(Author note:
Sam's age - 16
Dean's age - 20
John's age - 41)
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The motel room smelled like gun oil and fast food. Sam Winchester wrinkled his nose as he blinked awake, the sound of metal against metal pulling him from sleep.
He glanced at the digital clock: 6:32 AM. Perfect.
Dean sat at the small table by the window, cleaning a shotgun, the parts laid out on yesterday's newspaper. Salt lines remained undisturbed at the door and windowsills, their only real defense against most of what hunted them.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," Dean said without looking up. "Thought you'd never join the land of the living."
Sam groaned, pushing himself up against the headboard. "Some of us actually need sleep, Dean."
"Sleep's overrated." Dean inspected the barrel, squinting down its length. "Besides, third day at your new school. Wouldn't want to be late and make a bad impression on all those teachers you're so desperate to impress."
Sam threw his pillow, which Dean caught one-handed without even looking.
"Reflexes like a cat," Dean grinned, finally looking up. "Dad's getting breakfast. We've got that thing in Blackwater Ridge tonight."
"Great," Sam muttered, swinging his legs over the bed. "Another cemetery, another ghost."
"Hey, at least it's not something crazy. Better familiar than something that makes us end up dead."
The door swung open, and John Winchester entered, balancing three styrofoam containers and a cardboard tray of coffee. His beard was a day past five o'clock shadow, his eyes alert despite what Sam knew had been a late night of reconnaissance.
"Boys," he nodded, setting the food down. "Eat up. We've got work to do."
Dean immediately flipped open a container, revealing a greasy breakfast sandwich. "Thanks, Dad."
Sam approached more slowly, eyeing the food with suspicion. "Do they serve anything that isn't ninety percent cholesterol?"
"You want rabbit food, you buy it yourself," John replied, spreading newspaper clippings across the bed. "Three hikers found dead in Blackwater Ridge State Park in the last two weeks. Official report says animal attack."
"But you're thinking vengeful spirit?" Dean asked through a mouthful of sandwich.
John nodded. "EMF was off the charts when I checked the trail yesterday. Pattern's too specific for an animal. All three victims were found with identical lacerations across the chest. All hiking alone, all found within half a mile of the old ranger station."
Sam half-listened while retrieving his history textbook from his backpack. He had a test third period, and he'd barely had time to study between unpacking at their new "home" and helping Dean research the local death records.
John's voice sharpened. "Sam. You with us?"
"Yeah, Dad. Three hikers, identical wounds, near the ranger station. I'm listening."
"This is life and death. That history test won't matter much if you're dead because you weren't paying attention."
Dean interjected before Sam could respond. "Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't Sam and I hit the library after school? I can charm the librarian into giving us access to the local archives, and Sam can do his geek thing with the old newspapers."
John considered this, then nodded curtly. "Fine. I'll interview the park ranger who found the second body. Meet back here at four to prep."
"Yes, sir," Dean replied automatically.
Sam just nodded, already turning pages in his textbook.
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The Windom County Library was housed in a red brick building that had probably been impressive in the 1950s.
Now it just looked tired, with fading lettering and concrete steps worn smooth by decades of foot traffic.
Inside, Dean immediately spotted the librarian - mid-thirties, cardigan, reading glasses on a chain - and nudged Sam.
"Watch and learn, little brother."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Just get us into the archives, Romeo."
Five minutes later, Dean returned with a triumphant smile and a key. "Local history room, basement level. Mrs. Gladwell says we can stay until closing."
"What did you tell her?" Sam asked as they descended the stairs.
"That you're writing a paper on local folklore for school, and I'm the supportive big brother helping out." Dean winked. "Chicks dig the supportive brother angle."
The archives room smelled of old paper and dust. Metal shelving units held bound volumes of newspapers, while filing cabinets lined the walls.
"You take newspapers from the 70s forward," Dean said, "I'll check county death records."
They worked in silence for nearly an hour before Sam found something.
"Dean, check this out." He pointed to a yellowed newspaper. "July 1978, July 1985, July 1992... all had similar deaths reported as animal attacks. It happens every seven years."
Dean looked up from his own research. "Found something too. Park Ranger Thomas Wilkins, died in a cabin fire in July 1978. Suspicious circumstances."
"Suspicious how?"
"Report says the fire started in multiple locations simultaneously. Wilkins was inside, but autopsy showed he had a fractured skull before the fire started."
Sam frowned. "Murder?"
"Looks like. Three hikers claimed self-defense, said Wilkins attacked them for camping in a restricted area. Case was dismissed due to 'insufficient evidence'."
"Bet those hikers had connections," Sam muttered.
Dean nodded. "Local judge's son was one of them. Anyway, Wilkins was apparently some hardcore environmentalist type. Super dedicated, lived alone in the park, confrontational with rule-breakers."
"And now every seven years, hikers die with lacerations," Sam concluded. "Classic vengeful spirit."
Dean closed the file with a satisfied snap. "Simple salt and burn. We find Wilkins' grave, torch his bones, problem solved."
"If it's that simple, why do you need me?" Sam asked, immediately regretting the question when he saw Dean's expression harden.
"Because that's how it works, Sam. We're a team."
"Right," Sam sighed. "A team."
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American History was Sam's last class of the day, and usually his favorite. Today, however, he found it hard to focus, his mind drifting to the hunt ahead.
"Mr. Winchester?"
Sam startled. "Yes, Ms. Hannigan?"
The teacher smiled. "I asked which amendment to the Constitution established the federal income tax."
"Oh, the Sixteenth, ratified in 1913," Sam answered automatically.
Ms. Hannigan looked impressed. "Very good. Most students don't remember the number."
When the bell rang, she called him to her desk. "Sam, I know you've only been with us a few days, but I'm impressed with your knowledge and participation."
"Thank you," Sam replied, shifting his weight, eager to leave.
"Have you thought about college? With your academic performance, you could qualify for scholarships."
The question caught Sam off-guard. "I, uh... my family moves around a lot."
"That doesn't mean you can't plan for your future," she said kindly. "Something to think about."
As Sam left the classroom, he passed a group of students discussing weekend plans - movies, parties, normal teenage stuff. A pang of envy shot through him just as his phone buzzed.
A text from Dean: "Hurry up, princess. Ghost hunting tonight."
Sam sighed and headed for the exit.
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Dean wiped his hands on a rag as he leaned over the Impala's engine. The car was his pride and joy, one of the only constants in a life of constant change.
He'd noticed the timing was slightly off, and with an hour to kill before Sam finished school, it seemed like the perfect time for maintenance.
As he worked, his mind drifted to this morning's tension between Sam and Dad. It was nothing new - had been building for years - but lately, it felt like standing between two storm fronts about to collide.
He remembered eight-year-old Sammy asking, "Why can't we be normal, Dean?" How do you explain to a kid that normal was never an option? That their family was chosen for this life the moment that damn thing entered his nursery?
Dean tightened a bolt with more force than necessary. The Impala was showing her age in small ways - a loose belt here, a worn hose there.
Sometimes Dean felt the same way, worn down by the constant strain of being the buffer between his father and brother.
The rumble of the school bus interrupted his thoughts. Minutes later, Sam approached, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"How was school, Samantha? Learn how to braid hair in Home Ec?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Hilarious, Dean."
"Seriously though, how was the test?"
"Fine. Probably aced it." Sam tossed his backpack in the back seat. "Ms. Hannigan asked about college."
Dean's hands stilled momentarily before he closed the hood. "Yeah? What'd you say?"
"Nothing really. What could I say? 'Sorry, can't plan for college because I might be hunting ghosts that weekend'?"
Dean wiped his hands again before sliding into the driver's seat. He hesitated for a moment, before he began, "You know, if you really wanted to go, Dad would-"
"Dad would what? Give his blessing? Come on, Dean."
Dean started the engine, the familiar rumble comforting. "Let's just focus on tonight, okay? One hunt at a time."
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Back at the motel, John had laid out an arsenal on his bed - shotguns, iron rods, salt rounds, lighter fluid, matches.
"Cemetery's on the edge of town," John said without preamble as they entered. "We'll go after dark."
Sam dropped his backpack on the floor. "I have another test tomorrow morning, first period. Can't we wait one more day?"
John's jaw tightened. "People are dying, Sam. Another hiker went missing yesterday."
"I know, but one more day won't-"
"Won't what? Matter? Tell that to their families."
"Dad," Dean interjected, "we could wrap this up early. Be done by midnight, plenty of time for Sam to study after."
John looked between his sons, then nodded curtly. "Fine. But we leave in an hour. Dean, check the shotguns. Sam, review the cemetery layout."
As Sam grudgingly pulled out the cemetery map, John disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Inside, John splashed water on his face, then reached for his wallet. Behind his driver's license was a worn photograph - Mary holding baby Dean, her belly round with Sam. Her smile still hit him like a physical blow.
"I'm trying, Mary," he whispered to the mirror. "God knows I'm trying."
He'd promised her memory he'd keep the boys safe. But safe how? By sheltering them from the truth, or by preparing them for it? Every day, the line blurred further.
A knock on the door. "Dad? You okay in there?" Dean's voice.
John tucked the photo away. "Fine. Be right out."
When he emerged, he was once again John Winchester, hunter. No trace remained of the momentary vulnerability.
"Let's go over the plan one more time."
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The cemetery was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the occasional hoot of an owl. The Winchesters moved silently between gravestones, Sam and Dean carrying shovels while John swept the area with an EMF meter.
"Here," John said, stopping before a modest headstone. "Thomas Wilkins, 1942-1978. 'Guardian of the Wild Places.'"
"Poetic," Dean muttered, driving his shovel into the earth.
They worked in shifts, two digging while one kept watch with a salt-loaded shotgun. During his break, Sam leaned on his shovel, watching his father and brother work.
"Do you ever wonder if what we do actually helps?" he asked suddenly.
John paused mid-dig. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we hunt these things, kill them... but there's always more. It never ends. Are we actually making a difference, or just perpetuating a cycle of violence?"
"We save lives, Sam," John replied, resuming his digging. "That's what matters."
"Yeah, but-"
"It's simple," Dean interrupted. "Bad things exist. They hurt people. We stop them. End of philosophy class."
Before Sam could respond, the temperature plummeted. Their breath clouded in the suddenly frigid air.
"He's here," John warned, raising his shotgun.
The spirit materialized between gravestones - a man in a charred park ranger uniform, skin blackened and peeling, eyes burning with hatred.
"Keep digging!" John ordered, firing a salt round that temporarily dispersed the ghost.
Sam and Dean redoubled their efforts, shovels biting into the earth fast. The spirit reappeared closer, and John fired again.
"Running low on rounds," he warned.
The ghost manifested directly behind Dean, flinging him against a headstone. Dean grunted in pain as he hit the stone.
"Dean!" Sam grabbed an iron rod from their supplies, swinging it through the spirit as it advanced on his brother.
"I'm okay," Dean gasped, struggling to his feet. "Keep digging!"
John had nearly reached the coffin when the spirit reappeared, stronger now. It sent a wave of energy that knocked Sam backward.
"Sam!" Dean fired his own shotgun, dispersing the ghost again.
"I'm fine," Sam called, scrambling back to the grave. His eyes caught an inscription on Wilkins' headstone - Latin words nearly obscured by lichen. "Dean, the inscription - it's a conservationist's oath. He's not just targeting random hikers; he's going after people who damage the park!"
"Great insight, professor," Dean replied, scanning for the spirit's return. "Now help Dad with that coffin!"
The sound of splintering wood signaled John breaking through. He reached for the salt just as the temperature dropped again.
The spirit materialized with a howl of rage, lifting John off his feet. Sam lunged for the dropped shotgun, firing his last salt round as Dean grabbed the lighter fluid, dousing the exposed bones.
John struck a match the moment his feet hit the ground, dropping it into the grave. The spirit appeared one final time, face contorted in fury, before erupting into flames that dissipated into the night air.
For a moment, the three Winchesters stood in silence, breathing hard.
"Everyone okay?" John finally asked.
"Yeah," Dean winced, touching his bruised shoulder. "Though I think I left an impression on that headstone."
"More likely the other way around," Sam said, helping Dean gather their equipment.
John surveyed the disturbed grave. "Let's fill this in and get out of here."
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Back at the motel, the post-hunt routine had begun.
Dean cleaned the weapons while John recorded the details in his journal.
Sam, true to his word, had his textbook open, though his eyes were heavy with exhaustion.
Dean produced three beers from the mini-fridge, handing one each to his father and brother. "To a successful hunt."
John nodded, accepting the beer. "Your research was solid, Sam. That connection to the conservationist oath might have saved us some trouble if we'd known it earlier."
Sam looked up, surprised by the rare praise. "Thanks, Dad."
For a brief moment, they were just a family - bruised and tired, but together. Dean found an old action movie on TV, Sam studied by lamplight, and John reviewed his notes, occasionally glancing at his sons with an expression that might almost be called contentment.
The peace lasted until 11:47 PM, when John's emergency phone rang.
The shrill sound cut through the room like a physical presence. John checked the number, his expression shifting immediately from relaxed to alert. He stood up and walked a way a bit.
"Kate?" he answered softly, tension evident in his voice.
Sam looked up from his textbook, mouthing "Kate?" to Dean, having still heard their dad in the small motel, who shrugged and muted the TV.
"When did it happen?" John asked, standing abruptly. His free hand clenched into a fist. "What did the doctors say?"
Dean straightened, watching his father closely.
"Is he conscious? Has he said anything?" John's voice had taken on an urgency Sam rarely heard outside of life-or-death hunting situations.
The color drained from John's face as he listened to the voice on the other end. His shoulders, always squared and strong, seemed to sag under an invisible weight.
Sam could hear a woman's voice through the phone, though not the words - just the frantic, tearful tone.
Another pause as the woman spoke.
"He needs his father, John," her voice came through clearly this time, loud enough that both Sam and Dean heard it. "Adam keeps asking for his brother and for you. Please, John. Lucien needs you. They don't know if he'll make it through the night."
The phone slipped from John's fingers, clattering to the floor. He stood frozen, staring at nothing, a look of naked shock on his face that Sam had never seen before.
"Dad?" Dean called softly, concern etched across his features.
"Who's Lucien?" Sam asked, the question hanging in the silent room.
From the floor, Kate's voice continued to call John's name, small and desperate through the phone's speaker, as the three Winchesters remained motionless in the suddenly even smaller motel room.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all liked the chapter!
Do tell me how you found it.
I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)