded him. 

Even if it took him weeks to find Dean, he'd do it. He would get to him and wouldn't let him push him away. He would return the favor for all the years his brother had cared for him, not letting anything hurt him again.

Taking out the necklace from under his shirt, he held the idol's head in his fist, squeezing tightly. The figure's horns sank into his skin, but it didn't matter.

He repeated these last thoughts over and over again, as many times as he could. Only when the exhaustion was too much for him, the words faded until he fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

The day dawned sunny. Clear skies, a soft and gentle, cold winter breeze swirling through the branches on the trees outside the house. It was around noon, and some of the light filtered through the window into Dean's room, bathing half of his body with a warm and comforting feeling.

Dean opened his eyes, trying to shake off the heaviness, blinking several times before being able to focus properly. The room was lit in a way that, to him, it was beautifully irritating given that his eyes were still somewhat sensitive.

He moved his stiff limbs, noticing how he'd been lying on his side, practically hugging the cool and fluffy pillow with his whole body. Some of his joints popped, as if they needed one last step to snap back into place.

Even with such good weather, he felt awful. Worse than with his worst hangover. At least not feeling nauseous was a win.

He wasn't sure on how he'd ended up on the bed. Much less how he'd slept over the covers and wearing yesterday's clothes. Last thing he remembered was hitting his head hard on the ground. Details before that were kinda fuzzy.

A heavy blanket he'd never seen before wrapped around him, covering whis whole body. It had been made with multiple fabric squares, some patterned and some brightly colored. The inside was lined with soft but thick flannel. From the way it had been tucked under the mattress so it wouldn't fall down, he knew that had been either Pamela or Jesse's work.

His phone, inside one of the drawers on the nightstand, made a buzzing sound. Stretching one of his arms over his head, slowly because of how it hurt, he pulled the cell out and flipped it open. It was a text message from James. Checking his inbox, his face went red with embarrassment. Partly  because he had no memory of writing and sending it and partly the because of what he'd sent.

Dean 23:17: "chng withouttmoon, whyy????? hadnt eaten doesththave smthnggtoddo with it?? Pls replly soon:("

He was surprised at his awful writing and the excessive use of question marks which had seemed incredibly necessary, just like the sad face. With how disoriented he'd been, he'd managed to block yesterday almost completely. Now he could remember that he had, in fact, changed without the moon, but there were some fragments he still couldn't quite make out.

He read the reply to his message.

James 9:23: "Were you drunk?"

James 9:24: "A shift without a moon can be triggered by hunger. After a few days without food, your body shifts to keep you going by pure survival instinct."

James 9:26: "Those shifts take long to go away. You can expect to turn back after your stomach has digested the food, your small intestine absorbs it and you recover acceptable the lost nutrients."

Then, a few hours later,

James 11:44: "Are you sure you're ok? If you have nowhere to stay, you can come with us. If you can't come, we can go get you."

He decided to reply, taking a bit longer that usual because his fingers didn't have their normal dexterity, clicking on the wrong buttons, needing to go back, delete the wrong character, and type again.

Dean 11:50: "Thanks, James. I do have somewhere to stay. Let's just say I skipped several meals. And I wasn't drunk."

James 11:52 "I don't believe you were sober, but ok. Try to eat well so you won't shift at the worst time possible :("

James 11:53 : "Now I'll never stop bothering you about the :("

Dean 11:55: "You're annoying. Hope someone told you that before."

James 11:55 ":("

At least he had answers. He'd have to add that to the list of thinks John had never taught them about werewolves. In a way, it had been a relief to know the shift had a reason. That he wasn't losing control of his own body.

Sitting up on the mattress, and moving to the edge of it, he let his legs slide down by their own weight. His spine popped pleasantly once he straightened his posture. Muscles ached, but still not as much as they had compared to the first transformation. Looking back, he had no idea on how he'd kept driving for so long after being stabbed on the side and not getting any sleep. 

His stomach was empty, his mouth dry. It had been too many hours since his last drink or meal, not counting the bitter aconite tea. Based on the previous experience, he was sure he would not skip any meals ever again. He changed into more comfortable and clean clothes as the ones he had on had a smell that, he wouldn't admit out loud, was dog-like. It made him uncomfortable to think about that.

Upon leaving the room, he could see straight into the kitchen. On the table, the little glass jar with flowers was back on its place. From where he stood, he couldn't see any trace of blood, but the deep ridges on the scratched wooden floor were visible. Pamela and Jesse weren't there. He couldn't hear them or (while it sounded really weird), smell them. Peeking outside, through the window next to the door, he noticed the truck was not parked in front of the Impala. They'd probably gone out.

He walked over to the small table where a vividly coloured green ceramic bowl had been placed. It had some oatmeal inside, with some banana slices, next to a plate with buttered toast. Behind that there was a small note, folded in half, under a metal spoon. Dean grabbed it and read what was written:

"Dean:

We went out for something. Hope you're feeling better. We expect to come back around 1:00.

Please eat your breakfast :)

-Pam"

He smiled, feeling a kind of warmth bloom in his chest. Of course Pamela had gone back to her habit of making food for him. 

The oatmeal was delicious. Last time he'd eaten a plate of it had been in a diner in New Mexico where they'd served him a thick heavy paste that, if he didn't know better, he would've thought it was wheatpaste. This one was completely different. Perhaps his hunger helped, but there was something more to it than just the flavor. The mix of sweet spices was comforting and he could've sworn it tasted just like the milk infused with cinnamon his mother made for him when he was little.

He couldn't help but feel a lump in his throat, growing tighter with each spoonful. He didn't want to cry over something as simple as a bowl of oatmeal.

Eyes filled with tears. Even with the memory of the loss, he wasn't sad. He felt like he hadn't in a long time. Happy. Safe.

It was strange to be so selflessly cared for by someone.

Dean barely managed to wipe his tears with the sleeve of his shirt before Pamela and Jesse entered the house, returning earlier than expected. He hadn't heard them arrive until they opened the door. 

Both smiled as they saw him. Dean smiled back, his eyes still a little glassy. They were carrying a few things in cloth bags. Jesse was the first to say something:

"Hey, Dean! It's good to see you're up. How're you feeling?" he said as he walked toward him and, once he was close enough, ruffled his hair with one hand before moving to the cupboards.

Dean thought that must be what it was like for Sam to have an older brother.

"I'm worse than with my worst hangover. Everything kinda hurts, but at least I'm not looking like David Kessler anymore" he said, stretching his arms up and back, trying to relax them a little. He stood up, wanting to help them placing the groceries where they went, but Pamela gently pushed him back into his chair with her hand, letting him know that she'd rather he finish his meal.

"Having you back is enough," Jesse replied. He turned slightly to face Pamela, seemingly wanting to say something. He glanced at her, as if waiting for some kind of permission to speak. Pam noticed this and nodded.

"Would you... mind telling us what you remember from yesterday?" he asked. His voice barely audible, as if he didn't want to make him uncomfortable. 

Dean stopped chewing his slice of bread. Looking at the tension on his shoulders, Pamela calmed him down.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, Dean. It's just... we're worried about you being okay. The change was unexpected, but the more you connect with your memories, the easier it will be to not lose yourself during the full moon." Her voice was sweet. Reassuring. She got closer to Dean, sitting in the chair on his right.

He wriggled nervously on his seat.

"It's not that it bothers me to remember. More like, the memories are blurry. Like if I tried tuning a TV channel and there was a lot of static. What's left is something... Purely sensory or emotional. I don't really know how to explain it" he said, unconsciously running his right hand up and down his left arm. He'd done that every other time he'd think about shifting or dreamt that he'd shifted. Just the mention of it made the fantom feeling of fur overwhelm him again.

"Did something happen while we were away?" Jesse stood next to Pamela and placed one of his hands over her shoulder, covered with her long and silky black hair.

"No. Not really. Everything happened the day you came back. I didn't realize we had ran out of food and..." He knew they'd surely tell him off by admiting it out loud.

"What?" Both asked in unison.

Dean looked at the ground, ashamed.

"I kinda didn't realize there wasn't food because..."

Pamela's eyes widened as she realized. Jesse took a bit longer to catch on.

"Dean, how long did you go without eating?" Pamela didn't sound upset. Just concerned.

"It was just one meal at first. Then two, and... I don't think I ate anything until you arrived. I went to the supermarket in the morning because when I searched the fridge, there was almost nothing. I did have a little breakfast but, God, I was so damn hungry. I planned on cooking before you got here. Clearly that didn't work out. Before I parked the car, I had this horrible headache. Slept on the couch and... Details are fuzzy after that."

"Try to remember. I can fill some of the blanks." Jesse said.

Dean sighed before speaking again, still avoiding their gaze. He stared at the clawmarks on the floor.

"I know I did that," he said, pointing to the scratched surface "and I know I..." He swallowed before continuing, feeling his stomach churn with disgust "...I know I ate the raw meat. Asked a friend if the shift can be triggered by hunger and he confirmed it so, mystery solved, I guess."

"Do you have any memory  of the shift?" Pamela asked.

"No, I really don't. What I do remember is the feeling of it. It's hard to describe, but it was like letting go of something. As if I was jumping off of a cliff into a lake or driving really fast on a highway. That feeling of freedom with something underneath that tells you to be careful."

He was scared to say it, but it had felt good. For a moment he didn't have to worry about holding back. He felt free, strong and brave. It scared him.

"Afer that I woke up inside my room. My whole body felt... Off. Out of place. Things looked different. I think it was because I was taller. Heard you coming and I felt like I had to hide somewhere."

"Why did you feel the need to hide?" Pamela asked, tilting her head to the side.

"I was scared, I guess."

"Scared of what?" Jesse asked. It was a sincere question.

"Of what I could do to you or..." He let out a sad huff "it's going to sound really dumb, but I was also scared of what you could do to me. I— it's stupid."

Pamel and Jesse looked at each other. They hadn't expected that.

"I don't think so. The one time you've fully transformed, your father hurt you. Besides, you're a hunter. Your life often depends on you distrusting your surroundings and the people around you," Pam said.

"I know. But you've never given me a reason to distrust you and still, I did"

"You're rationalizing your actions too much, Dean. Your mind does not work the same way when lycanthropy affects you. All you seek in that state is survival, and even though you're still yourself, logic and reason are not your main guides at that point. That's why I believe your memories are almost entirely emotional and sensory, like you mentioned," Jesse said.

Dean doubted he "was himself" during the transformation.

"Please, keep telling us what you remember," Pamela interrupted. He realized this was just like another session, only without hypnotism. Maybe they didn't think it was really necessary because the shift hadn't been total.

"I stayed inside the room. It was then when you went inside," he said, looking up at Jesse "you walked in, I think we talked about something and then you mentioned the aconite."

Jesse nodded. Dean looked away again, covering his face with one of his hands. He sighed before speaking, his voice tight, as if his throat had suddenly closed.

"I- um... I'm sorry you- y'know... saw all that."

"Dean, it really is fine. Don't worry about it. I won't deny it was reallly unexpected, but you seemed pretty coherent. I promise we're not freaked out."

They both smiled kindly at him. That didn't make him feel better.

"I am. I know I haven't done anything yet, but I'm scared of not being in control... guess the aconite will help with that."

He saw Jesse press his lips together, tense. He seemed hesitant about saying what he wanted. 

"Dean... you know it's your choice, but yesterday when you drank the tea... I just know the shift was agonizing, don't try to deny it. No one is going to force you to keep drinking it if you don't want to go through that again."

Pamela leaned forward, still sitting on the chair, and gently took both of Dean's hands between hers. Her eyes trying to meet his. 

"We'll find a safe place for you to go. Where you won't wave to worry about something going wrong. Someplace where even without the wolfsbane, you can be certain nothing bad will happen."

He paused for a few seconds to tink about it.

"I'll give it a shot. I'm not sure if it'll help a lot or just a little, but yesterday it did it's job. If this ensures I'll be able to control myself, I won't care how much it hurts. I can handle it."

"Ok. You know you can stop if you ever want to." Pamela squeezed his hands reassuringly befor letting them go and leaning back on her chair. 

"I'll ask Bobby about the correct dosage. We don't wanto to give you more than what you actually need," Jesse said. 

Dean thought maybe he should consult James on that matter as well. 

They finished putting away the groceries. Dean went back to the bedroom to look for his father's journal. He found it under several T-shirts, deep inside his duffel bag. Bobby had probably retrieved it from the panic room when he'd packed his things. He was surprised he hadn't torn it to shreds during the transformation. He skimmed through some chapters to find the section about werewolves. It was surpisingly short. It talked about the legends and myths:

Lycanthropes-werewolves

From greek "λύκος" (lykos=wolf) y "άνθρωπος" (anthropos=man). From Old English: werwulf 'man-wolf'.

This first root can be found in names like "lycoperdon" or "lycopersicon". One of the earliest myths about lycanthropy mentions King Lycaon of Arcadia, cursed by Zeus. The curse is transmissible via bite or blood. They are one of the shape-shifting creatures affected by silver. 

They are not like those in movies, like a normal guy with fangs, claws and some fur. The transformations are total, requiring large amounts of energy, which makes them ravenous beasts after they change. Funnily enough, the closest wolf to the real deal is the one in An American Werewolf in London, only larger, more lupine and with a tail. Despite this, there is something that gives them slight human looking features. The ears al long but droop at the tips. Fangs are abnormally large. Eyes retain the color of the person's iris, as opposed to the yellow hue of wild wolves.

Many hunters consider them an extinct species, like vampires. Elkins says otherwise. I do too. I've seen a few. I can't count them with the fingers on one hand, but I wouldn't consider them exctinct given how  easy transmission is. 

It is thought that a silver nitrate solution can be used to reveal a werewolf's nature, weakening it and forcing the shift.

More text about legends followed. In the margins of the pages, he began adding all the new info he knew. Pureblood werewolves weren't mentiones anywhere in there. Nor was aconite or the changes in sensitivity during the lunar cycle. Looking for extra space to write, he noticed a footnore. It referenced another section of the journal.

Oregon werewolves. See p. 110

He flicked through some of the pages. Page 110 began with newspaper articles about several incidents: strange deaths attributed to bear attacks where the deceased had been found without  a heart and with many big bite wounds. One of those deaths was from 1977, another from 1984, and the mos recent from 1994 and 1995. From the latter year, four incidents were highlighted: one each month, starting in august. The dates, underlined in red, had the phase of the lunar cycle written next to them. All coincided with the full moon, except for one. 

On the adjacent page, written in handwriting which was in the fine line of being readable and not, the words had been scribbled with haste or uncertainty.

He read:

December 12th, 1995.

I don't know how to explain it.

I was tailing a werewolf. I'd find out who he was and spied on him for three weeks, leading up to the full moon, He was a young man, no older than twenty. 

I think he caught my scent because one day, out of the blue, he decided to get in his car and drive far away. No lugagge or anything. He arrived at The Dalles and parked the car on the outskirts, got out and fled into the woods bedore I had time to catch up with him. I inspected his vehicle and found a school ID. His name was Conan Hughes. It didn't mention his age. 

I stayed at a motel downtown, planning how I could find him. It was there when things became... strange.

I asked the family who owned the place if they knew the kid. The person who greeted me was a young  lady, a few years older than Dean, tall, dark and curly hair. Her brother was sitting behind her, reading a book. She told me he was their cousin and asked why I was looking for him. I lied about being a police officer, and she quickly phoned her uncles. They arrived about ten minues later, eager to cooperate. Eleanor and Michael Hughes. They told me that Conan, their nephew, lived further north and that they hadn's seen him in a while. 

I think there was something about me they inmediatly detected because soon they asked me if I was a hunter. I played dumb, saying that I sometimes hunted deer, but they shook their heads. They knew what I did and asked me the true reason to be following this kid. I had no choice but to tell them the truth. Both seemed genuinely shocked by it. It was strange they knew what a hunter was, so then it came my turn to ask questions.

I still don't know if I believe it's possible. 

They were werewolves too. In fact, the whole family was. They said it so casually that I thought, for a second, thew were all crazy. Sensing my desbelief, Michael asked if I had anything made of silver on me. I pulled out my knife and offered it to Michael by the handle. He took it and made a thin cut on his other palm. The skin zizzled at the touch, reddening. The pain was clear on his face. Eleanor did the same. The kids were gone, but I was certaint the same thing would've happened to them.

I felt the need to run away from them as soon as that happened. Strange thing was that they offered to help me find him. I was reluctant. What guarantee did I have that they would not betray me while chasing this kid? Even though they had revealed themselves as beasts to me, if they decided at any point that I was a threat, there was no way I would come out of that alive. 

I used to think the good thing about werewolves was that they only became a threat once a month, but they told me something that I believed impossible:

They didn't need the moon to change. 

Apparently, there is another species of werewolf. They call themselves "pure bloods". They supposedly have control over their changes and can live among humans without attacking them.

They wanted to look for Conan that very night. 

Both asked me to bring them to the spot where Conan had left his car. The sat on the backseat of the Impala while I drove. I didn't trust them yet, and the whole way, I held my gun in my left hand, loaded with silver bullets while I grabbed the steering wheel with the other. Neither seemed scared. Neither moved during the ride there. I think they wanted to gain my trust.

The three of us got out next to the guy's Ibiza. It was still in the same spot. Michael and Eleanor walked to the vehicle and  stopped in front of it while I took a flashlight out of the Impala's trunk. It was pretty dark, but they didn't seem to mind. Michales was the first to head into the woods, going behind thick and tall grass patches and bushes while Eleanor returned to my side. She asked me calmly to not shoot when her husband came back. I didn't understand her petition until I  heavy steps and movement coming from where Michael had gone to. Instinctively, I aimed toward the sound with the loaded pistol, but the woman quickly grabbed me by the wrist, preventing me from aiming properly. She had a stength I wouldn't have expected from her. 

From behind the bushes, a huge creature appeared. It was grey, with black fur running down its back, and brown eyes.I t was strange, but its stare had the same feeling like Michael's. Something deeply human emmanated from the beast. 

What I was seeing was impossible. It was a full week before the full moon, and standing before me was the evidence of what they'd told me. My hands were shaking and, before letting go of me, Eleanor asked repeatedly if I wouldn't shoot once she released my hands and Michael approached. I was in such a state of shock that I could barely nod. She slowly let go and took a few steps back. She said Michael would stay close to me to prevent Conan from attacking me if he was nearby. She went to the place where the creature had emerged. Even if the grey wolf had launched itself at me with it's jaws open, I couldn't have fired. 

This doesn't change anything, does it?

Michael approached cautiosly, but knowing how I would react, he stood about nine feet away from me, to my right. It (he?) genuinely seemed to be protecting me, standing there, scanning with its eyes our surroundings. I was terrified, having one of these beasts so close to me, even if it seemed so calm. Its size made me feel uneasy (larger that any werewolf I'd ever hunted), its claws too, and the enormous teeth that were visible when it opened its mouth to yawn. After a moment that seemed as long as an hour, another beast appeared, whom I assumed was Eleanor. It was the same size as Michael, but with brown fur. Almost chocolate brown. It (she?) made a strange noise that could only be interpreted as a sign for us to follow. The gray wolf walked behind it, stopping as it waited for me when I didn't move forward. I walked a little, and it moved behind me. I turned to face it, not wanting a monster behind me, out of my sight. It looked at me in a way that was surpisingly understandable, telling me that it was there for my own safety. If something decided to ambush me from behind, Michael would take care of it. When I still didn't move, I swear it rolled its eyes and then nudged me with its head until I started walking. I did so sideways, constantly turning to look at it to make sure it wasn't doing anything strange. 

The brown wolf (gonna use she/he to tell them appart) led us trough the woods. I don't know for how long we walked, but I had to turn my flashlight on to see where I was stepping. Sometimes she would stop for a few seconds, scan the air or the ground, and then turn left or right. Michael followed behind me. 

Soon, we found something: clothing. Sneakers, a pair of jeans and the sweatshirt the boy had been wearing. The were intact and even looked like they had been carefully hidden under a pile of leaves. 

We kept moving, passing by hundreds of trees and stepping on thousands of fallen leaves. Sometimes the terrain sloped, and I would have slipped once if Michael hadn't managed to grab me by the collar of my jacket before I slid down the hill. His warm, humid breath on the back of my neck sent a shiver down my spine. He immediatly let go of me as he noticed how scared I was. 

Going down the hill a little further, we saw it standing next to the river. Another huge wolf, black as a crow. I knew right away that was Conan. 

Before I took a single step towards him, Michael suddenly stood in front of me. He was shielding me, glancing at my flashlight. He wanted me to turn it off to avoid being spotted by Conan. I whispered that I wouldn't be able to see where I was going without it. I wasn't sure if he understood words in that form, but apparently he did, because as soon as the light was gone, he slid his head under my hand, guiding it toward his neck. I understood that he wanted me to hold on to him, so I knew where we were going. That has to be one of the strangest things I've ever experienced. 

Eleanor walked ahead of us, aproaching Conan, who was drinking water from the river. When a gust of wind blew in our direction, I saw the fur on her back rise as she detected something. Michael's fur did the same under my hand. Then, I smelled it too: the metallic scent of blood. I couldn't see it clearly on the wolf's black sillohuette, but blood stained its paws and neck, matting the fur. Compared to Eleanor and Michael, it looked different. Wild. 

Conan turned to look at her, then at Michael. Then me. Before she could react, he leaped over the stream and ran towards us. I readied my gun. Michael ran at him, diving for its neck. It managed to dodge the bite. Being a steep slope, slippery with wet dirt, Michael slid for several feet downhill, losing his balance, body slamming into a rock. One of his paws bent at an odd angle. 

The black beast launched itself to where I was. I shot, hitting the neck. It didn't seem to be enough, as it jumped over me and knocked me to the ground. I fell on a pile of leaves and twigs. Its blood spilled onto my clothes and face. Before it could open its mouth, Eleanor charged at it, pushing it away. With an agility that seemed strange for a beast that size, she managed to knock him onto its side and pin it in place. Her jaws opened and bit fur, skin and muscle, holding the black beast down. Conan struggled, kicking and whining. I froze for God knows how long at the sight of it. It was Michael who pulled me back to reality with a desperate bark, begging me to do my job. I jumped to my feet and aimed my weapon at the beast's heart. It went straigh into its chest.

The wolf kicked a few more times, opening and closing its jaws, gasping for air. A hurt sound that made my own heart ache escaped its throat before going completely still. Slowly, I saw the body shrink, fur and fangs retreating. Eleanor released it. Moving closer, I saw him. He was pale and his eyes were closed. I think he was the same age as Dean. God. He was just a kid. I couldn't help but feel a lump in my throat. It hurt to imagine that this could very well have been my boy. His freckled face did nothing but remind me of Dean. I wouldn't know what to do if that were my son.

I don't think Eleanor did either. Conan wasn't hers, but she really seemed to love him.

She genly wiped his face with her muzzle, cleaning the dirt and blood. Suddenly, I saw tears roll down her face. Who would have thought werewolves could cry?

She lay down beside the body, mourning the loss.

Michael appeared behind me, limping on his hind leg. He gestured for me to follow. We still had to find the body of whoever Conan had attacked.

We walked at the same pace, one mile up the river. Michael looked exhausted and weak. He even seemed smaller.

We arrived at a campsite. Even with everything I've seen, my stomach churned at the sight. A girl lay dead, her face frozen in a look of pure horror. I can't describe it, but needless to say, her heart was missing. 

I looked at Michael, waiting to see if he would do anything at the stench of the blood that surounded us. I think he also felt nauseous, trembling a little. There was a blanket next to the destroyed tent. He took it and placed it over the girl's body, gently and with so much respect. I called 911 to report the incident and hung up before providing a name. 

Walking back, I noticed Michael crying as well. My heart felt heavy. We cremated Conan's body with dry firewood we found and my lighter.

On our way back to the Impala, Eleanor deviated from the path, letting us go ahead. We waited for her by the cars. She returned in her human form, holding Michael's clothes tightly to her chest, her face swollen and eyes still glassy from crying. 

Michael was quiet. I saw one of his legs was broken.

We called one of the nephews to come with a truck to pick Michael up. Apparently, it was a bad idea to shift back with an injury as severe as a fracture.

We anchored the Ibiza to the Impala to take it to the motel. As soon as we saw the truck apporaching, Eleanor and I got in and drove down the rad, back to The Dalles. The whole way there, we both were silent. She only sobbed quietly for several minutes.

On the way back, she asked me to join her in the kitchen. It was around three in the morning. She poured a bowl of hot soup for me. I asked her if she would eat and she shook her head, telling me she had no apetite. 

In a serious way, she spoke to me, nervously fiddling with her hands. 

She said she hoped I believed them. Conan had been one of the few who had lost control. She asked- begged me not to kill them. Telling me over and over that they weren't dangerous. She swore that five or four times before she could no longer speak through the tears.

I'd seen their unusual control: none of them had done anything to hurt me, surprisingly. It was hard to believe. But Conan was proof that it was possible to lose themselves and attack. I asked how many others of their kind had killed people, confessing that a year earlier it had been one of her brothers and, before that, the father of his nephews who lived with them. Pleading, she asked me not to mention this to the girl at the front desk or his brother. The kids didn't know about that. Michael and Eleanor had taken the responsibility to end with any of the rogue werewolves. All it took for one of them to lose themselves was to fall into the temptation of tasting a human heart. The only reason Conan hadn't been stopped before was because they didn't know about it until I arrived. 

In a way, I understood what it was like to have the burden of keeping a secret. 

If there was even a slight chance that they would attack someone, I had to do my job. Not allow any more deaths. But with Eleanor so hurt and crying, her kindness towards me, even though I had been the one that had just killet her nephew, and the image of the boy, the same age as mine burned in my retinas, I just couldn't. Only told her that I'd leave them alone, but that I would keep an eye out for any news of attacks. If I ever found out about that they were linked to them, I would come back. She thanked me, taking my hands betwen hers and shedding a few more tears. I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable at the touch, knowing what she was. 

Any death that happens because of them now is my fault and I know it. Still, I left town the next morning.

I hope I never have to go back. 

Dean finished reading. 

He felt awful.

He understood that this was a past version of his father, from when he was 16, a little softer and less radicalized. But he didn't think it was coherent to spare the lives of an entire family of unknown werewolves and not his own son's.  John had given them the chance to prove themselves, and to him? Being stabbed on his side, being called a monster. A beast.

It wasn't right to be mad at James, or Ellie or Mike. It wasn't their fault in any way. Still, he felt some bitterness at the thought of them. 

All of John Winchester's morals ald principles were absolute crap. There was no way he'd written about how horrible he felt while shooting a boy Dean's age, even though he already had some deaths to his name, but he had no problem trying to kill him now.

Dean slammed the journal shut and threw it agaisnt the wall. Several pages flew out, falling like feathers to the floor. He needded fresh air. He needed to get away from it all for a moment. 

Grabbing the Impala's keys, his wallet, phone and green jacket, he put it on. It looked like it would snow soon. 

Without thinking, he swung the front door open and ran outside. God, how he needed a drink. He slammed it shut and hurried toward the Impala. Pamela's voice could be faintly heard in the distance, calling his name, worried. He didn't bother paying attention to what she said as he started the car and drove off. He was being an asshole to them and hated doing that, leaving for no apparent reason. He knew it would worry them, but he just couldn't care at that moment. 

Dean drove down that same street until the trail of houses stopped and the businesses began. He parked in front of the first bar he found. It was small, with about three pool tables, and several seats. The floor and ceiling were wood. The walls were brick. 

Sitting down at one of the single-chair tables, he called one of the waitresses over. He knew she was really pretty, but he wasn't in a mood to flirt at all, not even remembering the girl's face after she left, leaving him alone with his glass of whiskey. It wasn't his favorite, but he needed to get drunk fast. He no longer wanted to think.

For some reason, after his third glass, he just couldn't bring himself to ask for another one. The alcohol had only made him slightly disoriented from how quick he'd downed each drink, but not enough to calm him down. He paid and left half an hour later after arriving. 

He drove again, to the outskirts of town, and stopped at a gas station, thinking about trying something else. His breath reeked of alcohol and could only hope no cops were nearby. He went into the Gas-N-Sip. 

Dean had never smoked in his life. He valued functioning lungs greatly and couldn't affort a habit as expensive as nicotine, although perhaps this moment warranted it. People smoked for a reason, after all. 

As he stepped outside the convenience store, it began snowing outside. He pulled the Impala on the side of the road, next to a wooden utility pole and sat on the ground, taking out his lighter and burning the end of one of the cigarrettes. The smoke had a foul smell, and yet he breathed it in through the filter. He coughed almost immediatly, several times, eyes filled with tears as he felt the need to gasp for air. He hated it. But it was better than having nothing to do. At least he could entertain himself with the rythmic process of breathing in, holding and breathing out the smoke.

Night began to fall along with the snow. The Impala's hood was already covered by a thin white layer, just like the grass and road. He stayed in the same spot until the cigarrette burned to ashes. He did feel calmer, but not because of the smoking. 

Disgusting habit...

He crushed what was left ot the cigarette butt into the cold snow, the lit tobacco hissing before going out. He now stank of alcohol and burnt tar. The taste of smoke filled his mouth. 

He stood up, needing just one last thing. 

Spinning around, he punched the wooden pole, hard. His knuckles began hurting, with splinters all over them. Good.

The wood craked. The structure shook from the impact. 

His ragged breath condensed in the cold, floating away with the wind. As soon as he recovered, he walked back to the car, brushing off the snow with the windshield wipers. The cellphone had several missed calls from Pamela's house. He didn't understand why he'd brought the thing with him. He had no one to call for something like this. 

It was almost eleven p.m. when he returned. The kitchen light was still on. 

She heard him come back as he stepped onto the wooden porch. Dean hadn't even pulled out of his pocket the splintered and scraped hand to knock when Pam opened the door. She threw herself at him, hugging him tightly. 

Dean tensed. He'd expected a scolding.

Returning the hug, he wrapped his arms around her thin figure, leaning down his head and murmuring weakly into her ear.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," she replied, not letting him go. 

They went back inside. Jesse had gone out to look for him. He sounded relieved when Pamela called to tell him Dean was back. 

"Are you alright?" Pamela asked, as they sat in the kitchen, waiting for Jesse to return. Again, Dean held a mug in his hands, now filled with hot chocolate Pam had made.

Dean shook his head.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head again, not feeling up for speaking. 

"Is there anything we can do than will help?"

He srugged. It was a rather rude gesture, he realized, a couple of seconds later.

"I don't know. I feel- I just need some time to think. Or not think."

"Okay."

Dean tensed at the answer. Pamela continued.

"We're not mad, Dean. If you need to leave, for whatever reason, just let us know before going off like that. You don't have to stay here if you don't want to. We were worried not because you might hurt someone but rather because someone might hurt you. Alright?"

This time he nodded.

"Good. Now go rest. You look exhausted."