Quick Author's Note (Please Read for Context and Warnings):
Hiya! I'm Daisy, nice to meet you. So... this is my first fanfiction and honestly, I am super excited to see if anyone reads it! Just some notes before I start this story; First off, this story is rated T for Teen (13+) because of slight language, a little bit of implied themes (alcohol, drugs, sex, but not horribly), and violence (of course, it's Supernatural). I wouldn't think that there are any kids on this site but you never know, so I've rated it to what I think is appropriate and the reader must read at their own risk. Any familiar characters such as Sam and Dean belong to Kripke (damn you), not me, I take no credit for his characters and ideas, I simply write about them. Any errors such as misspellings, grammar mistakes, and et cetera belong to me, I'm my own editor and I try my hardest to fix everything I see, but I'm sorry if I miss anything. Also, this story is meant to be possible in virtually any season at any time. Luckily, I'm completely caught up, waiting for the newest season, but I don't mention any past events in this story, saving the innocents from spoilers, and only imply feelings from past events that only some people may understand, (that may make no sense now, but it will when you read it). Also, Portland, Maine is a real place, none of the things in this story actually happened there and there is no offence meant to the citizens of that town. So, hopefully, I covered everything and let's get this show on the road. (Both literally and metaphorically if you know what I mean.) Hope you enjoy! :)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 16th, 6:00 pm, Portland, Maine:
It was dusk, the night air growing cold, the stars' glow blearily peaking through the black veil of the night sky. A taxi cab driver smelling strongly of whiskey sloppily opened the cab's rear door for a lonely passenger and proceeded to shut the door, walk around the front of the vehicle, and hopped into the driver's seat. He placed his key in the ignition and started the car while asking with a slight slur, "So where ya goin' madam?"
At first receiving no reply, the man took the time to glance in his rearview mirror and observe his mysterious passenger. She had a short, slight build, virtually harmless, but something seemed off. Covered by a long maroon coat with a large hood shading her features, she was unidentifiable. She was muttering to herself, long unintelligible words that sent shivers down his spine and caused the hair on his arms and neck to stand on end. "Madam?" he asked again to which he also got no reply but the incessant ramble of nonsense from the woman.
He began to feel uneasy, not sure if he should be scared for the safety of the woman or for himself. He reached into his pocket, looking for his phone, wondering if he should call someone. Did she need help? Was she dangerous? He tried yet again, "Lady, ya alrigh' back there?" he asked uncertainly as he leaned toward the side of his seat and looked back at his passenger.
A sickly-pale, bony hand reached out from her long maroon coat, holding a twenty dollar bill and she muttered the only comprehensible word he had heard from her mouth, the only one he would ever hear again,"Drive."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 16th, 6:00 pm, Manchester, Vermont:
"Dean, if you drive any faster we're going to crash," Sam scolded through gritted teeth.
He knew that Dean meant well, Hell, if Dean was bleeding out from a gunshot wound, he would probably be breaking some speed limits too. But he was afraid that if the Impala went any faster, the gunshot wound wouldn't be what killed him. Speaking of the gunshot wound... Sam carefully lifted the thin fabric of his t-shirt sleeve up so that he could peer at the wound yet again. He prodded it with his fingers, hissing sharply. "For the love of God, Sam, don't touch that!" Dean replied to his brother's sharp intake of breath.
Since when had they had such bad luck? Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles growing impossibly whiter. Always. They had always had bad luck, especially when it came to Sam. The freaking kid was like an evil-magnet or something, constantly running into it and then coming back for more. Why couldn't he be more like his devilishly handsome big bro and be a chick-magnet? Dean growled low in his throat, the hunt was so simple, they salted and burned the ghost and then people stopped dying. Problem solved. But, no. Some bastard just had to call the cops because they saw two strange figures in the cemetery with shovels. One minute Dean was shovelling dirt while Sam kept guard, and the next, Sam was on the ground from a bullet to the shoulder, delivered by one of the cops, who just so happened to be possessed by the ghost that they were trying to roast in the first place. "Friggin' undead dirtbag!" he shouted to no one in particular.
Sam snorted from the passenger seat, a hint of a smirk on his face, "Jeez, Dean, calm down, will ya'? You're going to road-rage us into a telephone pole."
"No, Sam. I won't calm down. That friggin' cop shot you!"
"But it wasn't really-"
"I know it wasn't really him, Sam, but you still got shot! It was supposed to be a simple hunt!"
"It was a simple hunt-"
"Not to mention that if the cop hadn't been so out of it after we smoked the ghost, we'd probably be dropping the soap in jail somewhere!" Dean fumed.
They pulled into the nondescript motel's parking lot just in time to cut Dean off from his rant and allow him to focus on other things; Other things such as helping his kid brother inside. As soon as he had the Impala braked, he was out of the car, shutting his own door and simultaneously running around the front of the Impala to help Sam with his. "Dean-" Sam started as his door swung open from the outside, "I'm fine, Dean, I can open my own door for God's sake!"
"Yeah, right, Princess, just enjoy the special treatment while you got it," Dean replied snarkily.
Dean bent down and took hold of Sam's right arm, (the uninjured one), and carefully helped him rise from the Impala. As soon as he was completely vertical, Sam staggered, dizzy from blood loss. "Don't even say it," Sam groaned at Dean's obvious smirk of victory as he helped his brother stay standing.
Sam held tightly onto his left shoulder, still, with his right hand, as Dean had a firm grip on his elbow, scurrying through the parking lot with Sam in tow. When they finally reached their motel room, having explained to the guy in the lobby that Sam was just 'too drunk to function', they were both panting heavily, Sam leaning against the door frame as Dean searched for his key. He unlocked the door and grabbed Sam once more, guiding him to the bed nearest to the door, only temporarily; He didn't think they'd be able to make it any further.
Sam collapsed heavily onto the bed, panting harsh breaths. His arm hurt like a son of a gun even though it seemed as if it was also numb. His head was spinning and stars danced across his vision. He stayed in that position for a while, running through his lists of aches and pains in his head as he stared up at the moulding motel ceiling. Soon enough, Dean's frazzled face popped into his view and he was manhandled into a sitting position. He continued to drift through thoughts in the easy silence of their room; The only noise being Dean's shuffling around as he went through the first aid kit and collected the needed supplies. "This is gonna sting," Dean warned, breaking the silence as he gestured to Sam with a large bottle of liquor.
His only reply was Sam's designated sigh; This was going to hurt like a bitch. Dean poured a generous amount of alcohol over Sam's wounded shoulder, placing a washcloth under the wound to sop up the excess alcohol and blood. Sam gasped and clenched his teeth as he felt the all too familiar burn of their homemade remedy. "Easy, Sammy," Dean responded reassuringly.
Dean cleaned the wound and fished out the bullet, stitching it up afterwards and sending Sam straight to his own bed, farthest from the door, with water and some pretty good painkillers; He was out within seconds. "Lightweight," Dean snorted to himself.
All was well, and as Dean cleaned up the medical supplies he was relieved to think that their situation wasn't nearly as bad as he had initially thought. Sammy was sleeping and Dean... well, Dean was content.
"Nobody's dying tonight," Dean proclaimed proudly. Little did he know, that just hours away, a man about the same age as Sam was slowly dying, as he spoke, thanks to the torturous powers of a witch.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A week passed and Sam's shoulder healed nicely. Although he was still sore and antsy as all Hell, everything seemed to be going great. Dean spent his week taking care of his little bro, no matter how much he was pushed away and hit at. Sam spent the week lying in bed recovering, reading the news and secretly searching for possible hunts.
This particular morning, a certain news story caught Sam's eye, and since he was almost fully recovered, he figured it wouldn't hurt to look into it. Dean was out on a food run, which meant no big brother to immediately ask what he was doing as Sam got up from the bed and sat at the corner table, carefully opening his laptop with his bum arm. It was time to get back to work.
When Dean got back, he found Sam sitting at the corner table, completely focused on whatever nerdy thing he was scrolling through on his laptop. Dean sat down across from him, eyeing Sam closely. He seemed to be doing much better this morning, his face was relaxed, free of pain, meanwhile, his cheeks were a healthy shade of pink. "What've you been up to this morning, geek-boy?" he questioned, starting to unload the doughnuts he'd picked up for breakfast.
"Actually," Sam started hesitantly, he'd done quite a bit of research and now was his chance to see what Dean might think, "I think I've found us a case."
Dean paused and cocked his head up at Sam, almost silently asking him if he really thought that he was ready to start hunting again, "A case?"
"Yeah, a case," Sam said dumbly, already expecting his brother to freak.
"Sam," he started, "Sammy, you were shot a week ago-"
"And?"
"And I think that maybe..."
"Maybe...?" Sam was annoyed, "Maybe what, Dean?"
"Maybe you should hold off until, ya know, you're better,"
"But I am better, Dean," Sam gave him a puzzled look.
"Not completely-"
"So what, you just want innocents to die out there while I'm laying here eating doughnuts and watching Scooby Doo with you? Is that it?"
"Sam, I never said that!"
Dean could tell that his brother's temper was rising very quickly. They'd both been stuck in the same dirty motel for a week and he could only imagine how his brother felt. But he still needed time to heal. Although he claimed to be fully healed, Sam already looked exhausted from just a morning of research. "We could probably get some other hunters on it, but Sam, you passing out in the middle of a hunt isn't goin' to help anyone."
Sam paused in his rage. That comment seemed to force its way through his haze of red vision. He thought for a second and more calmly stated, "Dean, man, I'm fine. Probably a little rusty, but fine. I'll tell you if I can't handle it. I'll take it easier than usual, but I can't stay in this stinkin' motel any longer! I'm going insane just sitting here! Please, man. Can we please work this hunt."
Sam was pulling all the stops and the puppy dog eyes were definitely tempting. Dean huffed a sigh, knowing he was getting himself into trouble already, but not wanting to deny his little brother's wishes. "Fine..." he moaned and Sam grinned up at him, "But only on one condition," he pointed at Sam, accentuating every syllable with the shake of his pointer finger, "You let me help you when you or I feel you need it and you keep yourself out of the line of fire. You hear me?"
Sam nodded his head vigorously, he could definitely do that if it meant getting out of that stink bucket ASAP. He gave Dean a knowing grin and got up to start packing his stuff. Dean smiled back, knowing how much he just made the kid's day, probably even his week. Soon enough, they were back on the road, heading for Maine, the black Impala gleaming in the sun. If only they knew what waited for them in the shadows of Portland, Maine; A murderous witch, ready to get her hands on the two Winchesters as soon as they stepped a foot in her domain.
To be Continued...
MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA