Editor's note: This fic is a combo of AU and demon, but since it picks up sometime after "Home" in the first season (before John's death), I decided to leave it in the AU forum. Sam is the central figure, but it also features Dean, John, and Mary (flashbacks). I'm guesstimating it will come in under 10 chapters. Note: Some content is R rated (language and violence), but I can try to tone it down if the site editors object. Also ... no offense to Wyoming readers: I'm from West Virginia myself, and I can assure you we have our own stereotypes that I fully intend to write about, LOL.

Birthright

Chapter 1

Nighttime: Casper, Wyoming

Sam pulled on his jacket, his lanky figure illuminated by the flashing neon sign outside the hotel room’s single window. Slumped in a sagging armchair in the corner, Dean stared past Sam shoulder, where red, green and yellow letters blinked “Lasso Me Inn” above the outline of a cowboy roping a calf. “Kill me now,” he muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Aw, come on, Dean! Stop sulking. It’s not like you’re not going to get laid in the next random town we end up in. One night of celibacy isn’t going to kill you.”

Dean protested. “But she was a real cowgirl! And she promised to show me the horseshoe tattoo on her—”

“I don’t care!” Sam interrupted. “Dean, your face is all over the news. Surveillance videos caught you committing murder. Do you understand how serious that is?”

“Shape shifter,” Dean clarified, chewing on a hangnail. “Doesn’t count.”

“You think THEY know that?” Sam hissed. “Dean, you have got to keep a low profile until we finish our work in this town. Understand? Now, I’m going to go pick up some burgers.” Sam opened the door, then turned and pointed at Dean, issuing a final warning. “YOU! STAY!”

“Woof!” Dean barked obligingly.

“Real mature,” Sam scowled. “Sometimes I wonder which of us is supposed to be the older brother.”

He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Dean alone in a room with burnt-orange shag carpeting and paint-by-number wildlife pictures hanging on the walls. Dean sighed. He picked up the television remote and pushed the “on” button, then clicked through the channels: all four of them. “Jesus. Haven’t these people heard of satellite TV?” he said in disgust, tossing the remote aside.

A drink. Yes, a drink would be good. Dean stood, stretched, and strode over to the duffel bag he had dropped on the bed earlier. He unzipped it and removed a stainless steel flask. “Spirits for the spirit,” he said happily, unscrewing the cap and tilting it to his lips. The bourbon slid smoothly down his throat, its warmth blossoming as it reached his belly. Ah, heaven! He tilted it back for another swallow and ... nothing. He shook the flask, but it was empty. Dean cursed himself for forgetting to refill it at the last pit stop. He plopped down on the bed with a sigh. It was going to be a long night.

Then his eyes fell on Sam’s duffel bag, sitting open on the bed opposite him. Jammed tightly into the corner of the bag was the box of photos Jenny had found in the basement of their old house in Kansas. Several weeks had passed since the day she had given them that box, but Sam still carried it around with him like a security blanket. Dean leaned over and dragged the box out of the bag. Propping himself against the headboard, he pulled a stack of photos onto his lap and began leafing through them.

A wistful smile formed upon his lips as he riffled through the faded images: There was a portrait of his dad in his USMC uniform, fresh out of basic training. A picture of his parents, all decked out in their polyester finest eveningwear, surrounded by a sea of balloons and looking impossibly young. Prom, maybe? Baby photos of himself and Sam. At the bottom of the stack was a 5x7 cardboard frame, the kind that folds over like a greeting card. The cover was black, with gold embossed letters printed on the front: Christmas 1983.

Dean opened it, his eyes misting over as he chuckled softly at the image before him. It was one of those standard department-store-Santa photos: A stocky elderly man in a white cotton beard hunched over, weary and shell-shocked, as he timidly cradled a wailing, terrified infant Sammy in his arms. Four-year-old Dean perched on the man’s lap, grinning triumphantly into the camera’s lens as though he were confident that his wish would be granted. But of course he was sure: Mere seconds before that photo was taken, he’d threatened to lace Rudolph’s reindeer food with laxatives unless Santa brought him a real metal detector. Santa, senile old coot that he was, had tried to talk him out of such a “big boy” toy. But Dean was quick to set him straight. He remembered telling his parents about the threat, and their reactions: Dad clutching his sides and doubling over with laughter; Mom – still trying to soothe her sobbing younger son as he recovered from his traumatic first experience with the creepy Father Christmas – chiding, “John, don’t encourage his misbehavior.”

“God. Where was that?” Dean whispered to himself. Sears ... or was it Macy’s? Mom probably wrote it on the back, he surmised. She made notes on everything. He lifted the cardboard flap to pull out the photo, and felt something wedged underneath the image. He pulled it out. It was a sealed envelope, cream-colored ... some sort of heavy stationery. On the front, in his mother’s flowery cursive scrawl, was written, simply, “Sam.”

Dean’s heart raced. He peered behind the photo flap, expecting to find a second letter addressed to himself. But there was none. “Yeah ... Poor, ultra-sensitive Sammy,” he scowled jealously. “Gotta give him all the warm fuzzies to make him feel good about himself. Screw the rude boy Dean, right?”

Dean stared at the sealed envelope on his lap, grouchily anticipating the eager, puppy-dog expression on his brother’s face upon receipt of the letter from mummy dearest. What could possibly be so important to Sam that couldn’t be shared with his older brother? Dean stole a nervous glance at the hotel room door. The night outside was silent, save for a chorus of crickets. Well, Sam did force him to stay here against his will, Dean rationed. Serves him right if a letter addressed to him gets accidentally opened in the meantime.

Dean tore open the envelope and hurriedly scanned the note:

My dearest Sam,

If you are reading this letter, then it means I am not here with you to provide the thorough explanation that you most assuredly deserve. Please forgive me. I never wanted you to find out this way. John and I had planned to tell you everything once you were old enough. Unfortunately, it seems that fate had other plans. But no matter what the circumstances, know that I love you with all my heart. Nothing will ever change that.

Stay close to your brother. You and Dean will need to stand as one in the coming battle. My strong and beautiful sons will prevail – of that I have full confidence.

Always looking over you,

Mom

The doorknob rattled. Dean hastily stuffed the letter back into its envelope and shoved the correspondence beneath the pillow on which he reclined. He folded his arms behind his head and tried to look nonchalant. The door swung inward and Sam entered, bearing two bags of fast-food gloop.

“Got extra onions, just for you,” he said, tossing a bag onto Dean’s lap.

He hesitated, eyeing the scattered photos at Dean’s side. “Did I miss anything?” he asked, warily.

“Nope. Nothing at all,” Dean replied, scooping the photos back into the box. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Great start!!! :clap So will Dean tell Sam about the letter? Will Sam be pissed that Dean opend it? I can't wait to read more!

ohh great start

the letter was great but i wonder ifsam has read it mey not have

Thanks for the feedback! Note: An astute reader has informed me that Mary died in November 1983, before she could spend Christmas with the boys. So I'll explain the story behind the photo in my next chapter.

I've tried to remain as true to history as possible, although there are times when I'll have to tweak things to fit. But if you all spot something that seems completely out of whack, feel free to tell me so that I can make adjustments. B)

GIRL IT IS AWESOME MORE MORE PLEASE MORE MORE :cheer :D

yeah, what SAMMY'S GIRL said! :lol: more more more! :cheer :cheer :cheer

PLEASE!!!!! :)

Thanks so much for the feedback, everyone! I'm glad you're enjoying it. Here's the next installment:

Chapter 2

Sam plopped down on the bed next to Dean, setting aside the second bag of food. Sammy always was a slow and particular eater – just like a girl, Dean thought peevishly as he took a huge bite out of his own burger, spilling a mouthful of lettuce and onions onto the wrapper spread upon his lap. Sam squinted at Dean. “Hey, what’s that?” he asked, leaning forward and reaching towards the pillow against which Dean lay.

Dean’s heart rate quickened, sending him into a mild panic as he scrambled to formulate an excuse as to why he’d hoarded the letter that was addressed to his brother. But Sam instead picked up the Christmas photo that had fallen from Dean’s hands when he was scooping the pictures back into the box. He opened the card, his lanky frame hunched over as he studied the faded photo he held in his lap. His lips curved into a wistful smile.

“Nineteen eighty-three,” he said softly, looking up at Dean. “Mom never even made it to that Christmas.”

“Yep. She died about a week after that photo was taken. We didn’t even have the tree up yet,” Dean replied brusquely. His hamburger devoured, he sat up and brushed off his hands. “That’s the year I learned that Santa Claus wasn’t a jolly old elf, but just some wheezy old fat guy in a rented costume trying to earn some extra bucks to supplement his Social Security income.”

Sam grunted noncommittally and resumed his scrutiny of the photo, his hazel eyes taking on that wounded look that Dean knew so well. He didn’t need to ask what his little brother was thinking: Sam was dreaming of a childhood that never was, and all the hopes and possibilities that died the night an unspeakable evil invaded their lives and robbed them of their innocence forever.

Ignoring the guilty pang that tugged at the back of his mind, Dean gave Sam a reassuring pat on the back. “Come on, man. Don’t do this to yourself. There’s no way to win a game of ‘what if.’ The dice are loaded.”

Sam sighed. “I know. You’re right,” he said, folding the card shut and dropping it back into the box at Dean’s side. The brothers sat in silence for a few seconds, until Sam noticed that Dean was lustily eyeing the other bag of food Sam had set aside when he came in.

“So, you gonna eat that, or what?” Dean prodded. He made a grab for the bag, but Sam snatched it away. “Hell yeah, I am!”

“But I’m still hungry,” Dean whined, rubbing his belly.

“Tough sh--,” Sam sneered. “You ate your burger. This one’s mine. Go gnaw on a table leg or something.”

Dean pouted. “Well, if only you would’ve let me make a date with that sexy little cowgirl. By this time tonight I’d be up to my ears eating—”

“DEAN,” Sam warned.

“Right. You’re no fun,” Dean huffed, standing. He grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from his duffel bag and stomped off to the bathroom. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

“Better make it a cold one, horn dog,” Sam called after him, relishing his brother’s misery.

“Bitch!” Dean groused, closing the door behind him.

“Jerk!” Sam returned merrily. A pleasant warmth spread over him as he nudged aside his doubts and fears about the future and reveled in this tiny bit of sibling normalcy.

Suddenly it dawned on him that he was famished. He dug into the bag on his lap and tore open the sandwich wrapper, salivating.The scent of blood was overpowering – euphoric even – and he bit into the burger with the giddy anticipation of a wolf at a fresh kill. But the charbroiled taste jarred him back to reality and he found himself disappointed that the meat was in fact, cooked.

The food turned to clay in Sam’s mouth. He forced himself to choke down the tasteless lump as he struggled to get a handle on the odd craving that had overcome him just moments earlier. He grabbed a lukewarm, half-drunk Coke from the nightstand and downed it in three gulps. What the hell was wrong with him? Raw meat? What kind of person craves raw meat?

Sam shook his head in an effort to clear it. He balled up the remains of the burger and gracefully launched the wad into the wastebasket on the opposite side of the room. Overcome by a world-weary heaviness, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the sound of Dean singing in the shower – loudly, proudly and decidedly off-key:

Got gleaming chrome, reflecting steel
(Loaded, loaded)
Ready to take on every deal
(Loaded, loaded)
My pulse is racing, I’m hot to take
This motor’s revved up, fit to break
Livin’ after midnight
Rockin’ to the dawn
Lovin’ till the morning
Then I’m gone, I’m gone ...

Dean shut off the water, feeling a little sad that he’d had to abandon his performance of a Grammy-worthy rendition of the Judas Priest classic, “Living After Midnight.” He grieved not for himself, but for the Impala, of which he always fancied the song to be about. His song dedication cut short, Dean toweled off and pulled on his shorts, pausing long enough to brush his teeth and flex his muscles before the steam-choked mirror.

When he exited the bathroom, he saw that Sam was sprawled, fully clothed, upon one of the beds, sleeping fitfully. Dean tiptoed to the nightstand and switched off the light. He crawled beneath the covers of his own bed, and was nearly drifting off, when he jolted awake with the stark realization that the note – THE note – was still tucked underneath the pillow on which Sam lay sleeping. Dean knew from experience that Sam usually fell asleep on his back. But during the night he had a tendency to roll over onto his stomach, upon which he would bury his arms beneath the pillow under his head.

Dean swore softly to himself. If he didn’t retrieve that note tonight, Sam would find it in the morning for sure. The weird thing was that his initial reasoning for hiding the note – spite, and perhaps a little bit of jealousy – was long gone, replaced by a feeling of dread and the instinctive need to protect his baby brother from some anonymous threat that lurked just beyond the horizon.

Hoisting himself up on his elbows in the darkness, Dean peered at Sam, his brother’s form illuminated by the flickering neon sign outside. Sam shuddered, thrashing his way over onto his side. His restless sleep reminded Dean of the dog he and Sam had when they were kids – during the brief-but-record-setting, three-month-stay they’d had in Flagstaff, Arizona – before John had announced to his brokenhearted sons that it was time to move on and find a new home for the dog. Shadow was a black Lab, big and gentle and loving to even the strangest stranger. But at night, he curled his oversized form into a ball and whimpered and trembled, his body racked with nightmares. Dean would prop his small body against Shadow’s, stroking the dog’s head until the trembling stopped and his shallow breathing returned to normal.

Casting the covers aside, Dean crawled out of bed and crept to the edge of Sam’s mattress. He slid his hand under Sam’s pillow and carefully retrieved the letter their mother had written, tucking it safely into his duffel bag on the floor at his feet. He started back to his own bed when he noticed that Sam’s restless slumber had worsened. Sweat poured off of him and he thrashed about on the bed covers. A low keen, like that of a wild animal caught in a trap, escaped from his throat.

“Sammy?” Dean queried. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. “Hey, it’s okay, Sammy. It’s just a dream.”

Still trapped in the confines of his nightmare, Sam let out a gasp and bellowed, “NOOOO!” He flailed wildly on the bed, one of his forearms striking Dean across the face hard enough that Dean saw stars. The raw stench of fear and sweat permeated the room.

Dean grabbed both of Sam’s shoulders and shook him hard, screaming, “SAM! WAKE UP!”

Sam bolted upright with a cry, tears streaming down his face. He panted, wild-eyed and confused as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Dean gripped Sam’s shoulders and talked him down, gently. “Look at me, Sam. It’s okay. You’re here with me now. Everything’s okay. We’re cool, man. We’re cool.”

Gradually Sam’s eyes began to focus and he released a trembling sigh. He mopped at the tears with the back of his hand and stole a sideways glance at Dean in the darkness. His eyes were twin glistening pools of pain. When he finally spoke, his voice was ragged.

“Oh, Dean. It was so real. It was so f--ing real. I dreamed that ...” he trailed off, choking back a sob.

“What, Sammy?” Dean prompted.

Sam hunched over, his knees pulled to his chest and his head hanging down. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. The raw agony Dean saw in his brother's eyes filled him with a slow-spreading horror. He shivered. The temperature in the room felt as though it had suddenly dropped 10 degrees.

“I killed you, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “I slit your throat open with a razor and I watched you bleed to death.”

* * * * * *

:ph43r: New chapter coming soon. I'm working on it right now!

UM.... :thud :thud AWSOME!! :clap

Great update! I can't wait to read more!

...hmmm... AWSOME UPDATE! :) lol! update another soon, k?

Thanks for the feedback, folks. I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)

Chapter 3

Dean felt the wind rush out of him as though he’d been punched in the gut.

“I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t,” Sam continued, his voice breaking. “There was some kind of raging force, driving me ... overpowering me ... and all I could do was watch as I picked up the blade ... and ... and then I killed you.”

The words hung in the air between them like an evil stench. Sam looked expectantly at his older brother, his grief-stricken eyes a silent plea for guidance.

“Uhh ...” Dean cleared his throat. “Wow, don’t you think it’s cold in here?” He grabbed a T-shirt out of his bag and pulled it on over his goose-pimpled flesh, then launched himself off the bed and began pacing. “Look, Sam – just because you dreamed it doesn’t mean it was one of your ‘visions.’ It’s just some crazy, nonsensical nightmare," he rationalized. "I have lots of dreams like that. Like this one time, I was stuck at a church bingo game with all these old ladies who smelled like camphor. I was sitting in the front of the room on this really frickin' cold metal folding chair, and I was buck naked. That’s when I realized that I was the bingo prize ...”

Dean rattled on, aware that he was babbling, but unable to stop. He wasn’t certain who he was trying to reassure: Sam, or himself.

“Knock it off, Dean,” Sam scolded wearily. He pushed his damp hair out of his eyes and stood up. He approached Dean. “Admit it: You're as freaked out about this as I am. We both know that when you start babbling like this and telling lame jokes, you’re covering up for something.”

“That joke wasn’t lame!” Dean protested. “And it wasn’t even a joke. I really was scared, dude. Church Lady wanted to roll me in flour and bake me into a rhubarb pie.”

Sam laughed in spite of himself, and began to relax a little. He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Dean. Maybe it was only a nightmare. But it was just so real. I could feel the cold steel of the blade in my hands. And the blood ... there was so much blood ... it was warm ... and smelled like iron ... I mean, damn.”

Dean’s stomach did a slow churning rollover, making him wish he hadn’t eaten right before bed. “So ... uh ... why did you kill me, Sam?” he asked, not sure if he truly wanted to know the answer.

Sam hesitated. “Because ... I had to stop you from killing the yellow-eyed demon.”

Dean released a nervous chuckle. “Well, now you know that’s bull**. I mean, we’re family, Sammy ... you know, “blood is thicker than water” and all that crap. Even if you’re possessed, or struggling with some other evil mofo juju, I have faith that our ties are strong enough to pull us through this, okay? We’re Winchesters! Keep the faith, man.” He gave Sam a reassuring slap on the shoulder.

“Keep the faith,” Sam echoed distractedly. He looked down at his shirt, noticing that it was soaked through with sweat. “Wow. I guess I’d better go grab a shower.”

“Yeah, man. You reek,” Dean said, collapsing back on his bed, his arms folded behind his head. Sam dug a pair of skivvies of his duffel bag and headed towards the bathroom. He started to pull the door closed when Dean called after him, “Sam?”

“Yeah?” Sam leaned against the door frame, cocking his head.

“Tell me one thing. Did I at least put up a good fight?” Dean joked, giving him a cheesy grin. But Sam’s face remained stony.

“No. That’s the worst part. I killed you in your sleep,” he said, his voice level and hard. The door closed behind him with a soft “snick.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open and he sat staring at the closed door. He waited until he heard the sound of running water before he stood up and began pulling on his jeans and boots. He grabbed his bag and was halfway to the door before he realized with a jolt that he was about to flee in the Impala, abandoning Sam and leaving him vulnerable to whatever forces were after him.

“Dammit,” Dean dropped the bag on the floor and sighed. No way in hell he was going to skip out on his little brother, but what to do? He hesitated, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his cell phone. Casting a wary eye to the bathroom door, he hit speed dial and waited.

“This is John Winchester. I’m not available, but if you need assistance ...” Dean waited impatiently for the beep. When it came, the words tumbled out of him in a rush.

“Dad ... it’s me, Dean. Look, I know you’re after the demon, but I swear I never would have called if it weren’t urgent. Something weird is going down with Sam. He’s been having these, uh, visions. There’s more, but I can’t go into that right now. And today I found this note that Mom wrote to Sam right before she died. It sounded kind of ... I don’t know ... ominous. Anyway, just ... I need to talk to you, okay? Please.”

Dean snapped the phone shut and sank into the chair by the door. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He hated himself for having to beg his father for help; he felt like a helpless little kid again. He opened his eyes to find Sam standing in the bathroom doorway, staring at him. Dean flinched. He hadn’t heard the shower turn off or the door opening.

Water droplets beaded on Sam’s bare chest as he raised a towel to his hair and gave it a brisk rub. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice muffled by the terrycloth, his tone reflecting nothing beyond mild curiosity.

“Uh, I couldn’t sleep. So I figured we’d just finish up our business in town tonight and get back on the road,” Dean lied easily, figuring a half truth at least counted for something. “I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

Sam broke into a grin, his dimples flashing. “After that dream I just had, you think I could possibly get back to sleep? Let’s get the hell out of here, man.”

Lawrence, Kansas, that same night

John Winchester closed the cell phone and stared at it as though it were alive, half expecting it to morph into a flesh-eating creature and devour him in one gulp.

Footsteps padded across the rug, and John looked up just as Missouri placed two steaming cups of coffee on the table between them. Placing her hands on her hips, the psychic reader stared hard at the man sitting in her kitchen, noting his haggard, unshaven appearance. With a decisive nod, she announced, “John Winchester, you look like you’ve been slow-dancing with the devil himself. I think we’d better summon up some spirits.”

She retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured a generous shot into each cup, then seated herself at the table across from John.

For the next few minutes they sat and sipped their coffees, lost in their respective thoughts. John gripped his cup in his beefy hands and stared into its depths as though its dark liquid reflection held the answers he so desperately sought.

Missouri was the first to break the silence.

“It’s started, hasn’t it?” she said quietly, already knowing the answer.

Slowly, John looked up from his cup, his hollow eyes meeting hers. Words failed him and he merely nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and swiping angrily at the tears that leaked from their corners.

“It’s started,” he acknowledged finally, his voice raspy. “God help us, Missouri ... for the first time in all my years of hunting, I don’t know what to do.”

:rotfl :rotfl :rotfl

:lmao

This was a wonderful chapter!!! I can't wait to read more! Please update soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

:blink: hmmmm...very ominous ;) ...LOVED IT! :wub: :cheer lol! :rotfl hurry and update soon,pleeeaaassseee! *begs* i want to know 'what's' started! :( *huffs*

lol! loves :wub:

Hannah :wave

Update!! Too good to stop!! :P

WOW!! :woohoo That was so cool! I'm dieing to know what IS so special about Sam, and was his dream, really, a dream? Or a vision? The suspense is tingling!! :bang
PLEEEEEEASE Update SOOOOOOON!!!!!!!!! Please? :bow I'll be forever grateful!! :P

umm where is the other one??

love it...................

plz more plz

Please tell me it is not over.

what is with the letter… what’s going on with Sammy and why did he crave raw meat… at first I thought Sam was turning into a rugaru like Jack did in Metamorphosis but after I read about his dream I knew that wasn’t it… if Sam was turning into one he would have ate Dean not slit his throat and watch him bleed to death… what did Sam mean when he said he had to stop you from killing the yellow-eyed demon… either Sam has gone darkside in his dream or what I fear is true Sam is adopted and he’s Azazel’s son… Damien The Omen did not end well... more please

you haven't updated in like forever

OMG !!! YOU HAVE GOT TO UPDATE !