Fanfic - SPN: IDKMUIMY - Ch.1 - I See and See Into You

[writingbyebonio]

Title: I Didn't Know Me Until I Met You
Author: eboniorchid
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Chapter 1: I See and See into You
[033.Enamored]



"Gah, you little snit! If Father wanted you to stand on your head in a vat of fucking acid, you'd probably do it. You know as well as I do that we could take this target down right now. Fuck orders!"

"Gadriella-"

"Don't call me that! It's Meg now, Shem."

"I don't have a problem being called by my ancestral name."

"Damnit, Sam! It's like you have no mind of your own! We could totally take him out tonight and we'd both gain rank."

"If we weren't dead by Father's hand, sure!" Sam's tone was far louder than he intended and he scanned the crowded bar again before continuing, calmer. "But, hey, you should totally go for it. I definitely wouldn't mind not having to deal with your bullshit every day."

Meg huffed out air, exasperated, gesturing, as was usual with her minor tantrums. Sam knew he was right and Meg knew it too, but she never failed to poke at him over the details of almost every set of orders. Sometimes he wondered if she wanted him to lose control and do something destructive. She'd probably think it was really fun.

Sam didn't think his powers were fun. They were just a fact of life for him, a tool for jobs, defense, and, someday soon, for avenging his mother's death. That was it. No entertainment value whatsoever.

"We're supposed to observe. Get close, if we can, without arousing suspicion, but just watch. Besides, he isn't the prime target anyway and you know it."

"Come on! He is not gonna lead us to John. His dad won't let him get within 50 miles of him. They're just gonna keep playing tag around the whole damn country while they destroy not only our allies, but the New Guardians too."

Sam bristled, his fingers shatter-tight on his beer. Intellectually, he knew she was just trying to get a rise out of him, make him do something brash and stupid, but any talk about Hunters hurting Guardians made him think with his heart far more than was wise.

The only crimes of the Guardians were their association with, and sometimes love for, a Grigori clansman. Many Guardians didn't even know they'd been in association with such beings, let alone what that might mean in the spiritual sense.

Hunting the Grigori was one thing. Their histories had been distorted greatly over the years, so it was understandable, though unfortunate, that they were constantly embroiled in all-out wars and minor battles with various Hunters and groups of Hunters.

But punishing Guardians as collaborators was taking things entirely too far. It was the difference between soldiers sniping at other soldiers and soldiers sniping at other soldiers' wives. Of course, that last strategy had a tendency to spawn generations of children out for blood, and with good reason.

Sam would know; he was one of those kids.

"I want them dead as much as you do. More, even. So, don't give me that crap about our inaction leading to more Guardian deaths, because you know there are bigger plans at stake here and I am not gonna let you fuck this up for me."

"Fine, but why do we both need to be here? It'll be your job in the end anyhow. You're clearly old enough to handle this tedious junk on your own."

"Apparently, Father disagrees with you." It bothered him immensely that Meg always had to tag along, as if he hadn't proved himself skilled and loyal, year after year, for two damn decades. Even while he was at school he'd stayed committed to the cause and continued his training daily. It was a slap in the face to return home and be gifted a babysitter, instead of a Cloak.

Meg might have been his senior, by many millennia, but it was obvious why she had never been promoted further up in the hierarchy. She was entirely too volatile and apt to come up with her own bad plans instead of just following instructions. Sam, however, had worked his ass off to gain rank, but his way was always barred by the human taint in his blood.

Despite the opinions of much of the rest of the clan, his father never made him feel lesser for the blood of his mother's line. Instead, he acknowledged that it as a weakness, but also pointed out the many ways that it was a strength, for Sam and for their cause, not only among humans, but also among the older societies, who had lore of others like Sam, from long ago.

Father had assured him that successful completion of this one mission would finally allow Sam to take his rightful place in the clan, standing by his father's side, wrapped in the full Cloak of his kind. He just had to be patient.

This was the mission he'd been training his entire life for.

A few weeks back, on the anniversary of his mother's death, his father had finally agreed to give him the information he'd been asking for, almost every day, throughout his youth: who killed my mother and when can I avenge her? The who was a Hunter named John Winchester and the when was now.

---
It had only been half an hour and already Meg was agitated.

"You know what? You watch him. I've got better shit to do."

"Father won't be happy if he finds out that you made me do this job alone." Sam looked at her, pointedly, letting her know that she would be on her own if this ever needed explanation and that he wouldn't be the one going down for her refusal to follow orders.

"Then I'll just have to make sure he doesn't find out." She smiled, smugly, sliding out of the booth and heading for the door. She whipped around, a few steps from the table, her voice dripping with menace. "And you better be home in time to report, or you'll have to deal with me."

Sam sighed with relief when the door shut behind her. He was always glad to see her go. Anywhere. They lived together, worked together, and shared the same family drama. If he didn't get a Cloak soon, he might have to send her back to Hell himself. The thought of her, furiously sputtering as she lost control of her host, knowing that it was him, the bastard half-breed she'd tormented endlessly, who was sending her all the way Home, had Sam grinning into his brew for a damn long time.

---
The target that Sam was supposed to be keeping an eye on was one Dean Winchester, only son of Hunter John Winchester, the man who had murdered his mother.

His father told him the story as many times as either of them could bear to hear it. She had died, burned to ash by a Hunter, her death like one of the witches of eras past, and even as she went up in flames she was reaching for Sam, reaching to save him from the blaze, his safety her final prayer. His father had swooped in, then, too late to save her, but just in time to save him before the room was swallowed up in the inferno. Fearing for the life of his young son, he traveled away then, Cloak drawn over his crying child, and left the man responsible alive until he knew his son was safe, was ready. But he had vowed, then, and every day since then, to seek that Hunter out one day and drain his mortal life to feed strength into the son who would never know the counsel of a mother.

Following in the footsteps of his father, making his father's quest his own, it had always been Sam's goal to mete out justice by destroying John and any other Hunters who would kill a Guardian, guilty of nothing but taking care of Nephilim until they were old enough to fully wear the mantle of their heritage.

Considering that his dad was a soulless bastard, Dean, however, actually seemed pretty nice from where Sam was sitting. Or, rather, pretty, as in very attractive, and also nice. Sam knew his father would chide him for admiring even the aesthetics of an enemy, but, really, it didn't matter if Sam found the guy appealing or not. They'd never interact beyond this silent stalker show and the day Sam descended on the Winchesters for final judgment. Except … was Dean walking this way?

Sam quickly began to study the bubbles in his beer with a very high level of scrutiny.

Damn! He was probably coming over to chat with the twiggy redhead in the booth next to his. If so, it would be tough for Sam to keep a read on his movements without being noticed.

"Hey."

Sam looked up, then quickly down again. "Hey." So, Dean hadn't been coming over to talk to the girl in the next booth over.

He slid in across from Sam. "Is this seat taken?"

"Yeah. My, uh, …. girlfriend … should be back in a minute."

"I dunno. She seemed kind of pissed when she left. And I have remarkably good hearing, so I'm pretty sure you two were talking about your dad." Sam's head snapped up, eyes intense, but Dean ignored the ferocity of his look. "So, that … girlfriend thing … could get a bit awkward, don't ya think?" Dean smirked, then.

Sam teetered between anger and fear and something else entirely, his jaw tightening.

"Don't worry. I didn't hear anything except that your dad was going to kill you for some reason." Dean's smirk skewed downwards before he tossed his head back and drained his beer, slamming the bottle back down onto the table. "Mine's the same way. No room for screw-ups." When he smiled again, it seemed to have a bitter edge.

"Um … yeah … dads can be … difficult." Sam nodded congenially, but continued studying his beer, hoping Dean would get the hint. There was a gentle pause, then, and Sam started to feel like Dean would be sensible and go back to the bar, or at least go talk to the redhead next door.

But, of course, Sam wasn't that lucky.

"Ya know, I saw you watching me." Dean's voice was a low whisper, like Sam had been watching him do something significantly more naughty than down a string of beers and chat up passersby.

Sam raised his head to look at Dean, really look, and damn, he was nearly superhumanly beautiful. The lips he'd curled up into that bitter smile had shifted into a confident smirk. His eyes were a composite of pale greeny-golds that had no match in any of the nature Sam had ever seen. And those crinkles around his eyes told Sam he knew how to have a good time, like maybe right now, since he seemed to have his charms on parade for him, dimples and all.

He'd have to remember to ask his dad if he knew of any succubi in the Winchester line.

Sam could tell, after they'd been talking for a bit, that Dean really was a pretty nice guy, both of them spinning stories, extravagant tales about truckstops and moldy museums. It didn't even seem to be an issue that Dean was a working-class boy, doing "contract work" around the nation in his, supposedly damn sexy, classic automobile, while Sam had just graduated from an Ivy League university, his various global investments ensuring that he only needed to work as much as he wanted to. He found himself laughing with Dean, really laughs, and even real smiles.

It mystified him, this ease he had with Dean, with the man he was supposed to be tailing, with the man whose father was first on his kill list.

This was crazy. It wasn't even like he was hitting Dean up for information, trying to coax him into oversharing or something. Sam was just enjoying his company, which, death plots aside, was still pretty bizarre considering how awkward he always felt in social situations. He knew it would be harder to hide his necessarily stalkerish tendencies now that Dean knew his name, his face, now that they'd had a conversation, a long one, now that they'd ordered more beers together, smirked and snarked at each other. But Sam didn't really want to stop, didn't even seriously consider ending the exchange.

He'd been a good son. He'd trained hard. He'd worked his ass off to get where he was in life, and in the clan. And it wasn't as if he wasn't following orders. He was watching Dean, keeping tabs on him. He just also happened to be having some beer and some conversation and maybe even actual fun. And he fucking deserved it, really, so he wasn't going to stop just because his chat with Dean might somehow be considered inappropriate by some ancient Grigori handbook he'd never even seen.

Whatever the repercussions were, he'd deal with them later.

Right now, though, he was enjoying the distraction, enjoying himself, enjoying Dean.


Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12

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