《Blurred Lines》


 Chapter 1: Two Brothers

    Chapter 1 - Two Brothers


    April 26th 1969, Lousiana


    It wasn''t uncommon for John to be gone for more extended periods. Still, he usually told the boys beforehand so they knew to prepare for it. Their father would often give Dean one of his many credit cards and leave them with some cash and coins for the laundromat. On especially tricky cases, such as this one, he would also leave his journal containing numbers they could call if the job took longer than first anticipated. And, of course, a .9mm gun with a full mag they were told to use only in emergencies. Sam, being the younger brother, wasn''t allowed to even touch it, much to his dismay, especially because Dean was so damn smug about it.


    After three weeks of hearing nothing from their father, the two boys agreed to call him for a status report. They didn''t know much about the job; they knew that their father was hunting alone and was uncertain what kind of monster it was. That only made Sam worry more because their dad should''ve at least called them once by now. Unless.. Sam tries his best to push those thoughts aside, Dean reassures him that their dad can handle just about anything. John finally picked up after trying a few times. By the look on Dean''s face, the way he bit his lip absentmindedly, and his gaze dropping to the floor, Sam could tell their father wasn''t happy they had broken protocol. Stupid rule anyway, thinks Sam as he tosses himself onto one of the beds, grabbing for his well-worn copy of Dune.


    "You''re not seriously reading that junk again, are you?" Dean mocks as he slants down into the chair opposite Sam''s bed.


    "It''s not junk," Sam mutters, not bothering to look up from his book.


    "How many times have you read that now, anyways?" Dean inquires, bouncing his leg, eyes darting across the street outside. It''s getting dark, and they haven''t had dinner yet. Sam was starting to get really hungry. He frowns down at his book, trying to not think about it. That would only make the hunger worse.


    "Only like twice," Sam lies, flipping the page.


    "Mhm," Dean sighs a deep, over-exaggerated sigh and immediately gets up again, restless, pacing the room and rubbing his hands together. He picks up Dad''s journal and flips through it, looking for the takeout menus. Two fall out, and Dean picks up the green one from the floor. Sam glances over and grimaces.


    "I don''t want pizza again," Sam grumbles, though his treacherous stomach rumbles hungrily. He was just so sick of the same meal over and over again.


    "Well, too bad." Dean is also gruff and probably sick of pizza, but he won''t admit it. He walks over to the phone on the wall, picking it up, cord swaying as he punches in the number, not needing to look at the menu anymore. Sam could really do with a new book, now on his fourth reread of Dune, but he knows money is getting tight and that the card had stopped working two days ago.


    Luckily, Dean had managed to charm his way out of the many questions the front desk had had when they''d tried buying more water bottles and some snacks, saying his dad, Jeremy Byers, whose name was on the card, must''ve figured out he''d nicked it from him and called the bank to have them shut it off. It was a close call; the young girl behind the desk had even gone over to the phone to contact the authorities but was obviously smitten with Dean. She''d let them get two bottles for free if they promised not to tell her mother, who ran the motel. She kept the card, though, and said she''d return it to their dad when he returned. Sam had easily stolen it back that night; his lockpicking skill had improved dramatically in the past few weeks, much to Dean''s pride. Sam had beamed up at him when he got a solid pat on the back and an "Atta boy!". It didn''t feel fair; Sam only had to hold the tools in the lock, and it was as if they had unlocked it themselves for him.


    "Can I get a large pepperoni, no onion?" Dean''s voice always sounded funny to Sam whenever he made phone calls, more profound and more "grown-up" in a way. He wouldn''t tease him about it today; he didn''t have it in him to pick a fight. Usually, Sam loved picking a fight with Dean and had been in countless screaming matches with their father, but ¡­ The one they had had last night was¡­ well, he just didn''t want any more fighting for a while.


    "Yeah, sure," Dean replies in a husky voice to something they had said on the other line. Mhm. Yep. Delivery, yeah. "He then proceeds to give them the address to the motel before promptly hanging up with an unenthusiastic "thanks. "


    "They said it''d be 20 minutes," Dean tells him, sitting back down and fiddling with the radio. Sam nods, flipping the page. "Only shit music on this channel," Dean grumbles and starts flipping through channels.


    "Mhm," Sam agrees, not really agreeing; he quite liked Elvis, actually. But it wasn''t "cool" enough for Dean, apparently. As if Elvis wasn''t cool. Sam rolled his eyes involuntarily. Whatever.


    "I was thinking we could go out tomorrow, look around town, maybe get you a new book or something," Dean casually mentions as he leans back after finding a channel to his tastes. Sam thinks he recognizes the band but can''t quite place it.


    "Oh yeah?" he replies, cursing himself at how his heart skipped a beat, excited about the prospect of a new read.


    "Yeah, I got some extra cash off that sleazy guy next door. He was so smashed I probably could''ve slapped him, and he''d still be passed out!" Dean says with a grin, waving a wad of cash before him. "I didn''t take all, of course, only about one-third, so he wouldn''t get too suspicious, but there''s at least thirty bucks in here, Sammy!"


    "It''s Sam," Sam insists, and it comes out quite whiny. He bites his lip, cursing himself for being such a crybaby.


    "It''s Sammy if you want a new book," Dean teases, dropping a $10 bill on top of his book. Sam tries not to let his mouth fall open. He could get way more than one book with this kind of money ¡­


    "Why couldn''t you just take a book from his room instead? He''ll notice money missing." Sam slides the bill aside, flipping the page but still watching the tenner in his peripheral vision. He really wants to take it.


    "You think Hank reads?" Dean laughs as if that''s the funniest thing he''s ever heard. Sam stares daggers at him.


    "Stealing is wrong," Sam points out.


    "Oh quit it," Dean counters, quickly grabbing the $10 bill back. "If you''re suddenly gonna get all high horsey with me, then I''ll keep it for myself, maybe get some more magazines or something," he flashes Sam a cheeky grin, the dimples he usually hates on full display. He leans over the edge of the bed, pulling up Sam''s backpack and empties the contents out on the bed.


    "Hey!" Sam exclaims, getting up quickly to gather his things.


    "Come on now, look at this, it''s sad! You''ve read all of these, haven''t you?" Dean gestures to the books on the bed. Sam quickly stuffs the bunny plush back in his bag, cheeks burning red.


    "Yeah, so what? Books can be read more than once, you idiot,"


    "Sorry, what was that?" Dean mocks, putting a finger behind his ear, leaning in, daring Sam to keep going.


    "You''re an idiot Dean," Sam says again, slowly, with special emphasis on idiot, looking straight into his big brother''s mischievous eyes, head held high. Dean''s grin grows more expansive, and in a moment, he has Sam in a headlock, holding him firmly, rubbing the top of his head fast, and hard, with his knuckles. It burns.


    "Get off me, you jerk!"


    "Make me, bitch," Dean challenges. He doesn''t give up, but Sam struggles against him, repeatedly shoving his elbow into Dean''s stomach. It doesn''t seem to be very effective. Sam grunts, then he stomps on Dean''s foot as hard as he can with his heel before biting down hard on his forearm and shoving his elbow into Dean, lower this time. Dean groans and lets go immediately, falling forward, clutching his .. lower region. Despite the pain, he''s still smiling.


    "There you go," he hisses between bated breaths. I knew you could do it," the last barely escapes his mouth. He''s in a lot of pain. Sam has a grin of his own now, smiling down at his brother.


    "Dirty, but effective," Dean pants and straightens up, still with a hand covering himself. Sam is smiling, but with his back now facing Dean, as he''s gathering up his things to put them back in his bag. He''s got quite the impressive collection of books now, if he may say so himself. He counts them again, and yep, there''s seventeen of them now. He''s read all of them already, of course, and his bag has gotten really heavy. Sam bites his lip, worried John might make him get rid of some of them.


    "You want me to take some in my bag?" Dean offers, clearly catching on to Sam''s worries as the last five books don''t fit in his already gaping backpack.


    "Uh yeah, thanks," Sam is grateful; really, he is, but he wishes he didn''t have to be. He wants more books. And he knows he won''t be able to fit anymore. Actually, he wants his own bookshelf. His own room, where he could keep his things on display, and not just stuffed into a backpack all the time. He wants his own bed, not some smelly, slightly damp and awfully hard bed like the ones he''s forced to sleep in now. Last month had been even worse, he''d have to share a bed with Dean. Sam wrinkles his nose thinking about it.


    "Could you join me tomorrow to get the laundry done?" Dean asks, while flipping casually through one of his magazines.


    "Why?" Sam doesn''t look up.


    "Out of coins, and don''t feel like paying for the exchange, anyways."


    Sam smiles to himself then. He doesn''t understand how he does it, but for some reason, the machine doesn''t need coins whenever Sam helps with the laundry. It just.. turns on for him. Dean joked he was a laundry magician and asked if they could just skip the washing machine altogether and have Sam just snap his fingers to clean their clothes instead. Things like that made Sam laugh. He thinks his brother was good at that, making Sam feel good. Maybe he''s been too much of a brat lately, but between waiting on Dad to return, and not having any new books or friends to play with - there''s not much to do. Doesn''t help that they''re out of school at the moment too. Dad promised to enroll them when he returned, but the school system here is pretty lax. No one had followed up on their absence, simply because they didn''t even know Sam and Dean existed. Sam has thought a lot about this, and he thinks it''s probably because Dad''s been using many new names lately. Dean doesn''t want to talk about that though, saying it''s "adult stuff". Sam tried to point out that Dean himself wasn''t an adult, but he said he might as well be, and being thirteen is pretty close to adulthood. Sam doesn''t really know about that one, but he didn''t want to argue.


    Dean picks up Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and starts flipping through it. Sam bites his lip, chewing on it. He shouldn''t.. he really shouldn''t. Then he closes his eyes, feeling his heart beat nearly out of his chest before turning around, now looking directly at his brother.


    "Dean?"


    "Yeah, Sammy?"


    "Do you ever¡­" Sam searches his mind for a way to ask what he so desperately wants to ask. Dean''s brows furrow.


    "What?"


    "I just, I don''t know, I guess I''m just sick of pizza, and waiting around all the time, and the motels, and always being the new kid in school, and not having any friends-"


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "You have friends," Dean interrupts, arms crossed. He leans against the wall next to the door, clearly getting defensive.


    "Not really, no." Sam looks down at his hands.


    "What are you saying?"


    "I''m saying¡­ do you not want to, like-"


    "No Sam."


    "No?"


    "No."


    Sam sinks down, defeated. Great. Just then, there''s a knock on the door. Dean''s already reaching for the gun both sets of eyes fly to it. But then his shoulders sink, and he relaxes.


    "Food''s here." He spins around and opens the door, leaving only a little gap.


    "Yeah?" he says. Sam can''t make out what the person on the other side is saying. Dean opens the door further, taking the box from their hands. He pays, then quickly closes the door "Thanks, bud." Sam''s stomach rumbles loud enough for Dean to hear, which makes him chuckle.


    "Sick of pizza, are you?" Dean teases. "Maybe I''ll just eat it myself?"


    "No!" Sam bursts out before he can stop himself.


    "No? Fine, dig in then," Dean laughs and flips open the box, picking up a cheesey slice for himself, eating it immediately. Bad idea, it''s really hot and Dean does a weird breathing thing for a moment, his mouth a perfect circle and he sounds a bit like a monkey. Sam laughs. He can''t help it.


    "You wittle shut!" Dean warns, mouth full but laughing, too; he looks and sounds pretty ridiculous right now. Sam grabs a slice too, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. It''s¡­ excellent actually. Sam sighs and keeps eating. Damn it, why did this pizza have to be so good?


    "Oh man," Dean says, already on his second slice. "And you said you were sick of pizza."


    "You know what I mean."


    "Yeah," Dean admits. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "But listen Sammy, you know the work we do? It''s important. We''re saving lives."


    "We''re not doing anything, Dean!" Sam counters resentfully. "You and me are just sitting around, waiting on Dad."


    "It won''t always be like that, someday soon I''ll get to go with him and then-"


    "Then?! What about me then?!" Sam drops his slice dramatically, and huffs. "What about me, Dean? Am I supposed to wait around alone for the both of you? I don''t want to do that!"


    "We''re not doing this again Sam, I already told you yesterday-"


    "No, you''re just bossing me around!"


    "I''m not!"


    "You are!"


    "Well someone''s gotta look out for you, don''t they?" Dean''s eyes are filled with anger. This doesn''t scare Sam in the slightest, he knows his brother. He''s all bark.


    "Dad should look out for us, Dean!"


    "And you think he doesn''t? Everything Dad does is to keep us safe, you idiot-"


    "No! Dad should be here!" Sam is standing now, so is Dean, the pizza is completely forgotten about. Sam fists are clenched together, his jaw is tense, shoulders stiff. Dean eyes him warily.


    "You''re saying that as if he has a choice," Dean spits words dripping with venom.


    "He does!" Sam is grinning now, but it''s not a happy smile. Oh no, it absolutely is not a happy smile. "He could just be a normal dad, Dean, but he doesn''t want to!"


    "He''s saving lives, Sam-"


    "He''s not-"


    "Of course he is, what do you even-"


    "He''s looking for what killed-"


    "I am not doing this Sam, you better shut up, right now-"


    "Mom is dead, Dean, she''s dead and Dad leaving us for weeks and weeks isn''t bringing her back-"


    Sam shuts up. Not because he wanted to, but because Dean had slapped him. Hard. His eyes widen in shock at what he just did to his little brother, whose lip is split, and eyes welling with tears.


    "Fuck you."


    The door opens, then slams shut, and Dean is alone in the motelroom.


    *


    May 2nd 1969, Lousiana


    Two days later, and the boys have made up. Sort of. They''re not speaking to each other, but Sam knows it''ll pass. His lip is a lot better, but the bruise on his cheek has turned an awful shade of purple. None of them have commented about it though. It''s better that way, Sam thinks. If they don''t talk, they can''t argue; if they can''t argue,¡­ that''s good. Sam doesn''t really like arguing, but¡­ sometimes.. sometimes he feels like he''ll explode if he can''t get all of his anger out. It sort of builds up, and it''s like shaking a cola, eventually the pressure gets too high, and when the cap finally comes off, because it has to come off, the coke inside just goes everywhere. Sam can''t help but release a small, choked laugh at the mental picture of that, imagining himself shaking a can, and opening it next to a sleeping Dean.


    "What are you giggling about?" Dean asks grumpily, breaking the silence.


    "Nothing," Sam says quickly. Too quickly.


    "You''re such a girl."


    "Shut up jerk."


    "Whatever."


    Silence again.


    Sam bites the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. He shouldn''t. But he really, really wants to. What difference does it make anyways? It''s just a day, like every other. It doesn''t matter that Dad isn''t here; he hasn''t been here for weeks. Dean has probably forgotten too, and Sam is just being a girl. He''s stupid, he thinks and rolls over to face the wall. He traces his finger across the intricate lines of the flower pattern. It''s such an ugly tapestry, Sam thinks. His room would be painted green, he knows it would. Maybe it was green? The room he had had as a baby. His brows furrow, and he tries to think back and remember, just¡­ anything really, any detail from the room he once had. He knew he had had a crib, but all babies had that. Did he have one of those dingly dangly things some babies had? What were they called again.. He''d seen them in movies, and they''d have all sorts of shapes in different sizes attached to a big, round thing. Then, it would spin around, and some of them even played music, he thought. Did he have any toys? Wait, did babies even have toys? He was so young, before-


    Sam blinks hard. He remembers Bunny at least- the rabbit plush, he corrects himself quickly. He still has that. It had been his first stuffed animal, Dean has told him, and even then, with his little hands, he''d held onto it as Dean ran with him through the halls, down the stairs and out the front door-


    No. He doesn''t want to think about that right now. His room, that''s what he''s picturing. He''s sure it was painted green. Green''s his favorite color after all. Green like¡­


    No, no. No.


    Sam has had enough reminiscing for today, thank you very much. He throws his legs over the side of the bed, and stands up.


    "Where''re you going?" Dean asks, getting up too and grabbing his leather jacket.


    "Out."


    "I can see that, can I come?"


    "No."


    "Come on, let me come."


    "Fine." Sam surrenders. He doesn''t really know where he''s going, and some company would be nice, especially today.


    "Alrigh''!" Dean smiles, the first genuine smile he''s had in days.


    *


    It''s late when the boys finally return to their room, cokes in hand, laughing heartily, Dean''s arm slung lazily around Sam''s shoulder. Even though Dean''s older, he''s not much taller, much to his dismay, and to Sam''s great amusement.


    "Dude, that was so awesome," Dean says as he unlocks the door with the key. "I don''t get how you can be so damn sneaky, it was as if you disappeared for a moment there,"


    "Right?" Sam is so giddy, his body still full of adrenaline. He drops the plastic bag on the bed, its contents spilling out. There were bars of chocolate, lots of Razzles and Stardust, three bags of different chips, a ranch dip, lots of different sour candies (Sam''s favorite), more bottles of coke and even, a pack of cigarettes. Dean even let him have one, which, unfortunately, wasn''t as exciting as Sam had thought. He''d taken one long drag and immediately started coughing uncontrollably, while Dean nearly buckled over with laughter.


    "Dude, you were so awesome," Dean''s smile grows more expansive as he throws himself into the armchair, stretching his legs and arms simultaneously, looking like a starfish. Sam can''t stop smiling.


    "That was so cool, Dean!" Sam laughs and starts ripping off the wrapping paper from one of the chocolate bars. He bites into it, and is met with a deliciously rich flavor of caramel, and crunchy biscuit. It''s so good Sam could cry, they hadn''t had a sweet treat like this in weeks.


    "Oh and, I have something for you, Sammy," Dean says suddenly, as if just remembering. He flips around in the chair, bending over it, reaching for something stuffed underneath it, on the other side. Sam looks on curiously. Then, Dean pulls out a BIG box, it''s even wrapped with proper paper, not newspapers, but a wrapping paper with dinosaurs on it. Dean beams proudly, and hands it to Sam.


    "Happy birthday, little brother," he says gleefully and sits back down, biting down on his chocolate bar.


    Sam can''t help it; his smile is growing wide, because Dean remembered. He didn''t think he had, but this explains why he did everything Sam wanted to do today. Getting ice cream before breakfast, then having said breakfast not in the dingy motel room, no, but having breakfast at the local diner! Sam got to order exactly what he wanted, and oh my gosh, he loves eggs and bacon so much. The toast too, was so delicious and felt so normal. Sam loved it. Then they went to the park, Dean had pulled out a loaf of bread, and they fed the ducks, then chased them around the park like a couple of dogs. Dean had made Sam laugh so hard he almost peed himself, barking madly when he started chasing them around. After that, Dean suggested they go to the dog shelter, knowing Sam loved it there. Looking at and playing with dogs they''ll never get to own was sort of bittersweet, but it was one of Sam''s favorite pastimes. Dean rarely agreed to go, but today, he had. He''d done everything Sam wanted to do.


    When Sam said he wished he had a coke as the day was coming to an end, Dean cheekily dared him to pick the lock of the kiosk, knowing the old man running it had long since gone home for the night. Sam got it open on the first try, the little rascal, and the boys'' had enthusiastically grabbed as much as they could reasonably carry in a plastic bag before running back to the motel, feeling on top of the world. And for that moment, they were.


    "Go on, open it!" Dean encourages, and Sam begins ripping the paper off. It''s wrapped with duct tape and doesn''t necessarily look very pretty, but Sam only cares about what''s inside, and when the paper''s finally off, and there''s only the box left, he flips the flaps open and-


    "No!" Sam exclaims and his hand flies to his mouth. Dean has the biggest grin ever on his face and nods, delighted by Sam''s reaction. "Dean, you didn''t!"


    Inside, there''s a brand new bag, with the letters S A M cut out of a pair of jeans it looks like, stitched clumsily to the front. The bag is much bigger than Sam''s current backpack, and it seems like it''s even padded on the inside.


    "To keep your books safe," Dean comments, seeing Sam feel the material between his hands. It''s almost enough to make Sam cry. "There''s more!"


    Sam looks up at Dean incredulously and then back down; he zips the bag all the way open and-


    There are three new books in there! There''s Fantastic Mr. Fox, Lord of the Flies, and The Hobbit! Sam''s eyes well up with tears, and he quickly wipes them away, hugging the Hobbit to his chest. He''s been wanting to read this one for ages!


    "That''s the one, uh, with the one true ring or whatever, right? I recognized the writer-"


    "Yes, Lord of the Rings!" Sam is shocked Dean remembered. Lord of the Rings was Sam''s favorite book series. He''d read them countless times and didn''t think he''d ever get sick of them.


    "And this one?" Dean asks, holding up Lord of the Flies. Sam can''t help but laugh.


    "Uh, it''s not the same, but thanks anyways, Dean, I really appreciate it!"


    "Nah, it was nothing," Dean blushes slightly but waves it away. "There''s also some pencils in there and a new drawing pad - I saw you were out."


    "Dean.."


    "Don''t mention it."


    "Thank you."


    "You''re welcome, Sammy."


    That night, Sam stays up under the covers, reading the Hobbit, and Dean doesn''t tell him off. He just lets him, turns around, and falls asleep with a smile.

 Chapter 2 - The Trail Goes Cold

    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-¡±


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°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 ¡ª 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 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¨C¡±


    ¡°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¨C¡±


    ¡°What!? Dean, no, don¡¯t¨C¡±


    ¡°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¨C¡±


    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¨C I can¡¯t¨C, 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  ¡ªa 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¨C¡±


    ¡°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¨C¡± 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.

 Chapter 3 - You鈥檙e a Wizard, Sammy

    Chapter 3 - You¡¯re a Wizard, Sammy


    28th of July 1971, Wembley


    After the vampire job went awry, Dean got to join in on more jobs. John couldn¡¯t deny he would¡¯ve been toast if Dean wasn¡¯t there that day. But after months of odd jobs, with Dean in the passenger seat, John decided to really sink his teeth into The Job. And that was something Dean wasn¡¯t allowed to join in on, despite his begging. That meant him and Sam had the motel room to themselves for the last bit of the summer. They were now in Wembley and would stay here for about another few weeks before heading to the next town their father had lined up. Sam thought Wembley was nice enough, and he and Dean had gone swimming more than once in the past week.


    They¡¯d also met a few kids, who Sam got along with well enough. They thought he spoke funny, and after countless comments, Sam was so over them. He¡¯d roll his eyes everytime they repeated how he pronounced a word, they thought it was hilarious. Apparently, Americans were in short supply. Every time a new kid would show up, they¡¯d proudly introduce Sam as their ¡°American mate.¡± That was so annoying too, Sam thought, how they all overused the word ¡°mate.¡± He and Dean had turned it into an inside joke, and called each other ¡°mate¡± at any given occasion. It was just so silly.


    Sam had also gotten a few more books, mostly fantasy stuff Dean had picked out for him, and he was currently sitting in the armchair reading one of the new ones. Dean was out, getting them something to eat. As if summoned by Sam just thinking of him, Dean was back. He opened the door, dropping the food bag on the floor, kicking off his hoes and tossing his leather jacket on the dresser.


    ¡°Sammy, got a letter for you, mate,¡± Dean says casually, tossing Sam an already ripped open, cream colored envelope. Sam looks at it quizzically before staring back at his brother. A letter? Who would write Sam a letter?


    ¡°Uh, what is this?¡± Sam asks as he looks at the envelope.


    Mr Samuel William Winchester


    Second bed from the door,  Room number 16


    Mongoose Motel, Wembley, London


    Sam asks as he carefully flips it back over, touching the wax stamp. Woah.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know mate, it¡¯s addressed to you. It even has our room number,¡± Dean says, grabbing the envelope from Sam¡¯s hands, jabbing an angry finger at the address. ¡°Who have you told?¡± Dean asks, an accusing tone to his words.


    ¡°Wh- what do you mean? I didn¡¯t do this! I haven¡¯t told anyone!¡± Sam gets up now, can¡¯t sit still, and just take these accusations. He would never endanger their position. And besides, it¡¯s not like Sam has anyone to tell.


    ¡°Read the rest,¡± Dean says, pointing to the papers Sam¡¯s got clutched in his now shaking hands. Sam reluctantly looks down and reads the letter for himself.


    HOGWARTS SCHOOL


    OF


    WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY


    Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore


    Dear Mr Winchester,


    We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.


    Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.


    Yours sincerely,


    Minerva McGonagall


    Deputy Headmistress


    Sam stares down at the letter, completely dumbfounded. This is a joke, right? He looks up at Dean, who looks just as confused. He can¡¯t be serious. Sam takes another look down at the letter.


    ¡°How¡¯d you even make this?¡± Sam asks, his fingers tracing the letters, admiring the meticulous handwriting that certainly does not belong to his brother. ¡°A school for wizards? Very funny.¡±


    ¡°Sam quit it,¡± Dean spits out, grabbing back the letter.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Sam protests, trying to get it back from him, but Dean holds him back firmly, over his head.


    ¡°Tell me right now, Sam, this isn¡¯t funny, how does this person know where we¡¯re staying?¡± Dean pushes his little brother backwards, and Sam stumbles to the bed, barely catching himself before falling over.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t told anyone you jerk, why would I? Who would I even tell?¡± Sam says, fingers itching to get the letter back. There were still a few pages he hadn''t had time to read. A school for wizards? What kind of bad joke was this? Wizards aren¡¯t real. Only ¡°witches¡±, scammers, people who tricked idiots, as Dean would say. Could it have been from uncle Bobby?


    ¡°Sam¡­¡± Dean grumbles, pinching his forehead. The way he¡¯s holding the letter makes it crumple a bit, and it only freaks Sam out a little. Just a bit. After all, it¡¯s not real, it¡¯s just ¡­ some dumb prank. Maybe even a test from their father? But something in Sam is telling him that this is in fact real. ¡°Have you told anyone about.. well, you know?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Sam is offended. He would never.


    ¡°How¡¯d you train that owl anyway? Honestly that¡¯s impressive, Sammy,¡± Dean rolls his eyes, dropping the letter on the coffee table, which prompts Sam to immediately snatch it up before he can take it away again.


    ¡°I told you I didn¡¯t-¡± Sam begins. ¡°Wait. Did you say owl?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, a freaking owl dropped it right outside. I was waiting for Dad y¡¯know, he¡¯ll be back in a few hours, but then that damn owl, I swear, almost crashed into me!¡± Dean shakes his head, hand flying to the back of his neck, face grimaced as he stretches on the chair.


    ¡°Well, I obviously haven¡¯t trained an owl Dean, don¡¯t be stupid,¡±


    He shifts uncomfortably. This motel had been especially cheap, and the boys soon realized why. None of them wanted to sleep in the big bed, it had way too many suspicious looking stains. Sam had gotten the kid¡¯s bed, and Dean took the couch. It also reeked from the bathroom, despite it looking relatively clean.


    ¡°Okay so who did?¡± Dean crosses his arms. ¡°Bobby?¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Sam thinks. ¡°I don¡¯t know though, this looks¡­ very official. You think Bobby can write like that?¡± Dean nods, as if thinking it over, Sam does have a point there. If it was from Bobby, it might as well have been just frantic scribbles.


    ¡°He could¡¯ve gotten someone else to write it,¡± Dean suggests.


    ¡°I guess? But why?¡± Sam asks. He looks back at the envelope. It has their exact location, the person who wrote it even knew where Sam was sleeping. Creepy.


    ¡°Hell if I know Sammy, but this is weird, this is really fucking weird,¡± Dean says, frowning.


    ¡°You tell me,¡± Sam mutters, wanting to read the rest of the letter. He knows it can¡¯t be real, that.. that whatever it is, it¡¯s some sort of joke, a test.


    ¡°Dad won¡¯t be happy about this,¡± Dean mumbles, eyes closed, already dreading his return.


    ¡°Yeah, well, I didn¡¯t do this, how would I? You¡¯ve seen my handwriting too, I couldn¡¯t do this, where would I even get the wax?¡±


    Dean seems to agree on that one, it¡¯s a good point after all. He sighs heavily and gets up, pacing around the room.


    ¡°Okay sooo,¡± Dean gestures with his hands dramatically. ¡°You expect me to just, what, believe that you¡¯re a wizard now, that it? And that I have to take you shopping for a fucking cauldron?¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, look at the list,¡± Dean points to the letter. Sam does indeed look. He skims through the list quickly, tracing the contents with his finger. None of the books seem familiar to him, and each title is more ridiculous than the next.


    ¡°A wand?¡± Sam looks up and scrunches his nose. Dean just shrugs. Sam looks back down. Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomstick. What the hell? Broomsticks? Okay, Uncle Bobby was stretching it with this one. Sam laughs.


    ¡°You think it¡¯s funny?¡± Dean bites out.


    ¡°N-no, I mean-¡± Sam stutters but stops himself. ¡°Actually yeah, it¡¯s pretty crazy Dean, I¡¯m obviously not a wizard, and the person who sent this is just¡­ you know, pulling our leg,¡±


    Dean doesn¡¯t look convinced. Just then, the door slams open, both Sam and Dean gasp audibly, Dean already reaching for the gun lying on the nightstand.


    ¡°Dad!¡± Dean exclaims, jumping up, not so subtly in front of Sam, who shuffles the papers quickly under his bag. He feels his blood run cold.


    ¡°Boys,¡± John greets them, before dumping his own bag on the floor. ¡°Been a good week?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, great,¡± Dean begins, anxiously. ¡°We went out a few times, but not far, and Sammy got a new book too, didn¡¯t you Sam?¡±


    ¡°Uh yeah, I did,¡± Sam says, nodding.


    ¡°Great,¡± John replies, entirely uninterested. Dean takes a deep breath.


    ¡°How did it go, Dad? Did you get-¡±


    John doesn¡¯t let him finish. ¡°I am beat. I¡¯m gonna grab a shower then it¡¯s lights out, boys.¡±


    Dean deflates. The brothers nod and watch as their father goes straight to the bathroom, slamming the door shut. A few seconds later, the water starts.


    ¡°Not a word about this, yeah?¡± Dean points to the letter and stares Sam down. Sam swallows, then nods. He agrees, best not to tell his Dad anything. Last time he¡¯d tried to talk to him about.. how Sam could.. make stuff happen, he had freaked out and wanted to test Sam in various, some of them even painful, ways. After passing them all, Sam managed to convince him that it was just a joke, and that he couldn¡¯t actually ¡°do¡± anything. He was just bored. Dean had backed him up there, saying Sam was getting a little stir crazy sitting inside all day long. They didn¡¯t talk about it further, but Dean told him to ¡°shut up about the power stuff¡±, and Sam had tried to. But when he was left to his own devices, when Dean and Dad were off on a job, Sam would sometimes play around with it a bit. He could actually move stuff with his mind if he concentrated hard enough. He could turn on and off the lights with a snap of his fingers, and make little whirlpools in the water bottles by spinning his finger above it. He wasn¡¯t quite sure of this one thing, but he could swear dogs could actually understand him. Not just simple commands, but he could have conversations with them, and they understood. They couldn''t talk back though, much to Sam¡¯s disappointment. He¡¯d told his favorite dog at the shelter, Bailey, that if he spoke to him, Sam wouldn¡¯t tell anyone, he¡¯d keep it a secret. But Bailey had just wagged his tail, and did not speak to him.


    The young man working at the shelter was shocked when little Sam Winchester walked into the yard with all the dogs and got them all to gather around him and obey his every word. Even the untrained, nervous dogs took to Sam very easily.


    There were other things too, minor stuff, but Sam hadn¡¯t told anyone. So.. could the letter be real? He didn¡¯t dare hope.


    ¡°Sam,¡± Dean marches over to snatch the paper from his hands, but this time, Sam is faster.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s mine!¡± he says, jumping away on top of the bed. ¡°I won¡¯t show him, but it¡¯s mine, Dean.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine,¡± he says, sounding irritated, but also, there¡¯s a hint of worry in his voice. ¡°I just.. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a good idea, Sam.¡±


    ¡°What is?¡±


    ¡°Believing that stuff. I won¡¯t try to tell you that you¡¯re not special or anything because you are, you really are, Sammy, but a wizard?¡± he shakes his head. ¡°There¡¯s no such thing. Don¡¯t you think we would¡¯ve come across one before?¡±


    Sam doesn¡¯t have an answer for this. Dean¡¯s sort of right.


    ¡°It¡¯s not real, Sammy.¡±


    ¡°But I can.. I can do stuff, you know that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but that¡¯s.. that¡¯s just ¡­ something you can do.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Sam isn¡¯t convinced. He¡¯s clutching the letter in his hands, looking down at it again.


    We await your owl by no later than 31 July.


    Your owl? Sam doesn¡¯t have an owl. Why would he have an owl? Whoever sent this letter wanted him to respond within two days. They want him to start term a month later and go off to a school of magic. Was he really magic? He hadn¡¯t let himself believe it all this time, but¡­ Sam¡¯s heart flutters dangerously; he¡¯s¡­ he is magic; he knows that now, with his entire being. And this school, maybe he¡¯d finally belong somewhere! The letter, he needs to respond, he thinks, to tell them that yes, he wants to go¨C but how was he going to do that? He doesn¡¯t know where to send it to, and he definitely doesn¡¯t know what to write back, and¨C


    ¡°Did you make this?¡± Sam asks then, feeling very small.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Did you make this just to make fun of me?¡±


    ¡°What?! No way, I wouldn¡¯t do that,¡± Dean¡¯s eyebrows shoot sky high. Sam feels his eyes sting, and he just.. he really doesn¡¯t want to cry. But he¡¯s close to it.


    ¡°It¡¯s not funny.¡±


    ¡°I agree, this is serious.¡±


    ¡°Dean¨C¡±


    ¡°Like I said, whoever sent this knows where we are. That¡¯s not good, I don¡¯t like that. Regardless if this letter is.. real, or not.¡± Dean¡¯s hand is at his chin now, he¡¯s thinking. Hard. ¡°Maybe we should tell Dad¡­¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Sam almost yells. Dean shoots him an angry look, then nods his head towards the bathroom. The shower¡¯s still on. He didn¡¯t hear. Or at least, he¡¯s not storming out, telling them off.


    ¡°But what if these people are.. are dangerous, Sammy?¡± Dean says, his voice low.


    ¡°They¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that. We still don¡¯t know what this.. this thing with you is about,¡± Dean is anxiously fiddling with the ring on his thumb. ¡°It could be dangerous, and I don¡¯t want-¡±


    ¡°This thing?¡± Sam is getting angry. ¡°Just say it, you think- you think I¡¯m a freak!¡±


    ¡°Sam, no, that¡¯s not-¡±


    ¡°Just admit it, Dean,¡± Sam spits out coldly. He looks away, not wanting to look at his brother. The pit in his stomach feels hollow.


    ¡°Sam, you¡¯re not a freak-¡±


    ¡°But I am!¡± Sam cries. Dean¡¯s jaw goes slack for a second, his brows raised, and his eyes soften. Then he closes his mouth, biting his lip, and takes a step forward.


    ¡°No!¡± Sam holds up a hand to stop him. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Sammy-¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m a wizard, if I¡¯m magic, Dean, that means, that means I¡¯m not just some freak, some monster.¡± he is crying now and furiously wiping away the tears as they fall.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Sam..¡± Dean begins, feeling heartbroken. ¡°You¡¯re not-¡±


    ¡°I know you think I am. I see how you look at me, whenever.. whenever I..¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re wrong,¡± he says, shutting down Sam¡¯s attempt to dig himself deeper. ¡°Sam, I¡¯m just.. I¡¯m just worried, because something is clearly up with you. You¡¯ve always been¡­ a little different, but that¡¯s not a bad thing!¡±


    Sam scoffs, eyes down.


    ¡°You¡¯re special, Sammy, and yeah, maybe¡­ maybe you¡¯re even magic.¡±


    Their eyes meet, and it just makes Sam cry harder, because Dean is sincere. Sam could always tell when he lies, he has a tell. The right corner of his mouth would twitch, and he wouldn¡¯t be able to keep his brows from burrowing. He doesn¡¯t glance to the left, he doesn¡¯t do anything but look at Sam with¡­ with loving eyes. He¡¯s concerned, sure, Sam can understand that, but..


    ¡°So.. what do we do?¡± Sam sniffs. ¡°With the letter, I mean.¡±


    Dean sighs, then strokes his chin again, resting his elbow in his other hand.


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna be honest with you, mate,¡± he winks at Sam. ¡°I don¡¯t know. We¡¯ll have to figure it out. Seems like we have until the 1st of September, yeah?¡±


    ¡°The letter says I need to send an owl by two days from now,¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have an owl.¡± Dean points out. Sam nods. ¡°So for now, I think we just¡­ wait?¡±


    ¡°But-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Sammy, but I don¡¯t know what else to do. I also haven¡¯t ever heard of Hogwart, have you?¡±


    ¡°Hogwarts.¡± Sam corrects.


    ¡°Whatever,¡± Dean wafts the correction away, and leans against the wall nonchalantly. ¡°Magic school.¡±


    ¡°Magic school.¡± Sam repeats, and his stomach does another somersault. Is this real? Can it be? If monsters are real - if vampires and, and werewolves, banshees, ghosts, skinwalkers, djinns, shapeshifters, wendigos, sirens and rugarus- the list goes on - then why can¡¯t magic be real too?


    *


    August 4th, 1971, Wembley


    A week passes since Sam got the letter, and he¡¯s done his best to try to figure out how he¡¯s supposed to just.. go on with his life. No more letters arrive, no one shows up to take him away to Magic School. That¡¯s what he and Dean have been inclined to call it. Sam spent an alarming amount of time staring at his hands, trying to do magic, but when you don¡¯t really know what you can do, it¡¯s pretty tricky. Dean suggested he try to disappear something, pull a pigeon out from his jacket, or find a lady to saw in half, but he didn¡¯t come with any actual suggestions. The harder Sam tried to do magic, the less happened. He couldn¡¯t even turn the light on now. And the laundromat didn¡¯t work for him without coins. He was frustrated, to say the least. Had he just imagined it all?


    Every night before bed, he reads the letter. Over and over again. He traces his finger over the intricate lettering, amazed by its perfection. Nothing like his handwriting, which while neat, doesn¡¯t come close to how nice this one looks. He even smelled the letter once, and Dean had caught him doing it, which resulted in more mockery. Fair enough, that was kind of a weird thing to do, Sam could admit that. It didn¡¯t smell like magic, but then again, Sam didn¡¯t know what magic smelled like. Or if it even had a smell at all. He closes his eyes and thinks about Magic School. Where would it be? In England? Was it big? How many students were there? What were the teachers like? What would he learn? Could Dean come? He wonders how it would work if it was far away, his Dad would definitely not drive him back and forth every day. He supposes he could ask very nicely for a bike, and ride it there himself. He hopes it¡¯s nearby, and he hopes there are lots of boys his age there, too. Maybe he¡¯ll finally get some real friends!


    ¡°Sam,¡± Dean says, interrupting Sam¡¯s daydream. There¡¯s not a trace of a smile on his face. Sam furrows his brows and stares back at him, Dean¡¯s in the doorway, holding it closed behind him. He only ever called him Sam when it was time to be serious. ¡°There¡¯s someone here to see you. And Dad.¡±


    Sam frowns. Dad isn¡¯t here. Dean knows that.


    ¡°Uh, okay?¡± Sam says, laughter building up. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°He says he¡¯s a professor.¡± Dean raises his brows, and looks slowly to the letter on Sam¡¯s nightstand, then he cocks his head slightly. Sam follows his gaze and his eyes go wide. Dean nods, as to confirm. Oh my god.


    ¡°Dean-¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re gonna come in, okay?¡± Dean says, opening the door fully to reveal the man standing behind it. Sam has to work hard not to gasp out loud. The man¡¯s beard is pure white, and reaches all the way to his waist. He¡¯s so old! Sam almost laughs. The clothes he¡¯s wearing too, are unlike anything Sam has ever seen. Dean steps inside, allowing the man- the professor, to follow him in. He¡¯s wearing long, purple robes, reaching the ground and dragging behind him. He¡¯s got a hat on, which is small and pointy, also in a royal purple color. His face looks kind; he¡¯s got smile lines and lots of wrinkles. He¡¯s wearing half-moon glasses, they¡¯re far down on his nose, and the man leans forward to take a better look at Sam. The man must be over a hundred years old! He reminds Sam a little of Santa Claus, or- Oh. My. God. Is this Gandalf?! Sam can¡¯t help but gape at the man, the wizard, in front of him. He¡¯s speechless.


    ¡°Mr Samuel Winchester?¡± he asks, his voice calm, and warm. Sam doesn¡¯t say anything, he just looks at the man in front of him, jaw still slack. ¡°My name is Albus Dumbledore, I am the headmaster of Hogwarts.¡±


    Sam still doesn¡¯t say anything.


    ¡°Right, yeah, that¡¯s Sam,¡± Dean says and gives Sam a stern look as if to tell him to get it together. Sam clears his throat.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m Sam,¡± Sam manages. ¡°Uh, sir.¡±


    ¡°You can call me Professor,¡± Professor Dumbledore says with a warm, reassuring smile.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Sam says. ¡°Professor.¡± He adds quickly, blushing.


    ¡°Do you know why I am here, Samuel?¡±


    ¡°Uh, I don¡¯t-¡± Sam attempts to swallow the lump forming in his throat. ¡°It¡¯s just Sam, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Just Sam,¡± repeats the professor. ¡°I am here because we haven¡¯t gotten a response from you regarding your acceptance to Hogwarts. Did you not get the letter?¡± his eyes search the little room they¡¯re in, which now feels even smaller. Sam feels embarrassed. His gaze quickly lands on the letter, tucked neatly into the envelope on Sam¡¯s nightstand. Professor Dumbledore sees it too.


    ¡°I did,¡± Sam confirms, now feeling guilty for ever thinking it was a prank. ¡°I just, I don¡¯t have an, uh.. an owl, sir- I mean professor, sir.¡± Sam cringes. ¡°Just. Professor.¡±


    Professor Dumbledore chuckles at that.


    ¡°No owl? That¡¯s unusual. Young Dean here told me your father is out on a¡­¡± he pauses, looks to Dean and says: ¡°Job?¡±


    ¡°Yes, he¡¯s a uh, he¡¯s a hunter, Professor.¡± Sam says, before he can stop himself. Dean looks like he¡¯s about to lose it. Why did Sam say that!? ¡°Uhm, I mean, he¡¯s-¡±


    ¡°A hunter.¡± Professor Dumbledore repeats.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What does he hunt, Sam?¡±


    ¡°Uh..¡± Sam looks to Dean, who shakes his head in obvious disapproval. Sam bites his tongue. When no response comes, Professor Dumbledore looks to Dean again. He holds his hands up in mock defeat, as if showing him that he has no idea what Sam is on about.


    ¡°Dad works odd jobs, like handiwork and stuff. He¡¯s a mechanic,¡± Dean says. ¡°So we move around a lot. He¡¯ll be back in a few days.¡±


    ¡°A mechanic.¡± Dumbledore repeats ass if mulling it over.


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Dean confirms, head held high. It was semi-true. Their father was a mechanic, but he hadn¡¯t worked as one in many, many years.


    ¡°And your mother?¡± he asks, and Sam shrinks.


    ¡°Dead.¡± Dean simply replies.


    ¡°Ah,¡± Professor Dumbledore says and thinks for a minute. ¡°Sam, do you know you¡¯re a wizard?¡±


    The world stops spinning. Did he just..


    ¡°Sam?¡± it¡¯s Dean this time. He¡¯s waving his hand in front of Sam¡¯s face.


    ¡°I..¡± Sam begins, searching for the words. ¡°I¡¯m a wizard.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Dumbledore confirms, even though it wasn¡¯t a question. ¡°I should¡¯ve come sooner, my apologies.¡±


    ¡°What- what do you mean?¡± Sam asks now, worried. Was it too late? He hadn¡¯t responded to the letter after all. Would he not get to go? He so really wanted to go. Magic School¡­ is real?


    ¡°Usually, with muggle-born students, we send a representative to hand deliver the letter, but with you? Well, obviously something was overlooked.¡± he muses, and looks away, deep in thought all of a sudden. Dean looks like one big question mark.


    ¡°Uh, muggle-born?¡± Sam asks.


    ¡°A person with no magical abilities is called a muggle. You, being a wizard, yet not knowing so yourself, leads me to believe that your father, and perhaps also your mother, were both muggles, thus making you, Sam, a muggle-born wizard,¡± he explains, searching Sam¡¯s eyes for a reaction.


    ¡°Sorry, what?¡± Dean cuts in. ¡°So that makes me, what, a muggle?¡±


    ¡°I believe so, yes.¡± Professor Dumbledore replies easily.


    ¡°And Sam¡¯s a wizard,¡± Dean says, slowly, enunciating each word carefully.


    ¡°Sam¡¯s a wizard.¡± Professor Dumbledore offers Dean a kind, and understanding smile. ¡°This must be very strange for you both.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you can say that again,¡± Dean says and slumps down in one of the armchairs. He gestures to the other one, letting the Professor also take a seat. He does. There being no chairs left, Sam is left to awkwardly sit on the edge of the bed.


    ¡°You are from America.¡± Professor Dumbledore states, and again, it¡¯s not a question, but Sam feels the need to answer.


    ¡°Yeah, Kansas,¡± Sam says. ¡°Does that mean I can¡¯t.. uh.. go?¡±


    ¡°Go?¡±


    ¡°To Magic Sch- to, uh, to Hogwarts, sir, fuck- I mean, sorry, sorry, I¡¯m so sorry,¡± he bites his lip and cringes. ¡°Professor.¡± Sam squeezes his eyes closed and wishes he could just melt into the floor. Dumbledore seems amused, he¡¯s got a mischievous smile on his face.


    ¡°The Quill wrote your name down in the book, and you received your letter in the year you turned 11; admittance is already permitted. You are going to Hogwarts. If you wish to accept, of course.¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± Sam says then, the words spilling out. ¡°I want to go.¡±


    ¡°Wonderful. Just wonderful,¡± Dumbledore smiles. It is a kind smile, one that Sam is unfamiliar with. Most grown-ups find him annoying and spare no time to talk to him or listen when he speaks.


    ¡°It¡¯s not.. It¡¯s not a joke, is it, sir?¡± Sam asks cautiously. ¡°I mean, Professor, sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s quite alright, Sam. And no, it is not a joke.¡± Dumbledore assures him, and as if to prove his point, he pulls out a stick from his robes; a black, quite bumpy stick, about the length of Sam¡¯s forearm. He looks at the professor, curiosity almost spewing out through his ears. What was he doing? Sam scooched a little backward on the bed as if to give the professor room to do. well, that wasn¡¯t something Sam knew just yet, he just didn¡¯t want to be in the way. So now, Sam sits criss cross applesauce (he almost laughs) on the bed, looking expectantly at the old man before him. Still smiling,


    ¡°Would you like to see some magic, Sam?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He says, holding his breath. He really does.


    ¡°Very well.¡± Professor Dumbledore says, and with a flick of his wrist, out through the tip of his stick comes a shimmery, glowing sort of liquid- or was it even liquid? Well, whatever it is floats up, up, up, and suddenly, it¡¯s a - it¡¯s a bird! A water bird! Sam can¡¯t believe his eyes, and is sure his jaw is on the floor by now. The bird is see-through, but the way the light hits it, Sam can see all sorts of colors, like a rainbow! The bird flaps its wings and flies higher, circling the room, and the droplets that fall off it form into more birds and more, and suddenly, five little water birds are flying around the dingy motel room. Sam is beaming, looking at them. Dean has lost all control of his face too, and is staring, awestruck as well. Dumbledore doesn¡¯t say anything, but he snaps his fingers, and suddenly, the curtains shut by themselves, and the lights go out too- Sam gasps, as the birds are now glowing!


    ¡°What¡­¡± Sam is searching his mind, where does this sentence he¡¯s trying to form want to go? He stops trying to find out because, just then, one of the birds is gliding down towards him. Sam looks to Dumbledore, who is holding out his own hand and encouraging Sam to do the same. He does. And the little water bird, it- no way! It perches down on Sam¡¯s index finger! It feels .. well, it feels solid, but wet, and cold at the same time. It almost tickles a little as the bird hops closer to the edge of his finger. It¡¯s not much bigger than a peach, Sam thinks, and it is oh-so-cute! He giggles, can¡¯t contain the childish glee, and sees Dean mirror his own emotions, beaming at his little brother.


    ¡°Wow..¡± Sam manages, and Professor Dumbledore smiles. He flicks the stick again, and the birds all gather into one, and- and turns into a horse. Sam blinks rapidly. The water horse gallops around the room, above their heads, splashing water as it runs. Dean gets some on him and immediately scoffs, hands flying up to fix his hair. Sam laughs loudly and watches the horse gallop, mesmerized by it. Dumbledore points his stick at the door, and it opens and outruns the horse. Sam almost falls off the bed as he leans after it, not wanting to see it go. It rises higher and higher, and then Sam can¡¯t see it anymore. Dumbledore lowers his stick, looking at Sam expectedly.


    ¡°That was¡­¡±


    ¡°So cool!¡± Dean finishes, excited too now.


    ¡°Yeah!¡± Sam exclaims, happy to see his brother in such a good mood for once.


    ¡°And .. and that was magic, right?¡±


    ¡°Quite right.¡± Dumbledore nods.


    ¡°And I¡¯m.. I¡¯m magic?¡± Sam looks down at his hands, palms up. He feels like he¡¯s buzzing with it just then.


    ¡°You¡¯re a wizard, yes. And you can do magic, Sam. That I am certain of.¡± Dumbledore¡¯s eyes twinkle. Sam smiles; no, he beams up at Dumbledore.


    ¡°How do you know?¡± Sam asks, skeptical himself now.


    ¡°Hold out your hand.¡± Dumbledore says, and Sam does so immediately. Dumbledore reaches into his robes again, this time retrieving a leaf. Sam can¡¯t help but feel a bit disappointed at this. He tries to shrug it off. Dumbledore places the crumpled-up, brown leaf in Sam¡¯s palm. Then he says nothing, just looks at Sam. He feels awkward. Uh, what now? Sam starts panicking. That¡¯s it, he thinks; he¡¯ll know I¡¯m a fraud now. Just some freak who sometimes gets something to happen. He can¡¯t exactly control it, and it worries him that- wait. The leaf, it¡¯s.. it¡¯s uncrumpling. It¡¯s regaining its color, turning first a sickly yellow, then a rich orange, and lastly, a mellow, sagely green. Sam¡¯s jaw drops. What- did he?


    ¡°Did I?¡± he hears himself say.


    ¡°Yes, you did, Sam. I just helped a little, but it wouldn¡¯t have happened if you didn¡¯t intend it to,¡± he tells him, looking down at the leaf. Sam had intended for the leaf to change colors? To do that? What? He hadn¡¯t done anything; he just- ¡°Go ahead, make it float.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± Sam says then, horrified. It¡¯s true, sometimes he was able to lift things with his mind, or so he¡¯d convinced himself; he never managed to do it when he¡¯d finally grown the courage to tell Dean about it. It never worked when anyone was watching.


    ¡°You can,¡± Dumbledore says, smiling. ¡°Just try.¡±


    Sam tries, then. Nothing happens at first, and Sam wants to cry. Dean¡¯s brows are furrowed; he¡¯s not looking happy. Maybe Sam was faking all this. Perhaps it was some sort of horrible mistake, and he¡¯d be found out any second and-


    ¡°Holy shit!¡± Dean exclaims. Sam blinks. The leaf is not only floating, but it¡¯s multiplying, flying higher and higher above Sam¡¯s head. Is his hair flowing in- in the wind? What? The wind picks up speed, swirling the leaves around, and around, all sorts of colors, red, orange, yellow, green, none are brown. Sam, himself, is starting to float.


    ¡°Whoa!¡± he shouts but realizes it¡¯s just his clothes, not all of him, that is floating. The wind, his wind, he realizes now, is whirling all around him, making the leaves dance and his hair stand out in all directions. Dumbledore looks very pleased and looks at Dean. So does Sam, which makes the leaves fly over to him as well. Dean quickly tenses but doesn¡¯t swat the leaves away, which was Sam¡¯s fear at first. He just stands there, staring at Sam in awe.


    ¡°I¡¯m doing this?¡± Sam asks the Professor, pure bliss on his face, so shocked and just so damn happy at the same time. He nods.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m just amplifying your power to get you going, but this is all you, Sam.¡± he smiles and holds his arms out, and the leaves begin circling him as well. It¡¯s so beautiful, Sam thinks, and he¡¯s so proud. A freak wouldn¡¯t do this; a monster couldn¡¯t. He.. he was a wizard. He really was.


    ¡°I think this is enough to convince you, is it?¡± Dumbledore asks, winking at him. Sam nods fervently. Dumbledore points his stick at the door, which again swings open.


    ¡°Go on, send it out,¡± Dumbledore says, cocking his head at the door.


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Just do it.¡± Dumbledore responds, and Sam, well? He just does it. He¡¯s using his hands, and pushes the wind to go forward in the direction he¡¯s pointing, and it just, obeys him, that easily, taking all the leaves with it. The door closes. Sam is.. speechless.


    ¡°There are many things one can do with magic, all of which you will learn at Hogwarts,¡± Dumbledore tells him. ¡°If that is what you decide.¡±


    ¡°I do- I mean, I¡¯ve decided,¡± Sam says quickly, and Dean smiles proudly at him, his hair a mess. Sam giggles at this, and Dean looks at him suspiciously. He follows Sam¡¯s line of sight and reaches up to touch his hair. His eyes widen in shock, and he clenches his jaw and shakes his head in disapproval - but the smile on his lips gives him away; he¡¯s not really upset. He¡¯s just as amazed as Sam is. Sam just did magic! And Dean saw this time!


    ¡°Wonderful. I feel I should tell you that Hogwarts is a boarding school, which means you will be living at the castle throughout most of the year. But you can return home in the breaks and, of course, over summer.¡± Dumbledore explains fingers interlocked with each other. Sam¡¯s heart is beating fast. Dean¡¯s smile falters. He is back to looking skeptical.


    ¡°Castle? Hogwarts is a castle?¡± Sam asks; he can¡¯t believe it; he needs to hear Dumbledore repeat it.


    ¡°It is a castle, yes. A quite big one, actually,¡± he says proudly in the last part.


    ¡°And you¡¯re the headmaster?¡± Sam asks, nervous now, all of a sudden.


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°And I.. I can go?¡± Sam asks worriedly, glancing over at Dean, who looks pretty uncomfortable.


    ¡°You can. If you wish to accept, of course.¡±


    ¡°I do!¡± Sam bursts out, and he can¡¯t catch the words before they spill out. Dean looks stricken. He looks hurt. He looks away from Sam quickly, staring daggers at the wall, jaw clenched. Sam can see the muscles in his upper arm tense and then untense.


    ¡°Wonderful. Now I¡¯m sure you have plenty of questions--¡±


    ¡°When can I leave?¡±


    Dumbledore just looks at him then, still smiling. Dean doesn¡¯t say anything.


    ¡°I mean, when, uhm, when does school start?¡± Sam tries, fumbling with his words, not daring to look in Dean¡¯s direction.


    ¡°Term begins September 1st, which is when you also will leave for King¡¯s Cross Station,¡± Dumbledore smiles. ¡°That¡¯s in London.¡± He adds when he sees Sam¡¯s confusion.


    ¡°The train, the Hogwarts Express, will leave at 11am, and it is essential you are there in due time. It is the only way you¡¯ll get to Hogwarts. Will that be a problem?¡± he asks, searching Sam¡¯s eyes. He doesn¡¯t face Dean, who is too busy trying to kill the lamp on the wall with just a look.


    ¡°No, no, that¡¯s- that works,¡± Sam says, smiling despite himself.


    ¡°Good. Seeing as you are muggle-born, I will have a representative from the school come and take you to Diagon Alley, where you will be able to shop for school supplies. You¡¯ve got the list, yes?¡± Dumbledore gestures to the letter. Sam nods excitedly.


    ¡°Very well. When does your father return? I would very much like to speak to him as well.¡± Dumbledore asks, and turns to Dean this time. ¡°Did you say he¡¯d be another week? Long time for a mechanical job, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be back in a week, yeah,¡± says Dean, finally looking at the old man, though not in a friendly way. The words come out harshly, and Sam feels embarrassed again. ¡°But I¡¯ve got the address where he¡¯s staying, if you want it.¡±


    Sam gapes at him. The last thing Sam wanted was for Dad to know.


    ¡°Wonderful, thank you, I would like that.¡±


    Dean walks over to the coffee table, grabbing the memo pad and a pen.


    ¡°I can pop by on my way back to the castle,¡± Dumbledore says and accepts the note Dean had scribbled the address down on. He smiles kindly, looking at Dean through his low glasses.


    ¡°So you¡¯re leaving then? Now?¡± Dean asks rudely, getting up to open the door.


    ¡°Not quite yet, if that¡¯s alright with you, Mr Winches-¡±


    ¡°Dean is fine.¡±


    ¡°Dean.¡±


    Sam takes a deep breath. He really wants to start yelling at his brother. But he won¡¯t. He sits still, clenching and unclenching his fists.


    ¡°The list...¡± Sam begins carefully, reaching for the letter. He unfolds it as he carefully takes it out of the envelope.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°You said someone would take me shopping?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I will send someone.¡± Dumbledore¡¯s kind smile feels very reassuring.


    ¡°Oh, okay. When?¡± Sam hopes he isn¡¯t asking too many questions, though he feels like every time one is answered, his mind comes up with at least three more.


    ¡°August 23rd, a week before the train leaves the station,¡± Dumbledore says. ¡°They will meet you outside of the Leaky Cauldron in London. Or will you be here still?¡±


    ¡°We can be in London then,¡± Sam says, not sure how he¡¯ll convince his father to go, but absolutely sure that he will succeed. He has to.


    ¡°Wonderful, just wonderful.¡± Dumbledore smiles. ¡°I will not be expecting your owl then, and I will inform the rest of the board you have accepted and will be joining us in the coming term.¡±


    Sam is giddy and nods eagerly. He can¡¯t wait.


    ¡°Very well, I will leave you boys to it then. It was a pleasure meeting you both,¡± Dumbledore says, shaking their hands one by one. ¡°I¡¯ll give your father your best, yes?¡±


    They nod. He was going to find their dad now? Sam¡¯s stomach ties itself into a knot. He¡¯s kind of thankful he doesn¡¯t have to be there for that.


    ¡°Goodbye for now, Sam.¡± Dumbledore smiles at him, tipping his head down in a small bow. ¡°Dean.¡± He gives Dean a curt nod as well, and then he leaves. Just like that.


    And just like that, Sam¡¯s life is forever changed.

 Chapter 4 - Diagon Alley

    Chapter 4 - Diagon Alley


    4th of August 1971, London


    Sam and Dean stood together outside the Leaky Cauldron, anxiously waiting for the professor to show up.


    ¡°What was her name again?¡± Dean asks, looking down at his watch, probably for the fifth time in the last two minutes.


    ¡°Pomona Sprout,¡± Sam reminds him. The owl had come last night, reminding Sam to arrive on time. And it was a friendly reminder to let him know this was actually happening as well. Sam could hardly believe it was true most of the time. Even more shocking was how well his Dad had taken the news that Sam was a wizard. It was sort of a miracle, really, and when Sam had asked if they could go to London next, John said that¡¯s where they were headed anyway, despite Dean telling Sam otherwise the night before. Hmm, Sam wonders what Dumbledore had done to their father, for him to be this supportive. Well, ¡°supportive¡± was a stretch, but he wasn¡¯t fighting it, at least.


    ¡°What kinda name is that, anyway?¡± Dean mumbles. ¡°Sprout¡­¡±


    ¡°She teaches Herbology.¡±


    ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°Herb- she¡¯s like a gardening teacher,¡± Sam settles on.


    ¡°Your gardening teacher is called Sprout?¡±  Dean says in disbelief, brows shooting up. ¡°Why do you need to learn about gardening?¡± he then adds incredulously, frowning at his little brother.


    ¡°It¡¯s for potion ingredients,¡± Sam retorts. ¡°I think.¡±


    ¡°Whatever.¡±


    They stand in silence for another five minutes. Ten. At precisely 10 am, a short and awfully round woman came out from, yeah from where exactly? She just sort of appeared, but Sam could tell this was Professor Sprout. She was a witch, alright, that was clear, by how she was dressed. She had a big hat tied down over her unruly hair, dirt on her nose (figures), and an oversized scarf hanging loosely on her shoulders. She was carrying a leather bag in one arm and a roll of parchment in the other. Her clothes were very old-fashioned, Sam thought, and very¡­ green. Everything she wore was green; in fact, even her leather boots were dyed green.


    ¡°Well, hello there, young man! You must be Samuel Winchester, yes?¡± she beams at him, holding out a hand for Sam to shake. He does.


    ¡°Just Sam,¡± he says and immediately regrets correcting her. Why would he do that!?


    ¡°And you¡¯re Mr Winchester, I presume?¡± she says and turns to Dean, offering her hand for him to shake. Dean holds his own hands up in mock surrender.


    ¡°Woah, I¡¯m not his dad,¡± he says quickly, even taking a step back.


    ¡°I know, you¡¯re his brother, yes? Dean Winchester?¡±


    ¡°... Yes.¡±


    ¡°Hello Dean, nice to meet you as well.¡± They shake hands. Sam can¡¯t help but smile. He likes her.


    ¡°And where exactly is Mr John Winchester?¡± she asks, looking around, as if he¡¯s hiding behind the boys somewhere.


    ¡°He¡¯s out of town, working a job,¡± Dean says simply.


    ¡°I see. Well, this is a rather peculiar situation, isn¡¯t it? Normally, we have a representative from our school hand deliver the letter to muggle-born wizards, but it seems the Quill thought you were a pureblood!¡± she tells Sam, as if this is supposed to mean something to him. ¡°I take it you spoke to Albus last week then?¡±


    ¡°Professor Dumbledore?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that would be the one, dear.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he came by, showed me¡­¡± Sam looks around, and leans into Professor Sprout, who leans in closer to him as well. ¡°... magic.¡±


    She nods solemnly.


    ¡°Did you enjoy magic, then?¡± she asks, smiling kindly. Sam nods. ¡°You know, Sam, you can do magic too. And where we¡¯re going today, you¡¯ll get to see a whole lot of magic!¡±


    Dean uncomfortably shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and clicks his tongue. His arms are crossed, face stern.


    ¡°Will you be joining us, Mr Winchester?¡± she asks, gesturing behind herself, towards the bar. ¡°Usually, we only allow the parents to come with their child to get school supplies, but since your situation is unique, we thought it best-¡±


    ¡°Just call me Dean. And yeah, I ain¡¯t leaving him,¡± Dean interrupts, and Sam dies a little bit on the inside, because why, oh why did Dean have to interrupt his professor, when she was kind enough to ask him if he¡¯d like to see more magic? What he and Dumbledore had done a week prior in the motel room was still one of Sam¡¯s fondest memories. He had tried to replicate it on its own, to little effect. He could get the leaf to float, and he managed to do the same with a straw, a water bottle cork, and a piece of paper, but not much else. Dean had encouraged him, cheered him on, but as it turns out, magic was hard work.


    ¡°Alright, off we go then!¡± Professor Sprout said cheerily, leading on and swinging the door open to the Leaky Cauldron.


    *


    ¡°Goddamn, this shit is heavy,¡± Dean hisses, almost buckling under the weight.


    ¡°Don¡¯t swear,¡± Sam scolds him, worriedly looking around for Professor Sprout. She¡¯d told the boys she had to go get something for her venomous tentaculas, whatever that was, and had left Dean in charge. Not a great idea, Sam had thought, but he was happy for some alone time with his brother. This place was truly magical, and Sam was thrilled he got to experience it with Dean.


    ¡°What¡¯s next?¡± Dean asks, ducking down quickly, the screeching firework nearly hitting him in the forehead. ¡°Jesus,¡± he mutters under his breath.


    ¡°Uhhh..¡± Sam searches for the list in his pocket, pulling it out. He scans the list. They had already bought all the books listed, much to Dean¡¯s dismay. To be fair, they were really freaking heavy! Much heavier than Sam¡¯s fiction books. Still, their sheer size didn¡¯t scare Sam, and he just could not wait to sink his teeth into them all. They had also picked up three sets of plain robes, one black winter coat, and one pointed hat (which Dean, of course, teased him about). Dean was wearing the hat now, and he looked absolutely ridiculous, but he insisted, jokingly saying that he, too, needed to look the part. To that, Sam had just rolled his eyes.


    Professor Sprout had generously gifted him a set of protective gloves, saying they were made of dragonhide, and that they would come in handy during her classes especially. They were the same shade of green as her boots. Sam was very thankful, even though they were kind of ugly. He supposed he did need them, and not having to buy them himself was also greatly appreciated. His Dad didn¡¯t like Sam spending his ¡°hard-earned money¡± on silly ¡°magician stuff¡±. Dean hadn¡¯t taken any of this, and spent multiple nights leading up to their trip to the Leaky Cauldron ¡°hustling¡± for money. Sam had asked exactly how he¡¯d gotten this much in such little time, but his brother had just winked at him, and said don¡¯t worry about it, mate, and so Sam tried not to linger too long on it.


    ¡°I need some stuff for potion class I think, like crystal phials, a brass scale, and-¡± Sam scrunches his nose. ¡°A cauldron..¡±


    ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°A cauldron?¡± Sam repeats. ¡°It¡¯s like a¡±


    ¡°I know what a cauldron is, Sammy.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Where do we get that stuff, then?¡± he asks, adjusting the strap of his bag, wiping his brow. He was sweating. Sam feels bad, the books are his, and he should carry them.


    ¡°I can take-¡±


    ¡°Nah, don¡¯t worry about it.¡± Dean assures him. He grabs the list from Sam. ¡°Okay, so it¡¯s just this left?¡± he points at the bottom of the list, where there are just a few more things left to get.


    ¡°Yeah, and then a wand,¡± Sam says excitedly. That¡¯s what he was mostly looking forwards too.


    ¡°And a broom?¡±


    ¡°First-years can¡¯t have brooms,¡± Sam points out. ¡°But we can look at them?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Dean says, licking his lips. Sam looks up at him, raising an eyebrow.


    ¡°You good, mate?¡± Sam asks, bumping Dean¡¯s shoulder with his own. They were nearly the same height, much to Dean¡¯s despair. He was the big brother; he used to remind Sam.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± he mumbles and then turns to Sam. ¡°Says here you can bring a pet.¡±


    ¡°It.. it does, yeah.¡±


    ¡°Where would we get one?¡± Dean asks. Sam¡¯s stomach does a somersault, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so wide.


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes, really, now go off, find the magical zoo or whatever, and I¡¯ll get these last things for ya,¡± he says, pushing Sam ahead. ¡°Just wait for me there, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay!¡± Sam is so excited he doesn¡¯t know what to do with himself; he wiggles his fingers, bounces up and down on his heels, and starts looking around for.. well, a pet shop? Maybe? He¡¯s not sure. Dean gives his hair a tussle, Sam swats his hand away, and then they part. Sam begins walking down the busy street and takes another moment just to be. The air is thick with magic, it smells.. familiar, he thinks, but he can¡¯t quite place from where he knows it. He starts looking around; there¡¯s shops for broomsticks, which he really wants to look at, but decides to wait for Dean to come back, so they can check it out together. There¡¯s also a stationary shop, where they had gone in earlier to buy quills and an ink pot. Dean said they would pack pens for him too, because writing with a quill was for queers. Sam didn¡¯t really see what was wrong with that, but he assumed Dean was right. He¡¯d heard their Dad mention something similar before, when Sam¡¯s hair had gotten too long. That had been a tough day, which ended in Sam getting a buzzcut and Dean with a bruised lip. Sam pushes the memory away as he makes his way further into Diagon Alley. There are lots of other younger kids here, too, around Sam¡¯s age. It makes him giddy with excitement, but he¡¯s much too shy to talk to anyone. That is until he bumps into someone, not at all paying attention to where he¡¯s going.


    ¡°Oh shit, sorry!¡± he bursts out and holds his hands up. A young, short boy with dirty blond hair looks up at him with furrowed brows.


    ¡°Watch it, mate!¡± he exclaims angrily, fussing, wiping the ¡°dirt¡± off his new robes.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry, I was just-¡±


    ¡°Not watching where you¡¯re going?¡±


    ¡°Yeah..¡±


    ¡°Is okay,¡± he says finally, and starts laughing. ¡°I¡¯m not really upset,¡± he confesses, and Sam smiles, unsure.


    ¡°You looking for someone?¡± he says, eyeing Sam¡¯s clothes, and he suddenly feels very self conscious. He¡¯s dressed like a muggle. His favorite sweatshirt, a pair of baggy jeans, and red converse with black and white laces.


    ¡°Uh, not really, just-¡±


    ¡°Are you here alone?¡± the boy asks, sounding amazed. ¡°That¡¯s sick! I can¡¯t go anywhere without my parents; they¡¯re kind of uptight.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± Sam feels awkward, sticking his hand into his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re starting Hogwarts this term, too?¡± the boy asks, his freckled face genuinely curious and friendly. Sam sighs with relief.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m a first-year,¡± he says, relaxing a bit, knowing this boy is sort of in the same shoes as him. However, he obviously has magical parents, unlike Sam. He wonders how that all works, but he hasn¡¯t had the chance to ask anyone, and this stranger before him doesn¡¯t seem like the right audience for such a question.


    ¡°Sweet! I¡¯m gonna be in Slytherin; what about you?¡± he asks, and Sam just blinks, not sure what to make of that question. ¡°Oh.¡± The boy seems to realize Sam has no idea what he¡¯s talking about. ¡°That¡¯s alright; you¡¯re muggle-born, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never met someone with muggles for parents before..¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve never met someone with magical parents before, either,¡± Sam offers, which makes the boy laugh.


    ¡°Well then,¡± he says, holding out his hand. ¡°I¡¯m-¡±


    ¡°Evan!¡±


    A stern voice calls out, grabbing his outstretched hand. ¡°Come here, this instance, do not speak to the mu-¡±


    The rest of the sentence gets drowned out by all the noise in the crowded street, and Sam remembers his mission. Pet store. He lifts his gaze and-


    Magical Menagerie.


    In the window, Sam can see graphics of owls, HUGE cats, and other creatures he¡¯s never seen before. The window is also lined, top to bottom, with cages of all sizes. This must be the right place. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, hearing the bell announce his arrival. He cringes slightly, doesn¡¯t really want to be seen much, especially in his .. his clothes. He bites his lip. This is his favorite hoodie, could he not take it with him? Did he have to wear weird wizard clothes forever now? Like the pointed hat? Oh no-


    ¡°Hello there, young man! Welcome in!¡± Sam¡¯s spiraling is interrupted by a shrill voice. He looks up to meet the eyes of a very.. colorful. Woman.


    ¡°Uh, hi,¡± he says, taking a few more steps into the shop, looking around. There¡¯s not much space, every inch of the walls were lined with cages, just like he¡¯d seen from the outside of the shop. Inside some of them, there were animals, or- creatures, Sam wasn¡¯t sure if they were technically animals, since he¡¯s never seen these kinds of animals before. The animals he recognized were amongst others; owls, ravens, rats, gerbils, chinchillas, other rodents, ravens, cats; in all sorts of colors, not just the ¡°regular¡± ones - there was even a purple cat which Sam thought was particularly pretty.


    ¡°You here for a pet, sir?¡± the shopkeeper asks, wiping her hands on her apron. She¡¯s got big, comically large, round glasses that make her eyes look ridiculously oversized, and her teeth remind Sam a bit of a bunny.


    ¡°Yeah, or, I think so,¡± he offers, and meets her eye. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what though, I¡¯ve never really¡­ really had a pet.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright! I will help you find the one who¡¯s right for ya,¡± she assures him, arms wide, gesturing to the many animals around her. ¡°There¡¯s lots to choose from!¡±


    ¡°I can see that,¡± Sam says, smiling too now.


    ¡°Are you a firstie, sir?¡± she asks, hand rubbing behind the ear of a fat, black cat sitting on her desk.


    ¡°Yeah, I am.¡± he answers, unsure where to put his hands, so he ends up just, keeping them straight down at his sides, fists clenched loosely.


    ¡°Most students choose a cat, an owl or a toad. There¡¯s of course other little critters you could go with, but those are the most usual ones,¡± she tells him, gesturing to different sections of the store containing the various animals she mentioned. ¡°We also have magical creatures, but, seeing as you¡¯re well..¡± she looks him up and down, and Sam suddenly feels uncomfortable. What was she about to say?


    ¡°Since this is your first pet, and you¡¯re a firstie, I suggest..¡± she looks up, tapping her chin with her index finger. ¡°A toad!¡±


    Sam doesn¡¯t mean to, but he grimaces. ¡°Not a toad,¡± she says quickly, hands up, in mock defeat. She laughs heartily. ¡°Not to worry! We¡¯ll find something,¡± she assures him, and puts her hand back under the cat¡¯s chin.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he replies lazily, looking at the cat, its eyes closed, purring loudly. He smiles.


    ¡°A kitty cat, perhaps?¡± she asks, noticing him looking at the cat.


    ¡°Uh,¡± Sam didn¡¯t really mind cats, but he also didn¡¯t really want one.


    ¡°Hmm, maybe not,¡± she says, sensing his hesitation. ¡°You got an owl already?¡±


    ¡°Uh, no,¡± he admits. ¡°This¡¯ll be my uhm, my first pet, like I said,¡± he says, arms packed back in his pockets, his palms sweaty. He¡¯d wished he could skip this interview and just pick a damn animal already, how hard could it be? Was this.. this interrogation - really necessary?


    ¡°But your family, young sir?¡± she asks again, still petting the cat. Another one jumps up from behind the desk, and she starts petting that one with her other hand.


    ¡°Uh, they¡¯re..¡± Sam thinks, stopping himself. ¡°No family owl.¡±


    ¡°Well then! Perhaps you¡¯d like a birdie then? Owls are great companions, and very useful too! They can carry letters, packages, deliver the news-¡± as if the owls could hear her, two of them started hooting. Sam looks in the direction the sound came from, and he spots three big owls, and one, very very tiny one. The shopkeeper stops petting the cats and moves over to the cages containing the owls.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got five owls in at the moment,¡± she says proudly. ¡°This one¡¯s a barn owl,¡± she points to the first one, a very regal looking bird, with a plain white, smooth face, and mostly brown and beige colored feathers. It blinked at Sam, then hooted unhappily and jumped further up on the perch in its cage. Sam winces. Not that one, then.


    ¡°She¡¯s a grumpy one, that one,¡± the shopkeeper confesses.


    Sam looks to the tiny one, probably the smallest owl he¡¯s ever seen. ¡°What about this one?¡±


    ¡°Oh, isn¡¯t he a cutie?¡± she fusses, opening up the cage, letting the little owl jump onto her finger. ¡°He¡¯s a Eurasian Scops Owl,¡± she says, scratching the little guy under his chin. ¡°He¡¯s entirely useless for carrying anything more than a note, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    Sam nods. Cute, but useless. Maybe he should look at the others too. The shopkeeper carefully lets the owl hop onto her shoulder, where he promptly cuddles up to her neck and falls asleep. Sam has to smile at that. ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s a sweetheart, really,¡± she tells him, leaning into the little creature. ¡°I think he¡¯ll have to be mine, actually, he¡¯s imprinted, the poor thing.¡±


    Sam doesn¡¯t question it, just watches as she points to the next owl. This one is white and black, with big yellow, curious eyes. Its feathers look very soft, and Sam feels a strong urge to reach out and pet it. He doesn¡¯t.


    ¡°This is a snowy owl, very pretty, isn¡¯t she?¡± she asks him. Sam nods. The owl doesn¡¯t even look in his direction, she¡¯s tutting towards the owl next to her cage, a big one, with .. with ears? Owls have ears? Sam¡¯s jaw falls open, because this surely must be the coolest looking owl he¡¯s ever seen.


    ¡°You like that one?¡± the shopkeeper asks, pointing at the silly-looking bird. She leans over, opening the cage, leaving the door open. The owl, which had a permanent expression of genuine shock, which Sam thought was hilarious, had blackish vertical streaks throughout its brown coat. Its belly was a tawny sort of color, and the ears, which was Sam¡¯s favorite part, he thinks, were brown, with white on the edges. The wings, too, seemed to have some white on them.


    ¡°This one¡¯s a Long Eared owl,¡± the shopkeeper begins, digging through her pockets. ¡°Or, more commonly referred to as a cat owl.¡±


    ¡°A cat owl?¡± Sam asks, not taking his eyes off the owl. The shopkeep taps him on the shoulder, and he has to rip his gaze from the animal. She hands him a little pellet, about the size of a grape, shaped in the form of a dogbone. Sam takes it, and the owl takes a cautious little ¡°hop¡± forward, bowing his head down to reach out through the open cagedoor.


    ¡°Go on, offer it to him, he won¡¯t bite,¡± she says. Sam looks at her and is met with a genuine smile and encouraging eyes. He swallows and looks back to the owl. Okay, he can do this. It¡¯s just a bird, he reminds himself. He holds his palm open, places the treat in the middle of it, and holds his hand forward, offering it to the bird. The owl looks at the treat, then up at him, and for a moment, it feels like something clicks into place in Sam. He smiles, reassuringly, like the shopkeeper had done to him, and he nods to the owl, cocking his head towards the treat. The owl carefully leans forward, and slowly, so slowly, it takes the treat, very cautiously. It chews quickly, then swallows and hoots happily at Sam, doing what can only be described as a little happy dance, to show its appreciation for the treat.


    ¡°Wonderful!¡± the shopkeeper exclaims and claps her hands together happily. ¡°This is the one, I think. Go on, offer your arm to him!¡±


    Sam very cautiously does precisely that, he bends down slightly, making his hand into a fist, and offers the bird his forearm as a perch. It looks at him, blinks, and then it hops onto his arm. It hurts a little bit, its little claws dig into the sweater, and Sam is happy now that he didn¡¯t show up in just a t-shirt. He beams at the owl, who turns its head sideways and looks at Sam. Sam mimics him, tilting his head too, in the same way, and the owl tilts its head again. Sam tries to do the same, but isn¡¯t able to twist it as far as the bird, so instead he starts laughing, which the owl, to his surprise, does too. What? Or well, it can¡¯t exactly be called a laughter, but it hoots happily and gently flaps its wings, clearly to express feelings of content. Sam gently holds up a hand behind its head, offering to scratch the owl. It leans into his touch, closing its eyes, enjoying the head scritches immensely.


    ¡°I want this one,¡± Sam tells the shopkeeper.


    ¡°And so he shall be yours,¡± she tells him and coos at the owl. The owl promptly ignores her; it is entirely too busy getting pets from its new boy.


    ¡°Long Eared owls, or cat owls, as mentioned, are considered a medium sized owl. You can feed him treats like these,¡± she holds up another bone shaped owl treat, and the smell must entice it, because Sam¡¯s owl- SAM¡¯S OWL, turns it head and happily accepts the treat. ¡°But mostly, he will find his own food. Cat owls are excellent hunters,¡± she brags on behalf of the owl, and it hoots happily, as if understanding her every word. And who knows, maybe it does understand her.


    ¡°His species is nocturnal, so don¡¯t be alarmed if he sleeps a lot, that¡¯s completely normal. You should let him out every day, and again, don¡¯t be alarmed if he doesn¡¯t return for a few days. But I suggest you keep building your bond in the week coming up, so he gets used to your scent, and imprints on you. It is harder since he¡¯s no longer a hatchling, but with some treats and a lot of patience, you¡¯ll do just fine,¡± she winks at him.


    ¡°What if he doesn¡¯t want to bond?¡± Sam asks her. She raises an eyebrow, then gestures to the owl, who is nearly melting into Sam¡¯s touch, rubbing against his hand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that will be a problem,¡± she assures him.


    ¡°What else do I need to know?¡± he asks, determined to take very good care of his owl. His owl. He couldn¡¯t wait for Dean to get here. He hoped he¡¯d let him get this owl and not be stuck with some stupid toad.


    ¡°Well, seeing as you¡¯re petting him by the ¡®ear¡¯, I should probably tell you that it¡¯s not his ear at all,¡± she says, trying to suppress her laughter. Sam stops immediately, much to the owl¡¯s dismay. It nips at Sam, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough he begins scratching behind its ear- uh, its-


    ¡°Not his ear?¡± Sam asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s just feather tufts, but it looks suuuper cute, doesn¡¯t it?¡± she fawns over the owl again, stroking its beak very gently. The owl seems to really like that. Sam takes a mental note of that.


    ¡°So yes, you¡¯ll need a cage, some owl treats,¡± she grabs a bag from behind the counter. ¡°This one¡¯ll be on the house, I can tell you two will become great friends, and that makes an old magizoologist¡¯s heart happy, very happy indeed!¡± She hands Sam the bag of treats, and he promptly stuffs it in his front hoodie pocket.


    ¡°Thanks!¡± he says, and means it, genuinely. This lady has been awfully kind to him so far. She gently puts a hand under the arm the owl is sitting on, and guides Sam to move the owl over to his shoulder. The owl understands and catches on very quickly, and hops over to sit on his shoulder. It leans into him, rubbing its face on the side of Sam¡¯s hair. The soft feathers tickle him.


    ¡°Owls are magnificent creatures, and very loyal. You¡¯ve got a lifelong friend here, my boy,¡± she says. ¡°Would you like to buy the standard owl care package?¡±


    ¡°Uh, how much is that?¡± Sam asks and braces himself.


    ¡°This guy on his own is 15 galleons, and then the cage and other supplies you¡¯ll need is another 8. But I¡¯ll let you have it all for 20, how does that sound?¡± she tells him, and she might as well have spoken Greek to him. At the beginning of their outing, Professor Sprout had taken him and Dean to Gringotts, the Wizarding bank apparently, and there, they opened up a new account for the Winchesters. If Sam¡¯s honest, he didn¡¯t really pay much attention and let Dean deal with it all. They¡¯d exchanged the money Dean had brought, and gone on with their shopping. Sam was so excited, and so was Dean, much to Sam¡¯s delight. He was worried Dean wouldn¡¯t take too well to all the magic, or even worse, what if he¡¯d have been jealous? They hadn¡¯t really talked about that yet, what it meant for Sam to be a wizard while Dean wasn¡¯t. Sam dreaded the upcoming talk he knew they needed to have, but for now, he tried to focus on the wonderful owl sitting, no, sleeping on his shoulder. He smiled at the shopkeeper.


    ¡°Yeah, that should be fine; my brother will be here any minute,¡± he assures her and walks up to the front counter. The shopkeeper nods eagerly and goes to the back to choose a cage for him. She also brought out a little leather bag, where Sam could see a brush handle stick out of, amongst other things. He was beginning to get a bit worried, and hoped Dean would find him soon, or else it¡¯d be very awkward to have to leave the owl behind. Just as the shopkeeper sets the shiny new cage down, the door opens, the bell jingles and Dean comes in. Sam whips around, and Dean¡¯s eyes go wide as he spots the owl.


    ¡°You chose a pigeon?!¡± Dean exclaims incredulously, pointing at the owl. Sam sighs, palm to his face.


    ¡°Deeeean¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just messing with you, mate,¡± he says, punching his brother in the shoulder. The owl hoots, but it¡¯s more of a huff, as if to tell Dean off. ¡°Well hello to you too, birdie,¡± Dean tells it, one brow raised. He pays the shopkeeper, lifts the cage off the counter and they head out. Sam almost forgot to pick up the owl bag but remembers just before the door closes and grabs it, with an apologetic look on his face.


    ¡°Thanks so much,¡± he tells the shopkeeper and hurries after his brother.

 Chapter 5 - The Pointy Magic Stick

    Chapter 5 - The Pointy Magic Stick


    4th of August 1971, London


    All that was left on the list now, was a wand. They had met up with Professor Sprout, who promptly also fell in love with Sam¡¯s new pet. She dug out an owl nut from her pocket to offer it to him, and he happily took it, gulping it down. Sam had asked where she¡¯d gotten those, and she pointed him in the direction of Eeylops Owl Emporium, which surprise, surprise, also sold owls and supplies to care for them. Dean promised he¡¯d go get some owl nuts, but Sam had to hurry up and get the magic stick. They were running out of time, and their Dad wouldn¡¯t be pleased if they were much later.


    So off went Dean, just before Professor Sprout cast a spell over his bag and cauldron, basically making them weigh no less than the materials of the bag and cauldron themselves. Dean was dumbstruck but incredibly thankful he didn¡¯t have to haul all those heavy books around any longer. Sam and Professor Sprout headed to Ollivanders, the best wand shop in the Alley, Professor Sprout assured him. She¡¯d also gotten her wand there, she told him.


    ¡°Best day in my life, I tell ya,¡± she went on about the experience. ¡°But I shouldn¡¯t give it all away, should I? Go on, head in, I¡¯ll wait here for you with your owl.¡±


    Sam nodded, swallowing his nerves, and headed into the store. He hoped it wouldn¡¯t be more than twenty galleons, as that was all Dean had given him for the ¡°magic stick.¡± This store too, had a bell. Sam rubs his hands together and takes another step in.


    ¡°Well hello,¡± said an older gentleman, with wide, pale eyes. He stepped down from the ladder he was perched on, dusted off his grey suit jacket, and stepped up to tend the front desk. ¡°How can I help you, young man? Here for your first wand, perhaps, are we?¡±


    ¡°Uh yes,¡± Sam says, but it comes out very quiet. ¡°Yes, I am here for my first wand,¡± he tries again, after clearing his throat.


    ¡°Splendid!¡± the old man says, clapping his hands together joyfully. Sam thinks that wizardkind must be very easily excitable, or at least all very happy, the enthusiasm they all speak with is.. uncanny.


    ¡°I will just have you answer some questions¡ªjust some standard stuff, don¡¯t you worry¡ªand we will find you a wand.¡± The old man¡¯s eyes twinkle with excitement. Sam smiles back.


    ¡°Let¡¯s start with an easy one, yes? What is the young man''s name?¡± he asks, extending a hand. When Sam reaches out to shake it, he doesn¡¯t get to - because the old man grabs a hold of his, and gently turns it over. He traces his finger on the inside of Sam¡¯s palm. Then, a tape measuring tool whips out from his side, floating in the air, as if by magic, ugh, it IS magic, Sam thinks, and he has to really hold back his groan. The old man takes a few measurements, and the results are jotted down by a magical quill and notepad also just appearing out of nowhere. Sam doesn¡¯t think he¡¯ll ever get used to this.


    ¡°Sam,¡± he says finally, releasing a breath. ¡°Winchester. Sam Winchester.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s a pleasure meeting you, Sam. You can call me Ollivander,¡± his eyes twinkle. Then his brows furrow. ¡°Winchester, eh? I haven¡¯t had an American come by in many, many years. I¡¯m..¡± he thinks for a minute, looking away, not meeting Sam¡¯s curious eyes. Ollivander is then pulling out a long, rectangular box from the shelf directly behind the counter. ¡°.. Sorry to say your family name is unfamiliar to me¡± he sighs, turning back to Sam, setting the box down on the counter. ¡°Muggleborn?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± Sam wishes people would stop asking him that. It made him feel uneasy. The old man opens the box carefully, and Sam¡¯s eyes are immediately drawn to the smooth, ivory stick inside. Wand, he reminds himself.


    ¡°I would like you to try this one first. I have a sneaking feeling it might be yours,¡± Ollivander gently pushes the box forward towards Sam, and then he interlocks his fingers together, looking at Sam expectantly. ¡°My intuition is almost always right, and... well, I... hmm... let¡¯s just give it a go!¡±


    ¡°Uh, sorry, what do I do?¡± Sam cringes, not really sure what is expected of him.


    ¡°Well, try it out, will you? Give it a swish!¡±


    Sam picks it up, holding it firmly in his right hand. He gives it a flick.


    Nothing. He looks to Ollivander, whose brows seem almost knitted together.


    ¡°Again,¡± Ollivander says. Sam flicks the wand again, and this time, to his utter relief, a few sparks fly from the tip of it. Sam looks at Ollivander, but .. by the look on the old man¡¯s face¡­ it wasn¡¯t what he had wanted to happen. Sam gets a sinking feeling in his gut, and he has to look down. He puts the wand back in its box, shameful.


    ¡°Hmm, peculiar. Maybe I was wrong,¡± Ollivander mumbles. ¡°Strange..¡±


    Sam doesn¡¯t say anything.


    ¡°Alright, well, let¡¯s not dilly dally, let me ask my questions, yes?¡± Ollivander clasps his hands together, and the notepad and quill flies to his side, ready to take notes for him.


    ¡°Alright..¡± Sam says, now feeling very nervous all of a sudden.


    ¡°You are eleven, yes?¡± he asks. What an easy question! Sam feels relieved.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he says with a smile. ¡°My birthday¡¯s in May,¡±


    ¡°That would be my second question,¡± Ollivander gives him a kind smile. ¡°What date?¡±


    ¡°May 2nd.¡±


    ¡°Could you come a bit closer, please?¡± Ollivander asks, and waves Sam forward. He squints as Sam does so, and it seems like Ollivander is really looking at Sam. What for, Sam doesn¡¯t know.


    ¡°Kind eyes; sage green, brown around the irises..¡± Ollivander mumbles to the quill and notepad. It vigorously scribbles it down. ¡°Tall for his age, thick, brown hair, ¡­¡±


    Sam feels awkward again. Was this really necessary?


    ¡°What would you say are your best qualities, Sam? What do you value most?¡± Ollivander asks, and Sam¡¯s heart beats dangerously fast. Was this a job interview?? What sort of interrogation was this?


    ¡°Uh, I don¡¯t really know..¡±


    ¡°Let me list some off for you,¡± Ollivander suggests, and ushers the notepad to flick over a page, and then he reads out loud:


    ¡°Just let me know which of these you value most, okay?¡± he looks to Sam, and Sam nods. Easy enough. ¡°Determination, imagination, resilience, intelligence, originality, optimism, or kindness?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± Sam furrows his brows, and actually mulls it over. He has always seen himself as intelligent and proud of it. He¡¯s always excelled in school, and he reads a lot. If he¡¯s honest though, Sam isn¡¯t much of an optimist. He tries to be, but that¡¯s difficult with the life he¡¯s led. So much death, so many dangers and uncertainties. Originality didn¡¯t seem that important to Sam, he could see why people would want to stand out from the crowd, but honestly? Sam just wanted a normal life, didn¡¯t ask for much. What are his other qualities..


    Hmm. He knows what Dean would say, but what did he think himself? And how did this have anything to do with what color his magic stick would be? He decides then, not to mull over it too much, and just goes with his gut.


    ¡°Determination,¡± he says simply. That could be applied in all cases. ¡°But, honestly I -¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright, gut feeling answers are preferable.¡± Ollivander interrupts. ¡°I think I have enough for now.¡±


    Sam¡¯s shoulders finally relax.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go get some more wands for you to try now.¡± Ollivander claps, then swiftly turns on his heels and walks further into the shop, turning a corner, disappearing from view. Sam puts his hands back in his pockets, and looks around, taking in his surroundings. There were lots of boxes here, in all sorts of colors, most of them in muted,  earthy tones. A few of them had stickers labeling them, but most were unmarked.


    ¡°Have you been told much about wands yet, young Mr Winchester?¡± Ollivander asks then, peering from around the corner.


    ¡°Uh no, not really, no.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright, I myself am well versed in wandlore, so should you have any questions, I am more than happy to help,¡± he smiles warmly, and starts making his way back to the counter. He¡¯s picked out five boxes, and Sam¡¯s eyes widen.


    ¡°Will I need that many?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°More than one wand, I mean,¡± Sam asks, blushing.


    ¡°Oh no, not at all. Only one.¡± he gestures to the wands on the table. ¡°We¡¯ll find out together which wand is right for you.¡±


    ¡°Did I break the white one?¡± Sam asks then, feeling very small.


    ¡°Oh no, it just didn¡¯t fit you.¡±


    ¡°Oh..¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°The wand chooses the wizard, Sam Winchester, not the other way around. We¡¯ll have to find a good match. Don¡¯t worry, though; I have never had a customer leave unsatisfied or without their own wand.¡± He assures Sam when he starts looking especially worried.


    ¡°I am certain one of these will be yours, call it a hunch, but an experienced hunch.¡± Ollivander laughs then. He opens up the first box, a velvety purple one. The inside reveals a beautiful reddish brown wand, with intricate carvings and what seems like a smooth, comfortable handle.


    ¡°So wizards only get one wand?¡± Sam asks, eyeing the wand, gently picking it up, turning it over in his hands. Feels¡­ good? He¡¯s not really sure what to look for or what is precisely supposed to happen. He almost expects it to start glowing or something.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Ollivander answers simply.


    ¡°What if I break it?¡± Sam asks, biting his lip.


    ¡°Do you intend to break it?¡± Ollivander seems a bit startled by this.


    ¡°No.¡± Sam feels his blush turn a deeper shade of red, and he wishes he hadn¡¯t asked. ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Ollivander seems pleased enough with that answer. He gestures for Sam to flick the wand, folding his arms together, tucked neatly behind his back. Sam does.


    Ollivander¡¯s nose starts growing rapidly, and it¡¯s changing colors, too! Sam¡¯s face pales, and he hurriedly puts the wand down.


    ¡°Oh dear!¡± Ollivander says, tapping his nose with his own wand, promptly stopping and reversing the growth and color change.


    ¡°Sorry-¡±


    ¡°Not to worry, it is all handled, Mr Winchester,¡± Ollivander says kindly.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s try this one right here,¡± Ollivander says, gesturing to the next box. He lifts the top open to reveal a dark brown stick with gold details. Sam reaches for the stick. No, not the stick, but the wand, Sam has to remind himself. He holds this one in his hand too, and.. it.. it burns! Sam hisses, and promptly drops it back on the countertop, where the gold plating makes a clattering noise as it hits the wood.


    ¡°Why I have never-¡± Ollivander¡¯s eyes are wide with shock, and he carefully picks the wand up and stuffs it back where it came from. He places the box to the side and looks to Sam. ¡°Are you okay, boy?¡±


    ¡°Yes it''s just, it burned me..¡± Sam is blushing again. What was wrong with him? Why did none of the stupid sticks like him? He was being shunned by sticks too now. Great.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, son, we¡¯ll just..¡± Ollivander stutters. ¡°Here, this one next.¡±


    He slides the dark orange box over to Sam and lets him take off the lid. Inside, there¡¯s a relatively short and thick ember-colored wand with what looks like vines wrapped around it. The vines are actually green, but Sam can tell it¡¯s just carved from the wood and then painted over. It looks beautiful. He bites his lip, and goes to pick it up. Ollivander watches him carefully. When the wand doesn¡¯t immediately burn Sam, he feels a bit lighter and looks to the old man for his queue to try and flick it. Ollivander nods, approvingly. Sam swallows, and.. flick!


    Angry flames burst out from the tip of the wand, but Ollivander is quicker, and he¡¯s put up some sort of shield with his own wand. Sam gasps in shock and drops the wand, seriously not wanting to try any more today; thanks very much.


    ¡°Well, this is highly unusual¡­¡± Ollivander¡¯s brows are furrowed again, and as he holds the latest test wand up to his ear, listening intently, his eyes go wide. It looks like he¡¯s had some sort of realization. He takes the lid off the next box Sam assumes contains the wand Ollivander would have him try next. He doesn¡¯t offer it to Sam, just holds it up to his ear again. Same expression as before, Ollivander slowly lowers the wand back down, laying it gently in its box.


    ¡°Sam Winchester.¡± Ollivander then says solemnly, and chills run down Sam¡¯s back. He swallows again, the lump growing dangerously large. He¡¯s worried he¡¯ll have trouble breathing soon. ¡°Have you faced death before?¡±


    ¡°Uhm¡­¡±  Sam¡¯s stomach ties itself into a knot.


    ¡°I.. I realize this might seem like an intrusive question, but I must know. None of the wands I have here seem to take to you and I wonder..¡±


    ¡°I, well..¡± Sam attempts to swallow the forming lump in his throat. ¡°My mother, she.. There was a fire in my nursery when I was a baby. She uh.. she didn¡¯t make it.¡± Sam looks down, eyes stinging. Ollivander tuts, and nods sympathetically.


    ¡°I am deeply sorry for your loss, you needn¡¯t tell me more, I apologize for the intrusion, I just-¡± he stops himself. ¡°Wait here a minute, please.¡±


    Sam is left alone then, waiting. He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. What was wrong with him? Why did none of the wands want to be his?


    Ollivander comes back a whole five minutes later, and he does not look pleased. He¡¯s carrying a pitch black box, Sam can¡¯t take his eyes off it, power seems to radiate out of the very container, as if the wand doesn¡¯t want to be in there. The box is dusty, and a little worn on the edges.


    ¡°This wand is¡­ very special, Sam Winchester. It has been in my family for generations, and we¡¯ve only had two wizards before you try it. None of them were a match.¡± Ollivander tells him, placing the box carefully down in front of Sam.


    ¡°What¡¯s.. what¡¯s so special about this one?¡± Sam asks, hoping that isn¡¯t a very rude question. He also shivers thinking about the price tag of such a wand. Maybe this was some sort of sales trick?


    Ollivander gently lifts the lid up, revealing soft, crimson silk draped over the wand. Sam feels his breathing catch, and he looks to Ollivander, who nods to him. Sam lightly grips the silk between his index finger and thumb, and lifts it aside to reveal the wand. Sam¡¯s heart beats faster, and a smile spreads across his face. The wand had a deep, hickory brown color, with lighter details towards the handle.


    ¡°This is a fir wand, with a thestral tail hair as its core. It is an incredibly rare combination.¡± Ollivander tells him. Sam¡¯s jaw is slack, and he can¡¯t take his eyes off the wand. It¡¯s.. beautiful. He wants to pick it up and has a very strong urge to do so, actually, but he waits for Ollivander to let him know he can. He does NOT want to set fire to the store or something of the likes.


    ¡°The wood comes from that of the most resilient of trees and has been called ¡®the wand of survivors,¡¯¡± Ollivander clears his throat then. Sam glances quickly at him, but Ollivander doesn¡¯t meet his eyes. ¡°Fir wands are very well suited for transfiguration spells, and.. they require wielders with strong minds, and who possess great power. It can be temperamental, but.. I think it might be a fit for you,¡±


    Sam nods in agreement, even though he¡¯s not paying much attention at this point, he just has to get his hands on this wand RIGHT now.


    ¡°The thestral tail hair is a tough core to work with in wandmaking, and though very, very potent, is only a core a wizard who has a true understanding..¡± he pauses for a second too long. ¡°.. and acceptance of death can wield.¡± Sam looks up at Ollivander then.


    ¡°Well. I think it¡¯s time you try it, yes?¡± Ollivander then gives Sam the go, and his hand immediately reaches out and picks the wand up. The second he does, it¡¯s like he¡¯s been stunned. His body goes warm at once, and he feels¡­ strong. Powerful. He looks down at the wand and grips the handle tightly, which is incredibly comfortable to hold. It was as if it molded itself to Sam¡¯s grip.  The wand itself was reasonably straight, and had a distinct handle side, and.. a pointy side. There were intricate carvings about halfway up the shaft, starting at the edge of the handle, and evened out towards the tip. Sam flexes the wand slightly in his grip, feeling the wood bend to his will. As he held it more firmly, he could feel a surge of power go through him, siphoning into the wand.


    He then had a sudden urge to expel that power, and without looking to Ollivander again for approval, he confidently, though gently, flicks the wand again. Out of the tip comes water, first in little droplets, that immediately start floating upwards, then it is a constant stream, and it all gathers together to form a sphere. Sam adjusts his grip, and the water sphere transforms before his very eyes into¡­ into.. the water horse! Sam is grinning like an idiot because this water horse looks exactly like the one Dumbledore had created for him, all those weeks ago.


    ¡°My, oh my!¡± Ollivander exclaims happily. This makes Sam lose his concentration, and the water horse turns back into.. well, water, and it goes everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Sam wants to cry. Ollivander is soaked, and so are all the boxes on the counter.


    ¡°Oh no! I''m sorry!¡± Sam says immediately, hand flying to cover his face. ¡°I didn''t mean to-¡±


    ¡°My dear boy, don¡¯t apologize!¡± Ollivander is laughing now, beaming at Sam with a pleased smile. ¡°We have found your wand!¡±


    *


    Sam helps Ollivander clean up all the water. And by helping, that means Sam sits on the counter watching Ollivander do magic to evaporate the water away, with a huge, awestruck smile on his face. When all the water¡¯s been cleaned up, Sam has more questions for the man that he just has to get out, and since Dean hasn¡¯t come to fetch him yet, he figures he¡¯s got enough time to do so. He pays for the wand, which, to his greatest relief, is only 10 galleons, and sits down in one of the two armchairs Ollivander had conjured for them to lounge in while they waited for Dean to return. It was very refreshing for Ollivander to have such a young wizard take such interest in his craft that he was more than willing to share his knowledge with the boy.


    ¡°Why do wizards, uhm... need wands?¡± Sam asks, hoping he doesn¡¯t offend the old man, who has dedicated his life to creating them. He thinks back to when Professor Dumbledore was showing him the water birds and how Sam had created wind¡ªmost of that had been done wandless.


    ¡°That¡¯s a good question, not many stops to ask,¡± he says, and he doesn¡¯t look offended at all, just happy to be able to talk about his passions, it seems. ¡°Wands are quasi-sentient magical instruments and help witches and wizards wield the magic that they themselves possess. But wandless magic isn¡¯t unheard of, not at all, it is just incredibly challenging to master.¡±


    ¡°Does that mean non-magic- uhm, muggles,¡± Sam corrects himself.  ¡°-- Can¡¯t use wands?¡±


    ¡°That is somewhat correct, yes. Wands tend to misbehave if muggles use them. The wielder holds most of the magic, I like to say. The wand just allows it to flow more freely and in a more.. hmm, controlled manner,¡± he smiles. ¡°No two wands are never the same, of course, even if they''re made with the exact same materials. Wands are.. in a way, as close to animate that an inanimate object can be.¡±


    ¡°Right..¡± Sam nods, taking mental note of that. ¡°What makes the wands so different from each other?¡±


    ¡°Many things, but to put it simply: wands are made up of four main components that give them different properties. First, of course, there¡¯s the wood type. Then, you have the core, which, without it, ¡°a wand¡± would have just been a piece of wood, a regular, normal, non-magical stick.¡± Ollivander eyes Sam then, probably to check if the boy is paying attention. And Sam indeed is, his eyes wide, and he¡¯s trying his absolute best to remember every word. Ollivander clears his throat before he continues. ¡°I, personally, have found that three cores are especially potent, these being dragon heartstrings, unicorn hair, and lastly, phoenix feathers. I call these the Supreme Cores and use no other cores in my own wand craft.¡±


    ¡°So all these are ..¡± Sam gestures to the entire store. ¡°... supreme core wands?¡±


    ¡°Well, no, some of these wands have been in my shop for decades, and have been crafted by other talented wandmakers. I carry the entire sortiment proudly,¡± he tells Sam. ¡°Like your wand. I did not make it, and its maker.. is sadly unknown to me. As mentioned before, it has been in my family for generations and-¡±


    Ding!


    ¡°Sammy, time to go!¡± Dean is halfway into the store, and he looks ridiculous as he tries to carry everything Sam bought today.


    ¡°Oh, sorry, Mr Ollivander, I have to go now!¡± Sam says, getting up, wand in hand. No way is he putting that anywhere else.


    ¡°That¡¯s quite alright, my boy, I very much enjoyed our chat. I hope your wand will serve you well!¡± he pats the boy on the shoulder before sending Sam off.


    ¡°C¡¯mere,¡± Dean says, hauling Sam out. ¡°Dad¡¯s waiting.¡±


    He hands Sam back the owl cage, with the cat owl hooting happily when it sees Sam, delighted to be reunited with its new boy. Sam also takes the cauldron, which had been magically altered to weigh much less than it did prior.


    ¡°Allright, let¡¯s hustle, c¡¯mon Sammy,¡± Dean says, and the two boys make their way back to the Leaky Cauldron, Dean paving the way through the crowd. He looks so silly, Sam thinks, with the pointed hat still on. He makes sure to grab it off of Dean before they go out the doors of the Cauldron, stuffing it into a side pocket of Dean¡¯s bag. Sam¡¯s smile fades as he sees their Dad waiting, a stern look on his face. Here comes that fight he was dreading. Great.

 Chapter 6 - Sam鈥檚 First Hunt

    Chapter 6 - Sam¡¯s First Hunt


    24th of August 1971, London


    John Winchester is many things. Patient is not one of them. Dean apologizes, tries to explain they had needed a bit more time in Diagon Alley than first presumed, but John didn¡¯t even look at him. Dean pops open the trunk and throws all of Sam¡¯s new things hastily inside. Sam can¡¯t help but cringe, and hopes none of it breaks. He¡¯s stuffed his wand inside the front pocket on his hoodie, and he¡¯s rubbing his thumb across the handle, letting the texture calm him down. He deliberately waits for Dean to pick a seat first, and when he opens the passenger doors handle and gets in, Sam does the same, with the seat behind their father¡¯s.


    Sam places the owl cage next to him, and he swears the disapproving look his father gives him in the mirror was enough to kill, had Sam not immediately looked away. He bites his cheek, and tries not to cry. John says nothing, but the air is thick with apprehension. He pulls out of the station, heading back to the motel.


    The whole ride back, John still says nothing. Not a single word. And the boys are too frightened to mutter even a single word as well. Not even to each other. Sam tries to catch Dean¡¯s eye in the mirror a couple of times, but his gaze is locked downwards, presumably at his hands, fists clenched in his lap. His jaw is tense, and his leg is bouncing anxiously. Sam wishes he could defuse the situation somehow, but knows from experience he¡¯ll only make it worse if he tries to say anything. Best to let their dad cool off before attempting any sort of conversation. At least he¡¯d come to pick them up after their shopping trip. He could¡¯ve told them they¡¯d have to walk home as well. So that¡¯s.. progress? Sam thinks. His eyes sting, threatening to well over with tears, and so Sam bites down on his tongue, hard, and focuses instead on the busy street outside the window.


    No one says anything the entire thirty minute ride back to the motel. And when they arrive? John doesn¡¯t get out of the car.


    ¡°Get out.¡± He says simply. Dean doesn¡¯t waste any time, he rushes out and goes to empty the trunk. Sam does the same, grabbing the cage firmly before opening the door and exiting the vehicle. Dean barely has the trunk shut before the car pulls away again.


    Sam takes some of his things, and Dean unlocks the door. They carry it all inside, and Dean suggests they order pizza, as if everything¡¯s normal. But Sam knows. Nothing will ever be normal again.


    *


    7th of August 1971, London


    There¡¯s no immediate fight, because John doesn¡¯t stick around long enough for one to start. Actually, he¡¯s gone for a full week before returning, casually strolling into the room as if he hadn¡¯t left the boys alone for an unspecified amount of time. It wasn¡¯t as if either of them would dare to question his methods anyway, so he could just.. carry on as usual.


    When he comes in through the door, he tosses a bag into Sam¡¯s lap, startling him.


    ¡°Get up,¡± he says sternly, already turning to leave again.


    ¡°What?¡± Sam replies, his voice brittle. Dean¡¯s head perks up from Dad¡¯s journal, he¡¯d been flipping through it, reading all that he could, while John was away.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a job to do.¡± He says, back still turned to the boys, hand on the door handle. He doesn¡¯t offer any more explanations, before tossing Dean an identical bag too, just a bit more worn.


    ¡°We?¡± Sam asks, bewildered. He¡¯d never been allowed to come with on a job before. Never. Despite having shown more ¡°interest¡± in the family business the past two years or so, his father had always said no whenever he asked to be allowed to come with. John turns on his heels, looking at Sam. Sam¡¯s gaze immediately drops.


    ¡°What do we know so far?¡± Dean asks, a skeptical undertone to his voice. He eyes Sam wearily, his brows knitted together in obvious worry.


    ¡°Poltergeist. Two towns over. Should be an easy job, if all goes well.¡± John always spoke like that. Very matter of factly, straight to the point.


    ¡°And Sam¡¯s going too? You¡¯re sure he¡¯s ready for that?¡± Dean asks. John looks at him then and just ¡­ stares at him, for a good thirty seconds. After five, Dean¡¯s gaze drops submissively.


    ¡°You ready for this, Sam?¡± he then asks, turning to Sam who has paled a lot.


    ¡°Yes sir.¡± he says, no pause, no hesitation. No weakness.


    ¡°Good. Five minutes and we head out.¡± John says, closing the door. Shit. Sam quickly unzips the bag and does a brisk inventory check. There¡¯s a big container of salt, ropes, a bottle of what Sam assumes is holy water (it¡¯s a flask with a cross on it), chains, three wooden stakes and shotgun shells just laying loose in the bag. Sam moves some of the stuff aside, and sees a flashlight, extra batteries, waxed cotton rounds and a full bottle of lighter fluid, a jar of dirt, a .. spoon? a pocket knife, a bottle with.. blood? and some other things Sam doesn¡¯t really know what to make of. He picks up the pocketknife and slides it into his front jeans pocket.


    ¡°Can you kill ghosts with wooden stakes?¡± Sam asks Dean, who is currently tying his shoelaces. Dean laughs.


    ¡°Nah, but you knew that,¡± Dean says, getting up, slinging the bag across his shoulders. ¡°Why you ask?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s wooden stakes in here,¡± Sam says, pointing to the bag.


    ¡°Oh yeah, but that¡¯s just your starter kit, you know?¡± Dean says, as if it was obvious. ¡°That reminds me,¡± he unzips his own bag, and pulls out a leatherbound book, very similar to Dad¡¯s. ¡°This is for you. Dad told me to hang onto it until you were ready. And I think he just gave the signal that you are.¡±


    ¡°Is this-¡±


    ¡°A hunter¡¯s journal? Yeah,¡± Dean says proudly as he hands Sam the journal. He takes it, cautiously, and flips it open. On the very first page, his dad has written:


    Property of Samuel Winchester


    Sam can¡¯t help but smile. His own journal. He finally has a place to put all his thoughts down, all he¡¯s going to learn. But then his smile fades. His own hunter journal. His dad knows he¡¯s going to Magic Scho- to Hogwarts. He¡¯s not going to be a hunter. He¡¯s a wizard. Sam¡¯s brows furrow, and he places the journal in his new bag, getting up, ready to go. The boys shuffle out to the car, and both get into the backseat. John adjusts his mirror so he can lock eyes with Sam.


    ¡°How do we identify poltergeists?¡± he asks Sam then, looking directly into his eyes. Sam begins to sweat, rubbing his palms on his pants.


    ¡°Uh-¡±


    ¡°A little more confidence.¡± John interrupts.


    ¡°Poltergeists are a type of ghost,¡± he begins, trying to put as much poise behind his voice as he can muster. ¡°They can be forced out of a home by performing a house purification ritual.¡±


    ¡°And how do you do that?¡±


    ¡°You place gris-gris bags in each of all the floors, of the north, south, east and west corners of the building it''s haunting,¡± Sam says, knowing he¡¯s right. He¡¯s read this segment of Dad¡¯s journal plenty of times. ¡°The ingredients are; Angelica root, crossroads dirt, Van Van oil-¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright, seems like you¡¯ve got that covered,¡± John pulls out of the motel parking lot and gets on the road. He tosses four bags behind him, Sam and Dean catching them, bumping into each other while doing so. Dean stifles a laugh. ¡°What if that doesn¡¯t work?¡±


    ¡°Uhm..¡± Sam thinks for a moment, cursing himself for ¡°uhm¡±-ing before knowing the answer. He searches his brain, tries to picture the journal in his mind. And then he has it. ¡°Salt and burn the remains.¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡± John says, no more praise will come out of this. Dean gives Sam a thumbs up and smiles proudly. This makes Sam smile too, and he nudges Dean with his shoulder. ¡°I am pretty sure the ghost is one by the name of Hillary Dunkin, who died a few years back. Take a look at the newspaper article in my journal.¡±


    Dean picks up the journal from the pocket on the carseat, obviously having done the same thing before. He flips the newspaper open until he reaches the page with black sharpie drawn basically all over it. A picture of a young woman has been circled. Sam leans in to read.


    Hillary Dunkin (46) is survived by her parents Donna and Martin Pearlson, and her husband Francis Dunkin. She was tragically killed in a robbery gone wrong. Should you have any information about the incident, please contact local authorities.


    [...]


    ¡°They never caught the robbers?¡± Sam asks. He looks at the picture of the woman. She¡¯s quite pretty. Long, blonde hair. She¡¯s wearing a summer dress with daisies on it. When there¡¯s no answer from John, Sam looks back down and continues reading a little further down on the page.


    [...]


    Services will be held on August 22, 1968 at 10:00am in the Union Funeral-West London. There will be a closed casket, and the family accepts flowers for the funeral. Her final resting place will be Bunhill Fields graveyard.


    ¡°When did the hauntings start?¡± Dean asks.


    ¡°A few weeks ago.¡± Their dad replies, taking a right onto a new road. They''ve been driving for about ten minutes now, and Sam has no idea how far away this job is, or how long it will take. Would they have to sleep over at a new motel? Sam curses himself for not bringing a book, or any of his new things or¨C


    His stomach tumbles over. His owl. Oh no. His first day, and he¡¯s already neglecting his new pet. Sam bites the inside of his cheek and thinks to himself how stupid and irresponsible he is. Shit!


    ¡°You okay?¡± Dean whispers, seeing his clear distress.


    ¡°No.¡± Sam gets out, between gritted teeth. ¡°My owl¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Dean seems to catch on. ¡°He¡¯ll be alright, yeah?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know Dean, I¡¯ve.. I¡¯ve never had a freaking owl before, have I?¡± Sam says, and it comes out way more aggressive than he intended.


    ¡°The pigeon will be okay, you¡¯ll see,¡± Dean says, bumping his shoulder again. Sam doesn¡¯t budge.


    ¡°He¡¯s not a pigeon.¡±


    ¡°Looks like one.¡±


    ¡°Does not!¡±


    ¡°Does!¡±


    ¡°Boys!¡± The voice is cold as ice, and John is not messing around. ¡°Focus.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir,¡± they both say at the same time. The rest of the car ride is silent.


    *


    When they finally arrive, and John pulls up in the driveway of the little suburban home, it¡¯s slowly getting dark. Probably about 7 pm or so. Great. Sam¡¯s owl probably hates him already.


    ¡°Okay boys, let me do the talking, and don¡¯t get in the way. Dean, you take a look upstairs after I¡¯ve spoken to the man of the house. I¡¯ll let you know when. Sam, stay close, okay?¡± John instructs, facing his sons, arms crossed glumly across his chest. The boys nod, and follow after him.


    John knocks on the door, and steps aside to wait. When thirty seconds pass, and no one¡¯s come to open up, John knocks again, this time a bit more adamant about it. Ten seconds, twenty, and just as John raises his knuckles to knock for a third time, the door opens, and a man with a gruff looking beard, deep circles under his eyes and very little hair left atop his head mopes out at them.


    ¡°What?!¡± he hollers, quite loudly too.


    ¡°My name is John, we spoke on the telephone?¡± their father is calm, nothing can shake him.


    ¡°John?¡± the man repeats, blinking slowly. He blinks again. And again, and then it¡¯s as if a light is turned on, and his eyes widen. ¡°Winchester!¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Come on in, please, come on inside!¡± The man ushers them in, and Sam and Dean follow tightly behind John. They are shown into the sitting room, and the boys slump down on one of the couches, as instructed by their fathers outstretched hand. John himself does not sit down, he just leans slightly on the wall, eyeing the man wearily.


    ¡°You¡¯re Francis?¡± he asks, as though bored.


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right,¡± the man says nervously, twiddling his thumbs, not really knowing what to do with his hands. Sam knows the feeling. John Winchester was an intimidating man to his sons, Sam couldn¡¯t imagine how small he could make other people feel. If this was the reaction of another grown man¡­ Sam shudders.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Can I offer you anything? Tea?¡± The man asks, wringing his hands together, Sam can see little beads of sweat form on his clammy forehead. Francis was a ¡­ pathetic looking man, if Sam¡¯s being honest. He¡¯s got approximately twenty two hairs left atop his head, and that¡¯s being generous, combed over to the side, and a ring of thinning, gray hair from ear to ear at the back of his head. He¡¯s got bushy eyebrows and square, unflattering glasses and his teeth are crooked and discolored. Sam suddenly feels a strong urge to brush his teeth, he¡¯d forgotten this morning, too caught up in preparing for his first Job.


    ¡°I¡¯d rather we get right to business,¡± John says, arms folded across his chest again.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Francis replies, wetting his lip with his tongue. In the corners of his mouth, Sam can see a white sort of.. something. The man also smells. A lot. Sam tries hard not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.


    ¡°You live here alone, Francis?¡± John asks, looking around, eyeing the shoe rack, which had multiple pairs of shoes on it. Some high heels as well, and two pairs of kids shoes.


    ¡°Eh, no,¡± he begins, but corrects himself quickly. ¡°No sir, my- my wife is also here. Not at the moment, of course, her and the kids-¡±


    ¡°Your wife?¡± John raises an eyebrow.


    ¡°Yes, Joselynn, we.. We got married this spring.¡± he shuffles uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He then rubs his protruding belly, undoubtedly trying to straighten his ruffled shirt. Hasn¡¯t been ironed in a while, Sam notes.


    ¡°You remarried after Hillary then,¡± John says, not a question, but Sam can see Francis wanting to explain himself nonetheless.


    ¡°I was heartbroken, of course, after Hills died, but .. I thought, for the sake of the children.. you know, no boys should be without a mother¡­¡± he stumbles through the sentence, and the words make Sam¡¯s whole body tense uncomfortably.


    ¡°Right..¡± John says, eyes darting across the room, no doubt trying to look for¡­ for clues. Sam takes this opportunity to look around the room as well. There¡¯s lots of framed pictures on almost every single wall of the room.


    There¡¯s mostly framed pictures of Franic¡¯s sons, only a few years separate them, Sam thinks. There¡¯s also some of Francis with a brown haired young woman. She¡¯s in quite a few of the pictures actually, maybe she¡¯s the boy''s aunt? Sam looks at one where the brunette embraces the boys with her eyes closed in content. A few of the pictures seem to have been taken on the same day, at a beach photoshoot. They look like a very happy family, Sam thinks. But he also knows pictures can lie. He thinks back to his own photo album, which they¡¯d left behind at Bobby¡¯s place. There were plenty of pictures in it, and both him, Dean and Dad had looked happy in most of the pictures. Sam¡¯s favorite pictures were definitely those of his mom. He didn¡¯t have enough of her, never would have enough of her. Sam has to swallow the lump ever growing uncomfortably in his throat, and he continues scanning the room.


    ¡°Where is your wife now? And your kids?¡± John asks, unimpressed.


    ¡°They¡¯re staying with Jo¡¯s mother. That¡¯s uhm, that¡¯s my wife.¡± Francis¡¯ hand goes to the back of his neck, and he scratches himself, licking his lips again too.


    ¡°Because of the ghost?¡± John asks matter of factly.


    ¡°Y-yes.¡±


    ¡°When did the hauntings start? Can you tell me about it?¡± John asks and pulls out something from his leather jacket, the one Dean likes to borrow. Sam can¡¯t quite see what it is John¡¯s holding, but it is small enough to fit in his hand, and he watches as his dad retracts a long antenna from the square.. thing.


    ¡°It all started earlier this year,¡± Francis swallows audibly. ¡°First there was an awful wailing noise, we thought it was a dying animal or something, perhaps the neighbours? Then, stuff started going missing, mirrors cracked, picture frames were thrown, it was so scary, I tell you!¡± Francis eyes are wide in terror, and he¡¯s flailing dramatically with his hands as if to emphasize how traumatic this all was for him. ¡°Knives were stuck in the walls, the cupboards kept banging open and shut, the wailing continues on, day after day, night after night, we start hearing whispers¨C my wife, she woke up in the middle of the night, with scratches down her arms and legs, and, and, and it doesn¡¯t stop, we had to board up the closets upstairs, the kids refused to sleep in their own rooms, we took off the legs from their beds so there¡¯d be nothing underneath but they still-¡± he frantically catches his breath, words spilling out rapidly. ¡°The kids, my boys, they said the house, it was, I don¡¯t quite know-¡±


    ¡°Let me take a look around, alright? My son here, Dean, he¡¯s gonna do the upstairs.¡± John gestures for Dean to get up. He does, unzipping his bag and grabbing his own metal square, pulling up the antenna of it. Sam sends him a questioning look, and because Dean is focused on Francis, Dean whispers to him:


    ¡°EMF reader,¡± he tells Sam, and it¡¯s as if a bell dings inside Sam¡¯s head, because of course, he¡¯s read about those. EMF scanners are used to detect and measure electromagnetic radiation produced by ghosts or other supernatural entities. It was a vital tool in any job. Sam¡¯s brows furrows. His bag did not have an EMF reader in it. He tries his best not to make a face, and decides he¡¯ll just ask John for one after this job is done. But then Sam catches himself, did he even want one? He¡¯s going to Hogwarts! He¡¯s not actually a hunter, he¡¯s just tagging along for this one job because his dad told him he had to, and it was better to just.. go along, instead of making a fuss like a crybaby.


    ¡°Anything we need to know before we get started?¡± John asks then, and waves Dean to step closer. He does. Dean¡¯s very obedient. Like a dog, Sam thinks begrudgingly. Or a soldier.


    When Francis doesn¡¯t respond right away, John clears his throat.


    ¡°Oh, sorry? What?¡±


    ¡°Does the house have a history of violence? Do you know the previous owners? Has something happened on the grounds, other than the robbery in ¡®68?¡± John asks then, seeing as Francis needs a bit more of a nudge to get talking.


    ¡°Uhm.. I don¡¯t think-¡± he starts, biting his lip. ¡°No, no history of violence, and we bought the house back when Hills and I were newly weds, no one¡¯s owned it before us. It¡¯s just.. the robbery..¡± his words trail off. John nods.


    ¡°Dean, head upstairs. Do a sweep of the floors, return to me with the deets, ¡®kay?¡± John says.


    ¡°Yes sir,¡± Dean answers dutifully and heads up the stairs.


    ¡°If you could come with me as I check the downstairs area here, I have a few more questions to ask¡­¡± John then leads Francis down the hallway of his own house and Sam is left to his own devices.


    There¡¯s mud tracks through the kitchen, and Sam sees a baseball bat lean against the porch door. The kitchen is very cluttered as well, Sam realizes. All the doors have been taken off their hinges. He wonders why, but doesn¡¯t dare ask questions. Sam¡¯s eyes go back to the wall. One of the boys has lost both his front teeth in another picture, and makes a funny face to the camera, Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to smile at that. He scans the walls, looking for a picture of Hillary, but seems to not find any. That is until he sees the wedding photo, which must have been taken many years ago, because Francis has hair in it. He also seems fitter, there¡¯s no belly in sight, and he¡¯s not hunched over like he is now. In the picture, Sam sees two young boys stand by their father, one a bit shorter than the other, both with the same hair and eyes as Francis and- that¡¯s not Hillary, Sam realizes then.


    ¡°... to make it clear, the haunting only started earlier this year? In springtime?¡± Sam hears John ask as they come back into the sitting room.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Francis says. A few moments pass. His eyes widen. ¡°You¡¯re not suggesting¡­¡±


    ¡°The timeline adds up.¡± John says simply. Just then, Dean comes back down. John raises an eyebrow, as if to prompt Dean to.. what? Spill the beans?


    ¡°Not too much to note, there¡¯s scratches on the outside of all the bedroom doors, the mirror in the bathroom¡¯s cracked, and all the clothes in the master bedroom have been ripped apart, and it¡¯s all like, spread around on the floor.¡± Dean says, straightening his posture, meeting John''s eyes without hesitation. ¡°I¡¯m definitely picking up something on the EMF, and there¡¯s no particular smells or anything.¡±


    John nods, then looks to Francis. He shakes his head disapprovingly, staring daggers at him, now choosing to sit down in one of the armchairs. John gestures for Francis to sit down in the other one. Dean plumps down next to Sam again, tucking the EMF scanner back in his bag. Sam swallows nervously, and twiddles his own thumbs, just like Francis had done before.


    ¡°Tell me about the night of the robbery.¡± he says, and just by Francis¡¯ change of expression, Sam knows this is about to get messy.


    *


    It was indeed messy.


    Apparently, the hauntings had started around the same time Francis¡¯ new wife had moved into the house. Odd, right? John had thought so too, and after about an hour of questioning, and convincing Francis to start telling the truth, it was decided they would take into a motel room close by, and perform the ritual the next morning. Francis was encouraged to go be with his wife and kids, it just wasn¡¯t safe to stay at the house. After investigating the whole building, seeing the signs and hearing the story from Francis, Dean and John had both agreed it was definitely a poltergeist they were dealing with. They¡¯d even let Sam join in on the discussion before they decided on a plan for tomorrow. Right now, Sam is laying on one of the three beds, taking notes in his very own hunter¡¯s journal. He was told by his dad to save the first pages for an index, and to also include a list of all the known supernatural beings he knew of, so he could fill it out at a later date. The list was.. alarmingly long so far. He couldn¡¯t quite believe most people didn¡¯t know of these things. Like.. how can you be so blind? Maybe ¡°most people¡± just didn¡¯t want to see it all. Perhaps they were in denial. Because there¡¯s no way someone can go an entire life without ever coming into contact with something unnatural, something they don¡¯t understand. So yeah, Sam concludes that most people are living in denial about the state of the world, and its lack of supernatural beings and incidents.


    ¡°Lights out, Sammy,¡± Dean says and takes the book out of Sam¡¯s hands.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t done!¡± Sam huffs, annoyed.


    ¡°Too bad, you gotta be rested ¡®till tomorrow. Big day.¡± Dean says, winking. Their father has already fallen asleep. Sam grumbles curses under his breath, but reluctantly lays down on his pillow, punching it angrily to adjust it, and then squeezing his eyes shut, hoping he can fall asleep fast. He doesn¡¯t.


    *


    In the morning, they¡¯d headed out early, and Sam and Dean got to place the gris gris bags themselves. Dean beams proudly at his little brother when he places the last bag in the east corner of the house. They¡¯d used a crowbar to rip up the flooring, it wasn¡¯t easy work, but oh man, how therapeutic it had been ripping up the floorboard like that!


    After a couple of hours, laying down salt in all the windowsills and drawing protective runes on the underside of the floorboards, Sam remembers his owl, who was left behind at the other motel. His stomach is uncomfortably tangled in multiple knots now, and he curses himself for already messing up in leaving the owl behind.


    ¡°You good, mate?¡± Dean says, nudging Sam¡¯s shoulder with his own, as he puts the floorboard back in place.


    ¡°My owl..¡±


    ¡°Oh, Pigeon? Nah, don¡¯t worry man, he¡¯s fine, he¡¯s an owl after all, an apex predator-¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s in his cage still, and I left him, he¡¯s probably out of food, and I-¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not in the cage, Sammy.¡± Dean says then, interrupting Sam¡¯s spiralling. Sam doesn¡¯t say anything, his jaw hangs loose and he just stares at Dean.


    ¡°What did you say?¡±


    ¡°I let him out, before heading out to the car, figured he could fly around until we got back. Way better than being stuck in a cramped cage, right?¡±


    Sam doesn¡¯t know if he wants to laugh or cry. If he wasn¡¯t so worried and feeling so guilty for leaving it in the cage, he¡¯d be furious at Dean for letting Pigeo- his owl out like that before he was properly bonded. When he can¡¯t seem to find the words, Dean simply grabs him by the shoulder, pats him once and says:


    ¡°Don¡¯t mention it, kid.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t. The boys head back to their father, who¡¯s waiting outside. Nothing¡¯s happened, and they haven¡¯t actually seen or heard anything supernatural happening at the property since they arrived. They¡¯ve only seen the after effects of it all, and have had the incidents retold to them by Francis.


    John had told the boys he hadn¡¯t decided yet if he wanted to contact the authorities yet, but in Sam¡¯s mind, there was no doubt. Francis was a murderer, simple as that. And he¡¯d gotten away with it, for all these years. But John said it¡¯s not their business, they were here to take care of the poltergeist, not to pass judgement on whether or not Francis had murdered his wife instead of just leaving her. Sam thought the man was despicable for it. Poor Hillary hadn¡¯t been a victim of robbery, she¡¯d been killed by the hands of who she thought loved her most in this world. There were too many things not adding up, like the only people home at the time of the robbery being Francis and Hillary, the kids, for the first time, spent the weekend at their grandparents. John had gotten his hands on the police report from the incident, Sam doesn¡¯t bother asking how, his father just.. has access to these things, it seems. It felt pretty awesome though, Sam has to admit, to be able to read through official documents like this, seeing pictures of the crime scenes, reading witness statements from neighbours and Francis himself.


    Francis, had conveniently been knocked out, and therefore had no recollection of the incident, other than being able to describe the two assailants very descriptively. There were too many details, Sam thought, to his statement. He¡¯d been knocked out, so he didn¡¯t know anything, but he still knew what the robbers looked like? They also found DNA evidence (report doesn¡¯t say exactly what that was but alas) on Hillary that matched Francis, but because he was her wife, they didn¡¯t seem like this was evidence, and rather just, unrelated to the case.


    When John later that evening had straight up told Francis that he had to cut the bullshit and tell the truth, or else he¡¯d pack up and leave him with the ghost - Francis had started crying, confessing to having an affair and killing his wife when she¡¯d found out. Sam couldn¡¯t hide his feelings then. What a coward. He¡¯d drugged her, with her own sleeping pills, mixed out in the wine they¡¯d shared, and then he¡¯d.. he¡¯d¡­ Sam actually didn¡¯t know that last part, because John had made Dean cover Sam¡¯s ears, much to Sam¡¯s dismay. He wasn¡¯t some freaking baby!


    Dean caught Sam up later, telling him that Francis had been seeing Joselynn for almost a year, before the two had decided to get his wife out of the way. Horrible, horrible people, Sam had thought. Then, after the deed was actually done, Francis had gotten cold feet, and wouldn¡¯t let Joselynn actually move in, in fear of how it would look. Okay, so he had some sort of self awareness. That¡¯s why she hadn¡¯t moved in prior to earlier this year, despite Francis and Joselynn having been together for years. Hillary¡¯s spirit probably didn¡¯t take very kindly to her husband¡¯s mistress playing house with her children and redecorating her home. Sam understood Hillary in a way, and felt incredibly sorry for the woman, replaced by another. He wouldn¡¯t go as far as to say Francis deserved to be haunted, but.. Sam shrugs away that thought.


    The ritual was complete, John had done a double take of the boys¡¯ work, and found it satisfactory. They both got a quick ¡°good¡± and a pat on the shoulder. It felt.. so good, even if it was a small gesture. John tells Francis then that they would be back in a few days, and if nothing else happens, they¡¯d leave, because the ritual was successful. If anything else happens, he were to contact them again with the new number John provided. It belonged to the telephone box outside the motel, since their room didn¡¯t have their own phone line.


    Before they left this town, Sam vowed he¡¯d somehow tell the authorities. He couldn¡¯t just let Francis get away with it. Hillary deserved better.


    Only two days pass before Francis calls John again, Dean is the one who picks up the phone. The boys had been on phone duty interchangeably for the past few days, and John had said they¡¯d leave if he didn¡¯t call by tomorrow. Sam is almost relieved, because he was hoping he¡¯d get a chance to talk to Francis in person before they left town forever. John tells Francis they would come by once nightfall arrives. Francis had begged him to come earlier, he was so frightened, completely out of his mind, but John just hung up on him. The boys are quickly told to get ready once it starts getting dark, and Sam gets to ride shotgun, much to Dean¡¯s displeasure. He grumbles unhappily in the backseat, but Sam tunes him out, getting to control the music for once. He turns up the volume louder, and sings along to some Elvis song he knows Dean doesn¡¯t like.


    The Winchesters pull up to the Dunkin residence, and John puts the car in park. Francis is standing outside on the front porch, rubbing his hands together.


    ¡°Okay, here¡¯s how this is going to go down,¡± their father begins, turning slightly in his seat to face both his sons. ¡°Dean and I will head to the graveyard to dig up the bones, and burn the remains. If they¡¯re not there, for whatever reason, we¡¯ll come straight here. If the remains are there, it is very likely the poltergeist will manifest as we begin digging her up. Here¡¯s where you come in, Sam.¡±


    Sam attempts to swallow the lump in his throat. He nods, they had already gone over the plan the day prior, but it was nice hearing it again, that way, Sam knew exactly what was expected of him.


    ¡°You are not to enter the house, once Dean and I have arrived at the graveyard, under any circumstance, got it?¡± John asks. Sam nods.


    ¡°Got it.¡±


    ¡°And you are to stay out here, on the lawn, with Francis. Do not let him enter either. When me and Dean leave, you are to check the house, make sure the salt barriers are all intact, so the poltergeist cannot leave. Then you leave the house, and stand with Francis like I told you. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± Sam repeats, confidently meeting his dad¡¯s scrutinizing eyes. ¡°I can do it, Dad.¡±


    ¡°Good boy,¡± John responds then, ruffling Sam¡¯s hair. Wow, if this is what it took for his dad to finally show him an ounce of affection, Sam would have embraced the hunter lifestyle way earlier. But it¡¯s too late now, he knows that, and he feels bad, almost as if he has done something, his conscience slowly eating away at him.


    Because Sam¡¯s not a hunter. Sam¡¯s a wizard.

 Chapter 7 - It鈥檚 in Your Blood

    Chapter 7 - It¡¯s in Your Blood


    27th of August 1971, London


    The unflattering changes to his body were most likely due to stress, Sam had concluded, and probably the guilt, too. Francis Dunkin had once been a handsome man, even recently so. Sam had seen as much in the wedding picture with Joselynn, but after what he did? The guilt and severity of it all? When his once dear Hills had come back from the dead to haunt him, had slowly started to tear away at him.  Sam again struggles with the idea that Francis somehow deserves it, but that''s a dangerous thought. And besides, who is Sam to pass judgement like that?


    ¡°You do this a lot, kid?¡± Francis asks him cautiously, as Sam is reapplying a layer of salt in the windowsills of the kitchen.


    ¡°Do what? Pour salt on windowsills in strangers¡¯ houses?¡± Sam asks, knowing that¡¯s not really what he asked of him.


    ¡°I- I suppose I meant cases like.. like this one.¡± Francis swallows audibly, and Sam turns to face the despicable man. He¡¯s not afraid, even though the man in front of him is a murderer. Sam just thinks he¡¯s pitiful, really. He doesn¡¯t know how much Francis knows that Sam knows, but he doesn¡¯t want to make conversation anyways, so he just tries to act nonchalantly.


    ¡°You¡¯re not my first,¡± Sam lies casually, finishing up in the kitchen and walking out to the sitting room. He¡¯d already done the upstairs, and was just missing the downstairs bathroom, sitting room and entry room. Sam had a shotgun in his bag, laid out on the table in the sitting room, with shells filled with rocksalt beside it. Sam knew how to handle a gun, but he¡¯d never actually fired one. He hoped it wouldn¡¯t come to that.


    ¡°How old are you anyways? Fourteen?¡± Francis asks nervously.


    ¡°I¡¯m eleven,¡± Sam answers lightly, pouring more salt in the first windowsill. He uses his fingers to even it out, ensuring no gaps. Sam was usually mistaken for being older, because of his height. Sam still thought he had a baby face, but was always pleasantly surprised whenever adults thought he was older than he actually was.


    ¡°Blimey! You¡¯re so young!¡±


    Sam doesn¡¯t respond, just finishing the sitting room, before heading into the bathroom. Once inside, the door suddenly shuts by itself, and Francis yelps, if it¡¯s in pain or just because he got spooked, Sam doesn¡¯t know. He immediately sets the salt container down on the counter next to the sink, and his eyes go up to touch the door. He tries to twist the door handle, but it won¡¯t budge.


    ¡°Francis!¡± Sam says, voice raised, trying to maintain a calm tone. ¡°You okay?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Francis replies instantly, it comes out like a pathetic whimper. ¡°The lights are out!¡±


    That¡¯s odd.. There¡¯s still electricity in the bathroom where Sam is. He pushes harder on the door, trying to turn the doorknob again, to no avail.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay Francis, just ..¡± Sam clears his throat. ¡°Just stay calm, okay?¡±


    ¡°Please help me!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying-¡± Sam cuts himself off, scoffing. He¡¯s the kid in this situation. He should be the one crying-


    ¡°Sam!¡± Francis yells again, frantically knocking on the bathroom door. ¡°Sam, pleeeease¡­¡±


    There¡¯s a loud thud then, and Francis screeches as he¡¯s tossed across the room outside, Sam can tell by how his scream becomes more muffled the further he¡¯s thrown, and the loud crash when he lands somewhere further away. There¡¯s glass breaking, so perhaps the cabinet? Maybe the bar?


    ¡°Francis!¡± Sam calls to him again. No reply. Sam starts banging on the door now, pushing hard, throwing his shoulder into the wood, trying to put all his weight behind it. It hurts, and he¡¯s confident he¡¯ll bruise for this, but he has to get through the door, the poltergeist is fighting back, Dean and dad must¡¯ve gotten started on the digging. There¡¯s an ear splitting scream just then, and Sam has to cover his ears. This must be the wailing, Sam thinks, and it indeed just continues. Sam pales then, worry spreading like ice through his body, what if ¡­ what if it isn¡¯t a poltergeist at all.. what if.. no..


    The lights above Sam flickers as if in response. And then he knows. His breathing is uneven, he can¡¯t seem to catch his breath. His palms are clammy, his heart beating faster, and faster, and faster¨C


    He steps back from the door, preparing to kick it open. He takes a deep breath and kicks the door hard, right underneath the door handle. It doesn¡¯t open. He lets out an involuntary whimper, kicking the door hurt. Frustrated, Sam bounces up and down, on tippy toes, breathing quickly. He rubs his eyes quickly, clearing his vision. Sam tenses, and kicks the door again. And again. It still doesn¡¯t break open. Sam wants to cry. He checks the doors for hinges, and when he sees them, he can¡¯t help but crack a quick smile. Of course, the door doesn¡¯t even swing open that way, kicking the door in would be close to impossible, even for dad! What¡¯s plan B then?


    Francis has apparently regained consciousness, and Sam can hear him cry loudly, pleading and begging for whatever it is out there to leave him alone. Sam knows he has to hurry, so he uses the little stool in the bathroom to step onto, touching the hinges with his fingertips. Once he feels the little screws there, he quickly pulls out the pocket knife he had stuffed in a pocket a few days ago and begins unscrewing the screws with the sharp end of the knife. His fingers are shaking slightly, and the air around him feels cold, but he tries to even his breathing, and focuses on the task at hand. Francis screams, a loud, terrified scream. More glass breaks out in the sitting room, and the ghost is still shrieking loudly, painfully, it¡¯s a mournful sound mixing with the petrified screams of her once husband.


    ¡°Hold on Francis, I¡¯m coming!¡± he calls out, but gets no response. The wailing doesn¡¯t stop either. Sam then closes his eyes, incredibly frustrated, and the hinges just.. fall off. Sam blinks, incredulously. Magic. It has to be my magic! Sam thinks.


    Sam tosses the hinges hastily aside, still holding the knife in hand, who knows, might come in handy still. He firmly plants his left foot on the floor, keeping the center of his mass slightly in front of his back leg, which he intends to kick with. He scoots backwards a bit then, giving himself more room to work with, and then he stands about three feet away from the door. Hyping himself up, he prepares to kick it with all his might, aiming for the middle of the door. He kicks once. Door doesn¡¯t open, but it does creak encouragingly, the wood no doubt splintering. Sam kicks again, throwing his weight behind the kick, and it starts to crack more, visibly this time! Sam can¡¯t believe his eyes, and quickly kicks to door again, making sure his foot is completely flat, the entire surface making contact with the door, and¨C the door cracks open, falling to the ground outwards, and Sam is so happy and so proud, and¨C so.. so incredibly fucked!


    The woman in front of him is not only not a woman, but she is floating. Sam¡¯s mouth drops open, but thankfully, he has a few seconds to act before the banshee turns her attention to him, too preoccupied at the moment with a whimpering Francis. Sam throws himself forward, but clumsy as he is, he falls over, face planting into the carpet. Shit. The banshee whips around, mouth so agape Sam is sure her jaw must be dislocated, if not entirely torn off. She has dark, flowing hair that seems to be defying gravity, and is instead floating midair, just like it would had it been underwater. Her eyes are sunken in and reddish, tear stains down her cheeks.


    Sam freezes, looks to the shotgun and stretches his hand towards it, willing it to come here, into his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut then, biting his teeth together, and¨C the shotgun flies into his outstretched hand, the force of it almost knocking him over. The banshee is omitted by dark mist, and she¡¯s wearing dark robes. Sam fumbles with the shotgun, aiming it towards her. When she sees Sam do this, she doesn¡¯t immediately attack, which is concerning, Sam thinks. But this is his chance. She floats closer to him, arms outstretched, her long, dark tongue hanging slack out of her mouth. He feels the trigger under his finger, and the barrel is aimed at the banshee¡¯s chest.. all Sam has to do is¡­


    He pulls the trigger, and the banshee dissipates immediately in another loud shriek. Sam¡¯s eyes are wide in both shock and accomplishment, and he hurries to Francis¡¯ side, who is bleeding!


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    ¡°Francis, hey, can you hear me? Francis, please,¡± he starts patting the man down, who is conscious, but unaware of what¡¯s happening. Lights are on, but Sam doesn¡¯t think anyone¡¯s home. ¡°Francis!¡± Sam says then, loudly, and slaps the man. No reaction, his jaw still slack, and eyes unfocused. He knows he needs to get Francis out, and he still has to salt the entry hallway and front door. He grabs Francis arm, and hauls him up, supporting his weight with his shoulder. Then, they start making their way to the front door. Sam hurriedly gets Francis down on the grass, and then rushes back inside. A million thoughts are all fighting to be heard inside his head, and he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to sort through the most pressing ones.


    Okay, so they¡¯d been wrong, Dad had been wrong, it wasn¡¯t simply a poltergeist, it was a freaking banshee! Sam tries to picture his Dad¡¯s journal, and knows there¡¯s an entry about banshees. He just needs to remember.. He knows, and has now also confirmed, that banshees, like poltergeists, have a weakness against salt. If he remembered correctly, they were even more vulnerable to salt, than other ghost types. Sam quickly grabs the salt container from the bathroom, and hastily secures the window in there before heading to the entryway. He pours an excessive amount in front of the door frame, taking no chances. There¡¯s two windows left to salt, and he does so with a steady hand, surprising himself by how calm he is in this very stressful situation.


    There are two types of banshee, Sam recalls. Malevolent ones, which, if this one was a malevolent banshee, him and Francis would probably be dead by now. That leaves ghost banshee. Their weaknesses were salt, especially blasted out of a shotgun. Sam fondly remembers Bobby and him preparing salt shells together once when he¡¯d babysat the brothers over the summer.


    But how did you kill a banshee? How did you get rid of them? Sam doesn¡¯t know, and he curses himself for not knowing. This is stuff he should know, goddamnit! Dean would¡¯ve known. Dad would¡¯ve known. But Sam? Sam doesn¡¯t know. He doesn¡¯t. And he¡¯s seriously starting to freak out. Sam finishes up the entry hallway, stuffs all of his things back in the hunter bag, and hurries out to join Francis on the lawn. He¡¯s no longer conscious. He¡¯s laying flat on his bag, gurgling. Sam drops everything and hurries to his side, hands flying over his body looking for the source of the bleeding. He¡¯s got a narrow cut across his neck, stretching across his shoulder, and Sam is reminded of when his dad had come home with a similar injury. He tries to shove the mental image, the dread he¡¯d felt, the hopelessness¨C all of that, he shoves it away. Francis is breathing, but his eyes are rolled back in his head, and there¡¯s blood coming out from his mouth, in addition to the neck wound. Sam rips open the zipper of the hunter bag and quickly locates the gauze there. He bundles it up quickly, and presses it into Francis'' wound, it¡¯s gaping enough to force Sam to be a bit more evasive in his first aid. He then turns Francis over on his side, and in a moment, Sam has him sort of in his lap, holding his head steady, applying steady pressure to the wound. He tries to take a deep breath himself, feeling dizzy from holding it without noticing. He looks up to the house, and sees the banshee in the window, staring out at him miserably, her mouth still open, as if screaming, but not a sound comes out. Sam can¡¯t rip his eyes from her, but makes sure to maintain the pressure on Francis¡¯ wound. He¡¯s still unconscious, and Sam really wishes his dad and Dean could hurry the fuck up!


    How long did it take anyway, to dig up a body and burn it? Sam thinks about it then, how absurd that sentence was. And here he sat, an eleven year old applying first aid to a man dying from a ghost attack after he killed his wife years ago. Sam was sure it was Hillary who was the banshee. She didn¡¯t have her blonde hair anymore, and she looked about as lifeless as you¡¯d expect, but there was something there, in her dead eyes maybe, when she laid eyes on Sam, who was just a boy. She hadn¡¯t wanted to hurt her kids either, and their room was the only room untouched by the banshee. They¡¯d been afraid, sure, but what kid isn¡¯t scared of ghosts? Sam supposes he is one. He shakes the thought away, and thinks back to the picture frames. The ones with the boys hadn''t been torn down, and none of the frames were damaged, meaning Hillary hadn¡¯t smashed any of them. But every picture with Joselynn, the new wife, her replacement, had substantial damage done to them. Some of the glass had cracked in a few places, the frames were cracked, and a few even had what Sam now realizes, scratch marks.


    Sam thinks it¡¯s been at least two hours, perhaps three, since his brother and father left for the graveyard just a few streets away, if he remembered correctly. He supposed he could run over there, and be back to Francis in twenty minutes or so, but he didn¡¯t want to risk it. He needed to stay here, and apply pressure to the wound. That¡¯s what his dad had taught him. Sam pushes Francis¡¯ mouth open slightly then, and peers inside. Doesn¡¯t seem to have any blockages inside. Good. His breathing had steadied too, and he wasn¡¯t gurgling as much. Gurgling could mean.. Sam thinks for a moment, tries to remember. Did that mean a punctured lung? Or damage to the internal organs maybe? He doesn¡¯t remember, and that stresses him out immensely.


    He also doesn¡¯t remember how to get rid of banshees, no matter how hard he tries. Sam wants to cry, he¡¯s so worried about Francis, what if he died with Sam in charge of his safety? What would John say? What would he do? Sam shudders, and realizes then that it¡¯s really cold. He looks down on Francis, who is shivering too. Sam bites his lip, and makes a decision, shuffling out of his jacket, and laying it over Francis, who after a few minutes, stops shaking. Sam breathes out in relief, but the cold begins to creep in on him too, and then he¡¯s the one shivering. Another ten minutes pass. Twenty. Sam¡¯s teeth are chattering now, and still he keeps his hands on Francis¡¯ wound. After another ten minutes, Francis blinks slowly, and looks up at Sam, who¡¯s still holding him firmly in his lap. When he sees Francis awake, Sam smiles widely.


    ¡°Francis, you¡¯re¨C¡± Sam clears his throat, his voice hoarse. ¡°You¡¯re okay!¡±


    ¡°What.. what¡¯s going on, I - ouch!¡± Francis whimpers then, eyes widening too, no doubt from the pain.


    ¡°Shh, shh, it¡¯s alright,¡± Sam coos, and licks his lips, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden, remembering he¡¯s comforting a killer after all.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening-¡±


    Just then, a loud shriek pierces the night¡¯s silence and both Sam and Francis¡¯ heads whip towards the house, where the banshee is ¡­ is.. ablaze. She¡¯s on fire! Sam looks on, horrified, but then.. then he remembers, this is what happens to ghosts when you burn their remains! Oh, Sam is so relieved he could cry! In fact, a few tears roll down his cheeks, Sam is so cold he can¡¯t even feel it.


    ¡°Oh my god¡­¡± Francis mumbles, watching as his beloved house also catches fire. ¡°My.. my house..¡± Francis cries again then.


    Sam watches as the flames lick up the ugly curtains, and the windows break, Sam doesn¡¯t even flinch, as the small shards shoot outward towards them. A few even hit Sam, and now his cheek and forehead are bleeding too. The warm blood is so warm that it burns, but still, Sam doesn¡¯t look away. He blinks, and the house keeps burning. He takes this moment then, to tell Francis what he¡¯d planned to do since they left him that first day.


    ¡°Francis, you¡¯re going to listen to me, okay?¡± Sam¡¯s voice is ice cold, and it¡¯s eerie, how similar to John it was just then. Francis'' eyes are filled with fear, and he nods, waiting for Sam to speak. ¡°You¡¯re going to turn yourself in. You will tell the police everything. Understood?¡±


    Francis doesn¡¯t respond at first, he¡¯s back to shivering - and not because of the cold this time. ¡°I- I can¡¯t d-do that..¡± he stammers. Sam tuts. And then? Then Sam lets go of Francis¡¯ neck, and the blood immediately starts flowing out of the wound again, in steady beats. Francis gasps audibly. ¡°Please, please don¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°Say you¡¯re going to turn yourself in. Promise me.¡± Sam says, with no hint of hesitation in his voice, he fully intends to let Francis bleed to death if he doesn¡¯t do as he¡¯s told. Francis seems to grasp the magnitude of the situation and gasps out; ¡°Yes, yes I understand, I will- I will turn myself in! I promise!¡± he¡¯s back to crying now. ¡°Please, please don¡¯t kill me-¡±


    ¡°Shh,¡± Sam says again, hand back to his neck, pressing firmly on the wound. Francis winces as he does so, undoubtedly in a lot of pain. Sam can¡¯t bring himself to feel bad for him. Okay, that¡¯s a lie, Sam¡¯s stupid bleeding heart feels bad for just about anyone in pain, so fine, yes, he does feel bad for Francis. Even with how pathetic the man was.


    Another twenty or so minutes pass in silence, no words traded between the two, and there¡¯s a mutual understanding of what will happen should Francis try to weasel his way out of the promise. Then, Dean pulls up and parks right across the street, hurriedly exiting the car, John coming out from the passenger''s side.


    ¡°If I find out you¡¯re walking free, I will come back and finish what Hillary couldn¡¯t,¡± Sam then whispers to Francis, who looks at him with a horrified expression. Sam doesn¡¯t actually mean that last bit, and besides, how is he, an eleven year old, supposed to keep track of whether or not Francis will keep his promise? But Sam thinks it¡¯s enough anyways, a coward like Francis will, no doubt, keep his word when it''s his own life on the line. Sam just knows it. Dean and John jog across the street and as soon as John takes over for Sam, he sinks down, utterly exhausted. He just wants to sleep, he¡¯s so tired. Dean is looking at Sam in disbelief, then at the house, then back to Sam.


    ¡°Sammy, are you hurt?¡± he asks, voice breaking, worried eyes scanning Sam, even more worried hands patting him down. When Sam doesn¡¯t respond, Dean takes his face in his hands and forces him to meet his eyes. John is working over Francis, muttering under his breath. Sam looks at Dean then, and the concern he¡¯s met with makes Sam want to cry. And so he does. He¡¯d been so scared he hadn¡¯t even had time to realize he was afraid. He breaks then, and Dean holds him, and lets him.

 Chapter 8 - The Inevitable Fight

    Chapter 8 - The Inevitable Fight


    28th of August 1971, London


    When they got back to the motel room after dropping Francis off at the hospital, Sam had immediately gone straight to bed and fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. This was a rare occurrence for Sam, who usually struggled greatly with falling asleep. His night was filled by terrifying dreams of banshees attacking Dean, killing Dean, just out of reach for Sam, who was too weak, and too scared to reach him in time. Sam tosses and turns in his sleep; and when Dean shakes him awake the next morning, to Sam, it feels like both a week has passed and as if he¡¯s only slept for five minutes. His body is still exhausted, and he just wants to go back to sleep, damn it.


    ¡°Dad¡¯s just out getting breakfast, thought I¡¯d give you a few to get ready,¡± Dean says sheepishly. ¡°He found another case for us, in Ireland this time, Sammy! How exciting is that?¡±


    Sam looks at Dean then, and.. for a moment, he wonders if he¡¯s actually awake at all. He tries to rub the sleep out of his eye, and sits up in bed, facing his brother.


    ¡°What do you mean? I¡¯m starting school in a few days, Dean.¡± Sam points out and yawns, squeezing his eyes shut as he does. Dean¡¯s smile falters then, as if he¡¯s just remembered.


    ¡°Yeah but, we thought-¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Sam interrupts him then, suddenly wide awake, a shiver running down his spine. He looks to the door, and his father comes in just then. He¡¯s carrying two takeout bags, presumably containing their breakfast.


    ¡°Sammy!¡± his dad says cheerfully, dropping the takeout bags on the coffee table, rubbing his hands together. ¡°You¡¯re awake!¡±


    Dean¡¯s brows furrow, and he moves aside, looking at Sam. John hasn¡¯t called Sam ¡°Sammy¡± since he was a toddler. Both boys know that very well. Sam doesn¡¯t meet John¡¯s eyes, and he immediately gets a stomach ache.


    ¡°I just want to say that I am so happy, and so proud of how you handled that whole situation yesterday, son,¡± he begins, the chipper tone of his voice a stark contrast to its usual gruffness. Sam can barely believe his ears. His father has never told him he¡¯s been proud of him, ever. Even when, despite changing schools like people change clothes, Sam was able to maintain straight A¡¯s, John didn¡¯t even bat an eye, much less express to Sam he was proud of him. Dean looks dumbstruck too, but he says nothing. ¡°I spoke to Francis earlier this morning, he¡¯s recovering well by the way, all thanks to you I hear.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s good,¡± Sam doesn¡¯t know what else to say.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been telling you, Sammy, hunting¡¯s in your blood!¡± John smiles, and begins to unpack the breakfasts, taking the doggy bags out and handing them over to his sons. ¡°I want you to tell me all about it, I can¡¯t believe I wasn¡¯t there to see it all.¡±


    Sam believes it. Very easily actually. Their dad was very rarely present for anything, really. But Sam doesn¡¯t say that. No, Sam just stays quiet, jaw clenched.


    ¡°You¡¯re not gonna hold out on your old man, are ya Sam?¡± John says then, unwrapping his own sandwich and taking a bite, looking at Sam expectedly.


    ¡°Uh, what do you wanna know?¡± Sam asks then, not really hungry, but he unwraps the ham and cheese sandwich and starts picking at it.


    ¡°All of it!¡± John says heartily, and Sam doesn¡¯t recognize the man before him.


    ¡°Well.. I was securing the house, putting down the salt lines, like you told me to, and.. I was just doing the bathroom, when the door shut behind me, and Francis started screaming. And there was this.. this horrible wailing-¡±


    ¡°Wailing?¡± John interrupts. Sam bites his tongue. Did he want to hear ¡°all of it¡± or was he going to keep interrupting him?


    ¡°Yeah, wailing. Or, well, to me it was more of a shrieking sound, it was so loud I had to cover my ears, and Francis started crying too, everything was so loud,¡± Sam says, covering his ears just then, to emphasize just how loud it had been. His hands drop and he continues: ¡°I tried kicking the door down, but couldn¡¯t-¡±


    ¡°How did you get out?¡±


    ¡°I was getting there,¡± the words are spilling out before Sam has a chance to stop them, and he pales. But, to his big surprise, and incredible relief, John just chuckles, and waves a hand in a ¡®go on, continue¡¯ gesture. Sam does.


    ¡°I think I was .. I don¡¯t know, so full of adrenaline I didn¡¯t check the door for weakspots, and uh, the hinges? Yeah, the hinges were on the end facing me, so I went to remove them,¡± he considers if he¡¯s going to tell the full story, or lie, and say he used his pocket knife. He swallows. ¡°I got them off, I¡¯d put the pocketknife in my pocket, heh, before we left, and yeah.. that was smart, apparently,¡±


    ¡°Atta boy,¡± John comments, then he holds his hands up in mock defeat, and ¡°zips¡± his mouth shut, gesturing for Sam to go on.


    ¡°Then, I kicked the door down. And.. that¡¯s when.. that¡¯s when I realized that it wasn¡¯t a poltergeist.¡± He says, looking to Dean now, who¡¯s been watching with a weary look. ¡°I¡¯m sure it was a banshee. The shrieking, her sunken in eyes, the dark mist around her? Oh and her freaky, long tongue? Definitely banshee.¡±


    ¡°A banshee!¡± John is slapping his knee now, laughing loudly, eyes wide in shock. ¡°And what did you do then?¡±


    ¡°I .. I got a hold of the shotgun, it was already loaded, or so I assumed anyways, and I .. I shot it. It was distracted by Francis, I guess, so it was no biggie, really¡­¡± Sam says then, stumbling over his words, trying to recount what had happened, while still leaving out how he¡¯d summoned the shotgun to his hands.


    ¡°What happened to the banshee, then?¡± John asks. ¡°It does sound like it was a banshee at least, your description fits well.¡±


    Sam nods in agreement. ¡°After I shot it, she just.. like, disappeared? No, she dissipated in a cloud of mist.¡±


    ¡°Mhm, mhm, what was the hair like?¡±


    ¡°Floaty.¡±


    ¡°Yep, sounds like a banshee alright. Especially with the shrieking. We should¡¯ve caught that earlier, when we first questioned Francis.¡± John is rubbing his chin now.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t remember how to kill them though..¡± Sam says, feeling very small.


    ¡°Salt and burn the remains,¡± Dean recites.


    ¡°Yeah.. I figured when she went up in flames..¡± Sam says sadly. ¡°She looked at me as she died..¡±


    ¡°She was already dead, Sammy, and she wasn¡¯t a she at all. It was a monster.¡± John says then, tone back to the harsh one Sam was used to.


    ¡°But it was Hillary, right? The wife Francis killed?¡± Sam asks, despite himself. He knows not to push this.


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    ¡°One time it was, yes,¡± John agrees. ¡°But don¡¯t go around saying Francis killed her, we don¡¯t know for sure if he did. And that¡¯s not our problem anyways, we already dealt with the banshee, that is our job.¡± John puts extra emphasis on ¡®our job¡¯ and Sam¡¯s heart sinks. Of course ¡­


    ¡°Banshees are usually very aggressive spirits, right?¡± Sam asks then, unsure how he¡¯s going to breach the subject and talk about the thing he actually wants to discuss. He knows he has to.


    ¡°Yes, very much so.¡±


    ¡°But this banshee didn¡¯t attack the kids, only Francis and his new wife.¡± Sam points out. ¡°And I heard its wails, and uhm, I¡¯m still alive.¡±


    ¡°Hmm that¡¯s another good point, Sammy. A human turned banshee is a very rare occurrence, usually, when a dead person holds a grudge, it manifests as a poltergeist, which is why we assumed that was the case here too. Banshees are a step higher from poltergeists, and way more dangerous.. perhaps the wife was of Irish descent? That could maybe explain it¡­¡± John notes, and continues rambling on further about the encounter. Sam sort of tunes him out then, looking to Dean for help. He can see where this is going. This is probably the most John has spoken to Sam in years. It¡¯s because Sam is finally showing ¡®interest¡¯ in the family business, Sam thinks. It¡¯s true he¡¯s tried to be a hunter, he¡¯s tried so hard, but Sam just.. he doesn¡¯t want that life for himself. He wants a family someday, and he can¡¯t imagine himself pushing this lifestyle onto his kids. And it¡¯s not safe, not at all. He doesn¡¯t want to risk his life like that, and couldn''t do that to his wife and child someday. And even now, he just.. doesn¡¯t want to be a hunter. He wants to go to Hogwarts, he wants to learn how to do magic-


    ¡°We¡¯re heading out again tomorrow morning, so take today to rest up, yeah?¡± John says, mouth full of sandwich. ¡°Looong drive. You can do the first ¡®shift¡¯, Dean.¡±


    Dean nods, jaw tense, and he doesn¡¯t look at Sam.


    ¡°Dad¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be great! First a roadtrip with my boys, and I was thinking, Sammy can take the lead on this next job, I have a few ideas of course but-¡±


    ¡°Dad.¡±


    ¡°-- seeing how you handled that banshee, this should be no problem for you, you¡¯ll do great-¡±


    ¡°Dad!¡± Sam shouts it the third, and final time. John¡¯s eyes fly to his, and he¡¯s.. oh yep, there¡¯s his dad, alright.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to school, Dad, remember? To .. to Hogwarts..¡± Sam says, and he feels oh so small. He wants to sink into the floor, and not have this conversation. He knows how it ends. Usually, he¡¯s all fired up and ready to verbally brawl with his father, but he thinks that this fight ¡­ well, it feels more final, somehow.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d changed your mind on that.¡± John says simply, folding his arms across his chest, dropping his sandwich.


    ¡°I¡¯m a wizard, Dad-¡±


    ¡°Do not-¡±


    ¡°Dad, please..¡± Sam begs then. ¡°Please don¡¯t do this¡­¡±


    ¡°Me?! You¡¯re telling me, ¡®not to do this¡¯?¡± his father is standing then, towering over Sam, who feels a sudden urge to stand up too. So he does. ¡°You are the one abandoning your family.¡±


    Okay, ouch. That¡¯s unfair.


    ¡°That¡¯s- that¡¯s unfair!¡± Holy shit. Sam actually said that. His ears are ringing, and his palms sweaty. Jaw clenched, shoulders tight-


    ¡°You are not going to some school for.. for freaks!¡±


    It¡¯s as if John had slapped him. Did he actually say that? Sam¡¯s mouth is agape, and he doesn¡¯t know what to say. ¡°First, you spend all my money on toys and then-¡±


    ¡°I paid for his stuff,¡± Dean says then, interrupting John, who whips around in disbelief. Dean has never done that. Sam feels warmth spread across his chest, and he is so thankful Dean decided to step in. ¡°You didn¡¯t pay for anything.¡±


    ¡°That is besides the point, and you,¡± John turns to Dean, prodding a finger hard into Dean¡¯s chest, pushing him backwards even. ¡°You stay out of this.¡±


    Dean clenches his jaw, and his gaze drops to the floor. Ever the obedient soldier, despite his love and need to protect his little brother.


    ¡°You are not going to that place. You are staying with us. You¡¯re a hunter, Sam.¡±


    John leaves no room for discussion. When Sam doesn¡¯t immediately respond, John smiles, but it doesn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. ¡°Good. I will hear no more of this, got it?¡±


    He turns to pick up his sandwich again.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a hunter, Dad. I never will be.¡± Sam says then, and he clenches his fists, ready to hold his ground.


    ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°I..¡± Sam takes a deep breath. ¡°I will never be a hunter. I¡¯ve never wanted to be one.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t lie. I¡¯ve seen you this past year, you¡¯ve finally taken an interest-¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t!¡± Sam seethes through gritted teeth. ¡°I just did that to make you happy!¡± He¡¯s sweating profusely, and is starting to get dizzy, unable to control his breathing. His jaw hurts, and he feels like every muscle in his body is spasming, he¡¯s vibrating with anger. Before he can stop himself, the words he¡¯s held onto for so long just comes spilling out: ¡°I don¡¯t want to live in motels! I don¡¯t want to just be dragged across the country, across the ocean, I- I hate it! I hate my life! I don¡¯t wanna wait around for you guys anymore, and I don¡¯t want to do jobs, and I- I just - I don¡¯t want to be a prisoner anymore-¡±


    ¡°A prisoner?¡± this time it¡¯s Dean who interrupts him. Sam¡¯s head almost swivels as he looks to his brother, who¡¯s got ¡®hurt¡¯ plastered all over his face. John doesn¡¯t say anything, he just looks at his son, disappointment apparent in his expression. His eyes are cold as ice, and he¡­ Doesn¡¯t. Say. Anything. It¡¯s a familiar look, one that doesn¡¯t really hurt Sam anymore. Only a little. He thinks it always will. Despite being so angry he feels like he could explode, Sam looks to Dean apologetically, hurting his brother was the last thing he wanted to do.


    ¡°I¡¯m going.¡± Sam sputters then, but he gets the words out. And then he holds his breath. ¡°You can¡¯t stop me. I¡¯m going to Hogwarts. I¡¯m living my life.¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not.¡± John says, not even turning to face him. ¡°Drop this now, Samuel.¡±


    ¡°I am. I¡¯m a wizard, I told you, so..¡± Sam swallows, trying not to let his heart run away from him, despite it beating faster than it probably ever has. He prepares his body for the inevitable slap, he knows it¡¯s coming, it always does- ¡°I am going.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± John says, pausing a beat too long. Dean looks ready to step in, like he always does, but.. Sam holds his breath again. ¡°Then you¡¯re no son of mine.¡±


    And John walks out the door, leaving the boys alone in uncomfortable silence.


    *


    31st of August 1971, London


    Three days pass before John returns yet again. When he does, he doesn¡¯t talk to Sam, but he orders Dean to get in the car. Now, no questions asked.


    ¡°What about Sammy?¡± Dean asks, face twisted in an uncomfortable grimace, as if it¡¯s painful to even slightly question his father¡¯s request. The fact he still does, warms Sam¡¯s heart. A little, anyway.


    ¡°He¡¯s not a hunter, is he?¡± John says coldly, not bothering to look at Sam as he speaks. ¡°He¡¯s made that much clear. He¡¯s made his choice.¡±


    Dean swallows, and nods sternly. Sam says nothing.


    ¡°Alright, let me grab my bag.¡±


    ¡°Five minutes, Dean.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    Dean shuts the door quickly, and kneels down in front of Sam.


    ¡°Sammy, please..¡± Dean begs him. He begs. Sam doesn¡¯t say anything, he just bites the inside of his cheek, takes a deep breath in through his nose, and looks away. Doesn¡¯t meet his brother¡¯s pleading eyes.


    ¡°Fine.¡± Dean says coldly. ¡°Fuck you too, then.¡±


    And then Dean gets up too, grabbing his bag and ¡­


    And then he leaves.


    Sam is alone.