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John came back from the hunt different. He always did, this was nothing new to Sam, but this time he was quieter. Dean was quiet too. There had been a lot packed into their short days at Truman High but Dean, who was usually quick to try and find something to get an impressed grunt and nod from their father, didn't seem to be in the mood to talk about it. That suited Sam just fine. For once he got to show he'd learned something from this wretched lifestyle of always being on the move, always being ready to fight. For once he got to see his dad look at him with pride. The sun was low on the horizon, shining in their faces and making it difficult to look ahead. Sam reached up to flip down the passenger sun visor, squinting as he tried to adjust it to a good angle, and in the corner of his vision it almost looked as though John's eyes flashed gold in the light.
John leaned over, keeping his eyes on the road but bringing his head closer to Sam. "You did good back there. I've got something special for you when we get to the motel."
Sam looked up at the rear view mirror, at Dean sleeping in the back seat. Whatever had happened right before they left the school must have worn him out. Didn't he deserve something special too?
"What about Dean?"
"Shh. Let him sleep." John gave him a crooked smile then straightened back up. Up that close it'd been easier to smell cigarette smoke and traces of something else, something almost sickly-sweet. Probably another one of his only-for-daddy drinks. Maybe that was the something special? Sam wasn't keen on the idea but if it was a token of his father's love then there were worse things.
It was nighttime when they pulled into the parking lot, a fine mist throwing a halo around the street lights and settling like broken diamonds on John's hair as he got out of the car. Dean roused once the engine was killed, as if the rumble of the car was more soothing than a bed with clean sheets. They'd practiced the routine of checking in often enough that it was second nature now, John having turned it into a military drill like so many other things in their lives. After they were settled John gave Dean his assignment: go scope out a nearby diner where there'd been a string of disappearances and all the last sightings were in a perfect satellite circle around the block. It'd keep him busy for a while.
"It'd go faster with Sam," Dean said, but one look from John and he stiffened. "Yes sir," was all he said before grabbing a knife and gun and heading out the door.
Sam waited until the Impala revved up then looked at John. "Why don't I get to go? I'm hungry." Jobs like this, they could order food while they hung out at the diner.
"I'll order something. You and me, we got something to talk about." John gave him another of those off-kilter smiles. "How does pizza sound?"
Sam was still learning how and when to hide his reactions. John chuckled and picked up the room's landline.
The delivery was quick, interrupting the TV movie they'd barely begun, and when Sam settled back onto the couch with a couple large slices of pizza John turned the lights down low then joined him with an arm slung heavy over his shoulders. The movie was something from the 1970s, all warm brassy colors, reflecting green and gold off their faces and eyes.
As televised gunfire rang out Sam felt John's hand drop down to his chest. The man's hand was large enough compared to his still-developing body that it nearly spread all the way across. At least that's how it felt, with John's hand cold and burning even through Sam's thin t-shirt. He'd unzipped the hoodie so his shirt was exposed and now he wished he'd left it closed.
"Dad?"
"Some good muscle on you. I can see how you beat that kid."
Sam shifted under John's hand. The weight felt nice in a way but the physical intimacy was strange. He hadn't been drinking, Sam was sure of it. They'd been together this whole time. But the pizza was good and the movie was distracting enough so he just kept eating.
"What do you have on under here?"
"Nothing, dad," Sam muttered, sinking a little lower into the couch.
John hadn't been especially enthusiastic about the idea of raising a daughter in the lifestyle they led, which had suited Sam just fine. That hadn't made the explanation any less awkward. It helped that Sam didn't need anything like a binder, at least not yet. John hadn't asked many questions. Not until now.
"Right, right. And how's the rest of—" John lifted the weight off Sam's chest with a wave of his hand before thumping it back down. "All that going?"
What did that mean? Sam shrugged.
"What I mean is, Sam, what's happening between your legs?"
The pizza had cooled quickly, the cheese congealing and becoming hard to peel off the paper plate. On the TV a man with his hands tied behind his back was staggering away from an archery range, yelling something that Sam couldn't understand, before being struck with an arrow through his flared khakis.
"You're thirteen, Sam. You should be starting puberty by now. But you haven't said anything about bleeding."
"'Cuz I haven't." Sam forced himself to take another bite of pizza. Now the guy who'd gotten hit with an arrow was interrupting a standoff between the main character and the bad guy. He'd limped in with a cane and a gun and it seemed like he'd been one of the bad guys all along. Sam couldn't tell what kind of gun he was holding; its accessories changed between shots. Some kind of assault rifle. It looked like an M1 carbine but then the guy was killed and the gun wasn't on screen anymore. He'd ask but didn't feel like trying to talk to John more right now. That weird almost-sweet smell was stronger now, closer to rotten, and John's hand was slithering lower slowly, so slow—
"Movie's over. I gotta go to the bathroom." Sam tossed his plate off to the side, not caring whether the remains of his slice hit the couch. It was already stained. He tried to push himself up but the touch on him tightened, fingertips digging into his shirt like a bear trap. Nausea grabbed at his stomach from below. "Dad, I don't feel good. Let me go."
"Or what?" John's voice crawled out of him. There was a tightness to it, like he was being strangled, and Sam looked up with eyes wide. The yellow was unmistakable now.
Mercifully, as if some higher power had intervened, John's cell phone rang. He took the call without saying anything and Sam could hear Dean's voice. Something about too many to handle alone. The yellow flicked to hazel with a blink then back again, then to something darker.
"Be right there." John hung up. He looked at Sam, lips parted and brows furrowed and something approaching regret rising up in his eyes, then he grimaced. "Go to Dean," he said, choking the words out, before rushing to the bathroom and slamming the door shut. The plywood was so thin it barely muffled any sound but with the TV still going it was hard for Sam to tell what he was hearing. Not vomiting, not quite, more guttural, grating, like something being forced out—
Sam grabbed his coat and left.
The diner was more or less within walking distance but his legs were short and he was still shaking when John caught up with him. The night air was crisp, a breeze smearing clouds across the moon without hiding its light.
"Sam. That was a demon. A bad one."
"Okay."
"That demon—" He interrupted himself with a sigh. "We need to find Dean. I'll explain to you both later."
Sam nodded. John always did this, said he'd tell them more later and rarely follow through. The breeze cut through his coat with the same creeping chill as John's hand in the motel room. He almost wanted to be close again, touched again, if only to feel the warmth he knew his father was supposed to have.