here’s what I wrote tonight bc idk if it’ll turn into anything. john&sam&dean yet again :)
On a lifeless night deep in October, Dean crashes through the door of the bungalow they’ve been squatting in and sets the foyer abuzz with his grating breaths, his boots heavy on the stained vinyl, one of the weapons fitted against his back or his thighs emitting a metallic chirp as he trips and accidentally assaults the entryway table that Dad’s stubbed his toe on at least twice. Dean’s kicking it, then, over and over, vicious, cussing so hard he’s panting with it.
Sam is still adjusting to the shock of Dean’s red-hot presence, filling the whole house in a split second, so it takes him a moment too long to slide off the kitchen counter; to lose his spot in his book and put his hands up cautiously and say, Dean, Dean, Dean, what happened? What’re you doing?
The trinket bowl had thudded to the floor as Dean whaled on the poor table, and he’s picking it up now, flinging it with all his might in the direction of the door. It shatters on the edge of the jamb, and Sam winces and ducks instinctively, hands trembling over his head as the shards scatter over the floor.
Fuck! The word punches through Dean’s throat, his voice raw like he’d been screaming all night - Sam’s only just noticed - and he stretches it into an awful multisyllabic howl, his voice finally guttering out as he drops to his knees and buries his fingers in his hair, his entire body juddering with stifled sobs.
Dean, Sam tries to say, but he’s too scared now, tears spilling down his cheeks, heart twisted into a painful knot, pulsing erratically around the usual question. Where’s Dad? Where’s Dad? Where’s Dad?
Right on cue for once, Dad enters the scene, the smells of the damp night creeping in with him as he leaves the door hanging open, the straggler crickets in the dying bushes outside keening mournfully. Sammy, Dad says, pulling out his emptiest smile, setting his gun on the abused table with a meaningful thunk. Go to your room.
Dad - Sam starts, swaying to him, stopping when he notices that he’s standing funny, tilted to one side like a house with a bad foundation. Something’s wrong with his right leg, a bulbous knot of fabric encasing his knee, the denim around it drenched black for at least three inches in every direction. Dad sighs, drags himself over to Sam with a patience that rarely makes itself known, Dean still crying in Sam’s periphery. He puts a hand in Sam’s hair, his skin rank and gritty, then thumbs at the wetness on Sam’s cheeks, leaving traces of the woods behind, prickling in concert with his remaining tears.
S’okay, Dad says, leaving his palm on Sam’s shoulder for a beat. Had a couple close calls, is all.
Sam swallows, staring up into his shadowed face in case the truth decides to peek out. Is Dean…?
He’ll be fine. Dad nods his head in the direction of Sam’s room, retracting his fingers and starting towards Dean instead. Go, Sammy.
But Sam stays hidden just around the corner, sinking into the jaundiced wallpaper, listening hard to try to make out the words that Dad murmurs at Dean as he crouches before him with a hand on his back.
And then, more emphatically, Not human.
The front door creaks in the breeze leaking into the foyer, and Sam wishes he could slam it shut and put the chain back on; the deep shadows beyond the scope of the single functioning porch light taking on new life.
By Sam’s bare foot is a jagged fragment of the bowl Dean had destroyed, the sight of its blue glaze and its tiny white butterflies putting a fresh lump in his throat.
Before tonight, it had been the prettiest thing in the whole place.
