Chapter 2 - The Trail Goes Cold

  January 6th 1970, Bristol

  Six months after arriving at Heathrow Airport, the boys still hadn’t gotten used to driving on the wrong side of the road. Though Dean missed the Impala dearly, he knew this whole ordeal was only temporary, and they’d be back home in the States the second Dad managed to pick up the trail again. There was convincing evidence, their Dad had told them, that the yellow-eyed demon had traveled overseas. Sam looks down at the list he’d written:

  Mass cattle death

  Strange thunderstorms

  Housefires

  Family with 6-month old baby

  Death of mothers

  That last one hurt the most. Knowing that other families were going through what they had so many years ago. Some of Dad’s more distant, international hunter friends had contacted him the year prior, saying they suspected the trail had gone cold in the States simply because the demon wasn’t there anymore. It took a bit of convincing, but eventually, John decided they had to at least check it out. There were too many omens here to ignore. Turns out, that was the right call.

  They had spoken to two families so far; now, they were on their way to the third and most recent victims of a house fire, who also had a 6-month-old baby. Its mother had also died in the fire, just like Sam’s had. He knows it wasn’t his fault, but it still feels like it was. John hoped they could predict who would be next, and so far, they had four families in England that fit the profile. They would start with the closest one, right after they’d spoken to the family they had on the agenda for today, the Collins.

  “What d’you have there?” Dean asks, leaning over and snapping the paper from Sam’s hands.

  “Hey!”

  “Ohh, taking notes now, are we?” Dean is skimming through the list, eyes moving back and forth rapidly. “I thought you hated all this hunter stuff, eh?”

  “I’m just-”

  “What?”

  “Give it back!” Sam tries reaching for the paper, but Dean is stronger than him (the bastard) and is holding him firmly in place with one hand, while dangling the paper just out of reach. He’s laughing too, which makes Sam see red.

  “Stop it you, jerk!”

  “Just take it, Sammy, it’s right here,”

  “Give me!”

  “Take it then!”

  “Boys!”

  They drop it instantly.

  “Sorry Dad,” they both mumble in unison.

  “We’re almost at the address. You two will wait in the car.”

  Sam glances over at Dean, who can barely contain himself, he knows he wants to ask, but he also knows he won’t.

  “Alright,” Dean settles on, deflated.

  The rest of the car ride, the boys are quiet. Sam is looking out the window, or rather, at the raindrops trailing down the window. He chooses one of them, and cheers it on as it races down the glass, much faster than the other droplets. It merges with a smaller one, and picks up even more speed. The other raindrops don’t stand a chance. When it reaches the bottom of the window, and disappears, before all the others, Sam smiles.

  It rained a lot more in the UK than back home, but that didn’t stop people from going out. Quite the contrary actually, it seemed almost more crowded outside whenever it rained. Maybe it was because they all had umbrellas, Sam wonders. He wanted an umbrella, but when he had asked his Dad for one, he’d been shot down with just one look. It wasn’t necessary after all.

  Only as much as we can carry in a pinch, their Dad always said. They couldn’t be slowed down by anything, and all their things needed to be packed at all times in case they had to skip town quickly. An umbrella was too big, and he didn’t really need one. Sam supposes that’s okay. But what wasn’t OK, is how he had to get rid of his books before they left the States. Sam had been both heartbroken and so angry he couldn’t breathe. He’d had yet another screaming match with Dad, that ended in him tossing all of his books as a lesson not to be insubordinate and bratty. Sam hated him then, for at least a few days. Because then, the books had appeared back in his bag. All of them, in perfect condition, like they’d always been there. Sam had blinked, very confused, because his Dad had set them all on fire, right in front of his eyes, and yet, here were his books, all safe, and all fitting inside his bag. He’d even grabbed the copy of The Hobbit, which Dean had given him for his 9th birthday, and it still had the inscription on the first page;

  To Sammy,

  Happy birthday you hobbit

  Dean

  Dumbstruck, he touched the writing with his fingers, not really believing it to be real. Sam then quickly grabbed one of the motel towels and tossed it hastily in his bag, trying his best to cover them up. His Dad came in moments later, asking if he was ready to head out. They were going to be late for the flight if he didn’t pick up his pace.

  Sam swiftly zipped his bag closed, and as John reached down to pick it up, Sam nearly fainted, the bag would be heavy, and his Dad would know. But, to Sam’s surprise, it was as if the bag weighed nothing. His Dad had smiled and praised him for getting rid of some extra stuff; he must’ve, by the weight of his bag, after all. Sam had just smiled and nodded, saying “Yep,” more than he probably should’ve, and followed him outside to the taxi. The Impala was already at Bobby’s, where it would wait for them to return. Dean hoped that would be soon, but Sam didn’t mind England. In fact, he quite liked it here.

  They’d started school, much to Dean’s dread, but Sam? He liked it. He loved learning, and school was so different here. In a good way.

  “We’re here,” John parks the Corolla down the street and turns to the boys in the backseat. He points downwards. “Wait here.”

  “Can I just come with you? I won’t-”

  “No, Dean. Stay.”

  Sam hates it when he talks to them like that. They’re not dogs.

  “Fine.” Dean slinks back, arms crossed, leg already bouncing. The door opens, and their Dad starts walking down the pavement towards a little red house belonging to the Collins’ relatives. Grandparents Sam thinks they were, he didn’t quite remember. John didn’t really give them much information, only what they “needed to know”.

  “We should follow him,” Sam suggests.

  “What? He said stay.”

  “So? Aren’t you curious too?”

  “Of course I am, you idiot, but Dad said no,” Dean points out and starts chewing on a fingernail. Sam wrinkles his nose.

  “But we could just-”

  “No Sam.”

  “Fine.” Sam gives up. There’s no use, Dean won’t listen.

  *

  Back at the motel, Sam and Dean are again waiting on their Dad. This time, he’s going to be gone for a week. That’s what he told them anyway. Dean promised they’d try to find a nearby dog shelter and get more familiar with the town tomorrow. But for tonight? The boys were just trying to get some rest. It had been a long day.

  Dean was using one of Dad’s hunting knives to sharpen a wooden stick. Right now, he was carving some runes on it. Sam was reading.

  “So I was thinking,” Dean begins, putting his pointy stick down on the coffee table, facing Sam, hands resting on his thighs. Sam looks up from his book, raising one eyebrow.

  “That’s new.”

  “Shut up,” Dean says, but he’s smiling. “Let me say what I gotta say, alright?”

  “Alright,” Sam closes his book and sits up, back aching from the hard pillows. might as well sleep on the floor, he thinks.

  “I know you think you’re not like, hunter material, or whatever-”

  “I haven’t said that-”

  “Don’t interrupt, you prick,” Dean stands up now, leaning against the wall. “I’m just saying I know, I get it. It’s not a very glamorous lifestyle, but it’s the family business, you know?”

  Sam rolls his eyes.

  “And I just, I don’t know, man. It’s really nice to see you take an interest, finally, is all”, he says, picking up the stick and flipping it over in his hand. Sam is confused. What?

  “You mean the note?” he asks incredulously. “That was just-”

  “You don’t have to defend yourself, Sammy, I’m just happy you’re finally starting to loosen up a bit, and like-”

  “Just stop, Dean; we both know we don’t have a choice in this.”

  “Yeah we do!”

  “It might not seem like a choice for you, because you’d do whatever Dad says, but I don’t want to be a hunter, Dean!” Sam is standing too now, he hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten up. His fists are clenched, and he’s vibrating ever so slightly. Brows furrowed, shoulders raised he takes a step forward. “I’ve always wanted to just be a normal kid, for fucks sake.”

  “Well, surprise surprise Sammy, you’re not!” Dean’s arms fly to his sides, palms raised. “You’re a hunter, it’s in your blood.”

  “Fuck off,” Sam retorts, wanting to push his brother, and it’s with much restraint that he doesn’t, and instead, he starts pacing the room. “I’m not a hunter, I don’t ever get to do anything!”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it-”

  “Is it?” Sam snaps and stares directly into Dean’s green eyes.

  “What do you mean now?” he asks, genuinely, Sam thinks.

  “I’m always stuck just waiting around on you two,” Sam admits. “It’s not fair.”

  “You’re 10, Sam, you’re just a kid-”

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  “You’re not much older!”

  “I’m 15-”

  “14.” Sam corrects.

  “Yeah for a few more weeks, then I’m 15.” Dean snaps back, defensively.

  “You’re a kid too.”

  “No way,” Dean says, laughing now. He crosses his arms again, looking at Sam as if he’s lost his mind. “I’ve killed monsters, Sammy, kids don’t do that.”

  “You don’t even see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “Kids don’t do that,” Sam repeats. “Kids don’t kill monsters, Dean, it’s not normal!”

  “Oh for fucks sake, Sam, so what if it’s not normal? We’re helping people, saving people!” he says, words coming out fast, he’s obviously at a boiling point too. Sam thinks about the cola bottle, and how the pressure builds and builds, and he shakes it, and shakes it, and shakes it-

  “I don’t want to do it anymore, I wanna go to school, I wanna have friends, I wanna-”

  “Just stop, please.” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, holding a hand up to Sam. “I’m exhausted and don’t want to have this conversation. You can bring it up with Dad, since you’re such a smartass about it. I’m sure he’ll let you just ‘be normal’, because that makes so much sense.”

  Sam is still riled up, and not ready to drop it.

  “I-”

  “I mean it Sam.”

  “You can’t just-”

  “Watch me.” Dean says, grabbing his jacket, and he’s out the door. Sam is speechless. And Sam is alone.

  *

  January 18th 1970, Bristol

  John had been “home” for two days, before setting out again, this time taking Dean with him. Sam hadn’t even fought it, he knew he wasn’t welcome to tag along. Apparently it was a safer job, which meant Dean could come along. But not Sam. Never Sam. It wasn’t so bad, actually. He’d been in the motel room on his own now for two days, and in those two days, he’d gotten a lot done. He’d pretended it was “home”, and had even decorated a little bit. He’d hung up a few of his drawings, put the framed picture of him, Dean and his mom on the nightstand, and all his books were lined up on the dresser. Sam had picked flowers (Dean would’ve laughed his ass off and bullied him relentlessly for this) and put them in a shot glass. On the floor, he’d put his two pairs of shoes and his bag, which he’d hidden away inside a closet, where his clothes, for once, were hanging instead of being packed away.

  When he had dinner, or any meal really, he made sure to use the plate, and the cutlery, he’d nicely asked for at the front desk. At night, he turned the radio up, and laid on the big bed, reading his books. Right now he was on yet another reread of Two Towers, and he’d even been reading out loud, just because he could. He’d done funny voices for all the different characters, and imagined that was what his mother would’ve done for him, had she been here. But of course, she isn’t here. If she was, this wouldn’t have been a motel room for once, and Dean would’ve been next to him, listening along. It would’ve been in their house, maybe in the living room? In front of a fireplace? Sam shudders. No, no fireplace. They could do without one. They’d be in their mother’s bed, Sam decides, Dean on one side, and Sam on the other, while their mother held her arms around them. The boys would hold the book, and they’d take turns flipping the page, as their mother read to them. Sam supposes Dean is a bit too old to be read to, and maybe Sam was as well, but hey, this was his daydream. His Dad, oddly enough, wasn’t part of this particular fantasy. He rarely was.

  It was getting late now, and the lights in the room were already shut out. Sam never really needed a nightlight, he could always read his books, regardless of the amount of light in the room. But.. he had to admit, the darkness wasn’t exactly pleasant. Mainly because he was here alone. He was just about to get up and turn on the big light when it, as if by magic, turned on by itself. Odd, Sam thinks. Maybe it’s on a timer?

  He turns his attention back to his book. But.. his mind wanders. He thinks about Dean and Dad and what they might be up to right now. He knew the job involved vampires, but not much more than that. They’d left behind a few of the stakes Dean had been making, and Sam hoped they wouldn’t be needing them. He wasn’t exactly worried about his brother, but he didn’t like him being gone either. Sam knows that Dean is strong. And brave. But… vampires? Sam has never met, nor seen, a vampire, but they must be terrifying. Or perhaps not, since their father let Dean tag along? That has been happening a lot more lately, and Sam is always left behind on his own. Not that he wants to come along, but… Sam frowns. What does he want exactly? He looks around the room, which after his little makeover, feels more like his now. Yeah. It’s nice. He smiles to himself. His room. He yawns — time for bed.

  *

  January 27th 1970, Bristol

  Sam is beginning to get worried. And really, really hungry. They should’ve been back by now.. It’s been.. too long. And Sam is all out of money. Actually, he ran out of money days ago, and has since retorted to shoplifting. He feels terrible, but he’s just hungry, right? And it’s not like he’s taking much. Annalise, the woman running the motel, has started asking questions, too; she hasn’t seen John around in a while. Sam’s told her he works at night, and sleeps during the day, which explains why she never sees him. His dad working night shifts is his usual go-to lie, but they’ve been at this motel for so long now she’s starting to get suspicious. Sam hates it. He just wants them to come home. He misses Dean — a lot.

  That’s it, decides Sam, and he walks over to get Dad’s journal. Just then, there’s a knock at the door.

  “Sam, open up!” Dean’s voice is muffled, coming from the other side of the door; he sounds… scared. Sam jumps off the bed and immediately panics. The room.. his things.. it’s all over the place. The books. He freezes

  “Yeah, just a sec!” he says, running over to the closet, getting the bag out hastily, tossing it over in the direction of the dresser.

  “Now, Sam!”

  Sam whips his head around, to the door, he groans, looks at the books, the door, the books-

  “SAM!”

  Crap! Sam rushes to the door, unlocks it, and in comes Dean and his Dad, with- Oh no. Oh no. There’s blood. There’s so much blood. All color drains from Sam’s face, and selfishly, he looks back at the dresser, where his books- his books. They’re not there.

  “Help me get him to the bed, now,” Dean grunts, weighed down by John. He’s got his arm around his shoulder, trying to keep him at his feet, but it’s clear Dean’s struggling. Sam nods fervently, stepping beside his Dad on the other side, taking some of the weight off Dean’s shoulders. They get him to the bed, and his limp body collapses on it, as soon as they let go.

  “Is he–”

  “No.” Dean says quickly, hands at their father’s neck. The knot forming in Sam’s stomach sinks. No..

  “Was he bitten?”

  Dean is quiet.

  “Dean?”

  Still, Dean says nothing. He curses under his breath.

  “Stay here with him, watch his breathing, I–”

  “What!? Dean, no, don’t–”

  “I’m just getting his bag, from the car, okay?” Dean says, turning to face his little brother, who indeed feels very little right now. His heart hammers inside his chest, bile is rising in his throat and his eyes sting. “Sammy, it’s okay, he’s okay, I just–”

  He grimaces. “I gotta get the first aid kit, okay? Can you watch him?”

  Sam nods. Dean nods back, too quick, and he blinks, then he wipes away the tears forming, before he quickly runs out the door. Sam doesn’t know what to do. Watch him, Dean had said, so that’s what Sam does. He quickly gets down on his knees next to their father, holding his hand and watching his chest rise and fall. Rise, and fall. He’s breathing awfully quick, but at least he’s breathing. What happened? Sam tries hard not to panic, but it’s… difficult not to, to say the least. Did he get bitten? Dean didn’t deny it. What if he got bitten … by a vampire … Would that mean … No.. It couldn’t.

  Dean is back, Sam hadn’t even heard him return, and he’s leaning over their father, lifting his head with one hand, and carefully sliding a pillow underneath his head. He hisses in pain, and oh man- there’s.. there’s so much blood. Sam feels nauseous.

  “Sam, get me some water,” Dean doesn’t ask, he commands, and Sam thinks he sounds awfully a lot like their Dad. “Now, Sam!”

  There’s no more water bottles left, at least none with water in them, so Sam grabs an empty one, running to the bathroom to fill it in the sink. He grabs some towels too, and rushes back out to hand it all to Dean.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, hands already working over their father. He’s gotten his jacket off, and Sam sees the shirt underneath is ripped in multiple places. The blood is coming from his neck. Oh no.. Dean presses his hand to what Sam assumes is the bite.

  “I need you to get out,” Dean says harshly. “Now.”

  “What, no way!”

  “Don’t argue, Sam; I don’t want you to see this,” his voice is breaking. Sam doesn’t argue, and he reluctantly goes to the door, rushing outside. He sinks down, back against the wall, his mind racing. Their Dad can’t die. He just can’t. He’s the strongest man Sam knows, and he’s… he’s kind of, larger than life somehow, in Sam’s opinion. He’s been worried about his dad before, of course, seeing as he’s gone so often, but he’s never seriously worried. He knows John is an expert hunter. He’s not going to die, Sam decides, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not dying. He’s not dying. Sam is crying now. Thankfully, it’s nearly 2am, and no one is outside to see him. Good. He lets himself cry and allows all the frustration and pent-up worry to pour out. Pushing the bottom of his palms into his eyes, Sam sees stars, and it hurts so good. He can’t die. There’s just no way. His mom, and now his dad.. No.. It’s not fair. He’s gasping for air, full on sobbing now. He tries to stop, if only for a moment, and he tries to listen. Dean is speaking now, but he can’t make out what he’s saying. He can’t hear John. Just Dean, frantically saying something, over and over. Sam holds his breath, and faces the door, leaning in close. Still, he can’t hear anything. He turns his head slightly, pressing his ear to the cold surface.

  “- lease, please, please, Dad, please, I don’t– I can’t–, please, please,”

  Sam hiccups, wiping his nose with his sleeve. No. He’s not dead. Sam refuses to believe it. He gets up, swings open the door, and rushes to his side. John is.. very. Pale.

  “Dean.”

  He doesn’t recognize his own voice. Dean doesn’t move his hands away from the wound, which is still spitting out blood, almost in a mocking way. John’s eyes are closed, but he’s breathing slowly now ; there’s also a gurgling sound coming from his throat. Sam doesn’t know what’s come over him, but he moves his hands to cover Dean’s, and together they press down. Sam closes his eyes, clenches his jaw shut and just … listens.

  Ba-dum

  Ba-dum

  Ba-dum

  “Holy shit,” Dean whispers. Sam opens his eyes, and the bleeding has stopped. The wound itself, which, to Sam’s greatest relief, isn’t a bite at all, it’s… it looks like a long, angry red line. It could’ve been from a knife, or maybe even something more significant, but definitely not a bite. Sam blinks. The wound. It’s closed. That there is a scar —a fresh scar, but a scar nonetheless. Sam slowly turns his hands around, palms drenched in their father’s blood. But the source.. the source is sealed shut, as if this injury happened weeks ago, not minutes.

  “Holy shit.” Dean repeats, and holy shit is right! Sam stumbles back. “How did you…?”

  “I don’t know!” Sam doesn’t know what to say. “I just, I pushed, with you, and then, and then–”

  “Holy shit Sam!” Dean repeats, in disbelief. His smile stretches from ear to ear, and it looks a bit insane, with all the blood splatter on his cheek, but Sam ignores it.

  “I know!” Sam is smiling too now, giddy, his body filled with adrenaline. “Or, I don’t know, not really, what even-”

  “He was jumped, by one of the bloodsuckers, and I- I went to help him, but my machete, it, it got stuck on the thing’s neck,” Dead begins telling him, frantically mimicking and recreating the moment for Sam. “--So Dad grabbed the fucker, tried to push it off of him, and, and I think the blade went through the vamp’s head, and and–” Dean catches his breath before continuing, eyes wild, “--and the blade slipped, slick with the blood, right into his shoulder, and then, when he pushed it off, it stuck in deeper, and his eyes, oh Sam, he looked terrified! I’ve never seen Dad look like that!”

  “How did you get back?!” Sam asks, mouth agape.

  “I got him in the car, and I drove here!” Dean sounds proud of that. “He was conscious most of the way, but once we were only a few minutes out, he stopped responding and I.. I …”

  “I know, and then you were here,” Sam helps.

  “Yes, and I knew I had to stop the bleeding, it wasn’t a bite, thank god, but it wasn’t good,” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know how you did that, Sammy, that’s fucking wild.”

  “I … I just pushed, with you,”

  “Yeah, so you say,” he doesn’t sound convinced.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, we keep this to ourselves, yeah?”

  “You think Dad would be…” Sam frowns. “Upset?”

  “Yes. Do you remember how he reacted when you told him about that.. other thing?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah but, Dean.. I saved his life!”

  “You might’ve, yes, but he won’t see it that way. You know that. If he knew what you could do.. He’d.. he wouldn’t understand, Sammy.” Dean says sadly. He walks back over to their dad, and rechecks his pulse, two fingers slightly under his jaw. He looks at his chest. It rises. And falls. Rises. And falls. Dean closes his eyes, fingers still on his jugular, and he counts. Sam is quiet.

  “He’s okay. I think he’s going to be okay.”

  “Good.” Sam rubs his palms together, and remembers the blood. He wrinkles his nose.

  “Yeah, you should go clean up. I’ll do my best with the rag and the bottle here, but Dad’s gonna need a shower when he wakes up.” Dean pours some of the water from the bottle out onto the towel and starts patting down their father’s face before moving on to the damaged shoulder and his neck. John winces in his sleep. Sam feels sick again, and like he really wants to get this blood off of him. Now.

  “I uh..” Dean says, as Sam is just about to head into the bathroom to clean up. Sam perks up, looking back, hand on the doorknob. “I like what you did here.”

  Sam raises an eyebrow, as if to say; what do you mean?

  “The room? The flowers? Your drawings? It’s nice. I like it.”

  Sam smiles. Dean does too. Then, Sam heads into the bathroom, turning on the sink, and begins washing his father’s blood off. He feels a sense of pride, and immense relief. He was finally useful. For once.