Archive of Our Own ^beta

He read the last few pages two more times. It ended on a cliff hanger... Why would Carver end it on a cliff hanger?

It was clearly not the end of the story. They were hunting a werewolf; the elaborate detail on their habits and the weapons that you can use to injure or kill them was alarmingly nonchalant in the author’s description. If it was not so utterly ridiculous, (he’s a rational man) he would almost say that the author had written from firsthand experience.

Turning the book around in his hand, he searched for secret pages, hoping to find that his eyes had deceived him. There was nothing. Just a book, almost complete, but empty of the final chapter; it made him pause for thought.

Over the last 5 or so years, he had received the next instalment of the ‘Supernatural’ books. He could have easily bought them himself, however, every 3-4 months, he gets the next one in the post. Always with a small note:

Mr Wyatt, for taking an interest in me

Now, flattering as it is, he knows that he never taught anyone by the name ‘Carver Edlund’ so whoever has become this raging success, it’s TV series now too, was doing so under a pen name. Standing from the leather chair in his study, he crossed from the bookshelf to his desk. He poured himself a generous amount of brandy, the book spine up on top of a mountain of papers that needed to be marked.

He sipped, absently, at the alcohol, staring out of the large window, dark and ominous, watching the rain patter against the glass. Then it hit him. The prose style, this story in particular, was familiar. One of his favourite works had involved a werewolf story.

With new found vigour, he downed the glass and strode quickly out of the room, down the hall and up his creaking stairs. Although, it was questionable as to whether it was the stairs or his legs that were protesting to the energetic movement. In one swift motion, he hooked the loop to the attic and pulled down the retractable stairs. Dust plumed around him, coughing, he made his way up the steps.

He hadn’t been up here in years. The string of the light switch was worn and fraying, the click drawn out and tired. Illuminated in an eerie dirty yellow, the boxes clustered around him like eager children waiting to learn. He sighed. He’s been teaching too long.

Beginning his search, he rummaged past his own history boxes, pushing the Christmas decorations out of the way to find the box, suffocating beneath many others. He could easily remember the year, summer 1997. It’s a good thing he’s a proficient packer, logging his favourite works in school years.

Quickly pulling the box down the steps, then down the stairs, he dumps it on the corner of his desk, another bout of dust and debris mushroom clouding from it. He doesn’t hesitate to rip the tape off, tearing the cardboard that has been neatly folded for over a decade. He shuffles through the paper systematically, searching the titles and names of his pieces. Some of them in here, he truly cherishes. It is amazing what these young minds can come up with when they don’t have an adult undermining them and telling them otherwise.

Cliché, then, that he finds what he’s looking for... The very last crisp pages nestled neatly at the bottom of the box; he’d been ready to admit defeat, though now he is positively elated he had persevered. Suddenly, apprehension fills him.

The title reads in tall, joined handwriting, hard pressed into the page: What My Family Did Last Summer by Sam Winchester

Skimming roughly he finds that yes, this was the piece about the werewolf.

Sam Winchester. Of course, the boy who’d been in his class for 2 weeks at best, nothing more than a blip in a career of more than 30 years. Yet, this compelling story had impressed him, the boy’s demeanour, though, still saddened him.

This made his box because despite having asked for non-fiction, this boy handed in a well written, mature story that explored an articulate plot and character sequence. He could only remember fleeting basics now, but it was an essay that had stayed with him nonetheless.

Dropping haphazardly back into his reading chair, the last Supernatural book in one hand, the paper in the other, he tries to swallow down the enormity of his situation. He may be the only person to ever read how Carver Edlund’s, or rather Sam Winchester’s, story ends. That’s what makes the books so popular, its 1^st person account and characterisation in the eyes of ‘Carver’. He makes you love certain characters, even enables you to feel sympathy towards these monsters.

He takes a deep breath and settles further into the chair.

What My Family Did Last Summer by Sam Winchester

I know that this is supposed to be an essay on what my family did last summer. But I don’t have a family anymore, so I wanted to tell you about the last thing me and my family did together.

I was lucky. My hero was also my brother. He was the only family I had because I refuse to acknowledge my father as family.

The last thing we did together was a werewolf hunt. It was bog standard, we had done lots of them before; me and Dean weren’t meant to help out. But like I said, my dad thinks he knows what’s best for us and the rest is just what I can remember.

He makes me and Dean stake out the house where the werewolf is supposed to live. Dean cracks jokes the whole time, how he’s Batman and I’m Robin and this is just like a Superhero movie. I swear, he used to call me a nerd but he was so much worse than me, the jerk.

No one was home, when we got there. Picking the lock, Dean smirks cockily at the ‘click’ and holds the door open for me.

“We shouldn’t be here, Dean.”

“Stop being a little bitch, Sammy, come on, Dad wants us to find something.” He retorts, shoving the lock pick into his back pocket. I roll my eyes but follow, knowing that Dean won’t leave without something to give to dad. Some hard evidence that proves this persons guilt.

As it was, we found nothing, other than the guy was a closet poetry fan and had an distressing assortment of microwave meals.

Dad doesn’t let Dean drive the Impala yet, even though we both know how, so we walk slowly back to the motel. Light-heartedly, Dean jokes about my hair and what I want for dinner. He looks sad for a fleeting moment – dad won’t be home for a few days.

The next day is pretty much the same, but, with my insistence, we go to the library after school. Another faceless teacher has given me an assignment and I don’t want to go into the family business. Dean doesn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel which makes me angry, livid even, because Dean’s just about the smartest person I know. He puts himself down every time, says he doesn’t have a future past the butt of a gun and a hunt beneath his fingernails. I want to call him on his bullshit crap, however I clamp my mouth shut and simply glare at him as I lay my books out on one of the free tables.

He says he’s going to look for some lore books on werewolves, anything to keep his hands busy, but returns with a Deadpool comic instead. I raise my eyebrow but say nothing. We continue in silence, each enraptured by the words on our respective literary pieces.

Suddenly, we both gasp out. His bright green eyes peek over the top of the comic to meet my own. At the same time we slowly lower our books and burst into laughter. It feels so good, to be laughing with him. He hardly does it anymore. He’s always got a look of apprehension and taught worry that clamps down on his shoulders. It gets better and at the same time worse when dad is away. He goes away more often now.

A busty woman is flustering papers and shouting at us to be quiet, making more noise than we were; only succeeding in making Dean snort louder. Shaking my head, I pack my things away as we are shooed mercilessly out of the quiet place. Dean slings his arm over my shoulder and ruffles my hair.

“You’re alright, Sammy.”

It was going so well then dad came home that night.

He burst through the wrecked wooden door of the motel, stumbling over a mix of nothing and his own fumbling feet, demanding that the werewolf is killed now. It doesn’t stick to full moon cycles and dad has a lead on who’s going to be the next victim.

Dean had been asleep, for the first time in nearly a day, and stumbled himself to throw on dad’s old leather jacket and grab the silver knife. I slowly put my book down. I won’t admit it but I’m ridiculously tired; not because of a hard day at school, just tired of the life.

My hero never got drunk so bad that his 17 year old son had to drive to the location. Dean lets me ride shotgun, shoving dad into the back seat. He turns the music up, having modelled himself after our father, so that ‘Ramble on’ plays obnoxiously loud and he’s singing along to it out of tune and with terrible dance moves.

 He’s trying to make me feel better by pissing annoying me.

Dad yells at him to, “Shut up!”

...Dean sings louder. As always, it’s working.

Driving into the empty car park, Dean shifts her out of gear and cuts the engine. Dad seems to have sobered up a bit and crawls out of the back to go to the boot. The assortment of weapons stares back at the three of us, crowded around the open trunk with the false bottom lid lifted.

I get handed a 45. Magnum, Dean rolled the silver knife in his hands and Dad takes the machete. We must look like the three musketeers gone dark side.

Waiting in the shadows is boring, so Dean uses the flashlight to make shadow puppets on the wall across from us. We’re preparing for dad’s signal, he’s going to take out the monster and we’re going to get the girl clear.

A piercing howl rips through my ears. Dad shouts.

Dean’s on his feet before I can finish my bated breath, telling me to, “Sammy, get the girl NOW!”

I scramble, pulling the young woman off the floor and say, “Run,  what are you waiting for? GO!”

I think if she hadn’t been so terrified she would have made me go with her. Out of nowhere, the beast is standing over me and I’m on the gravel covered ground. My head hurts, having connected with the paw and the hard stones.

“Hey, asshat!” Dean’s voice filters through the haze. The creature turns towards him, stance aggressive and animalistic, as he walks confidently away from dad’s prone form. “Don’t you fucking touch him. I’ll rip your lungs out!”

It lunges for him, but he dodges it easily, the silver slicing shallow on the things arm. It hisses in pain and snarls before howling again.

“Sammy, get to Dad.”

I don’t think twice. The creature pays me no heed, eyes pinpointed on Dean; I reach dad’s limp body, blood pooling around his neck and shift him so he’s sitting up. His head lolls and I do my best to keep pressure on the rag Dean had tied around the wound.

My hero makes sure I’m backing me and dad away as he stands in front of us. The werewolf makes an unexpected run at us. Startled, he jumps in the way and slams the silver knife into its hairy bared chest just as its claws rip in and up. The creature howls. Dean screams a strangled noise.

My hero falls to the ground.

There is so much blood...

It splatters over his freckles and glazes over his bright green eyes. But my hero is stronger than Death; even in his final moments he tried to be strong for me. I could see he was scared, my hero.

I hadn’t seen him scared before.

I used to believe that he was invincible, that no matter what he’d always be there for me.

He’s coughing up blood now, as I drop our pathetic excuse of a father and rush to my hero’s side. My cheeks are wet. My vision blurring as I cling to his shuddering body. He presses a crimson coated hand to my face, a grimace rather than a smile forming.

“I’m proud of you Sammy.”

A thousand things flash in my mind. The things my hero told me would be ok. That I’d be ok because nothing bad would ever happen as long as he was there.

My hero died that day.

He left me to fight on my own.

Mr Wyatt let the paper fall to the floor; tears free falling down his face...

It hadn’t been a story after all.