Work Text:
Dean never got on well with the other kids. Always labelled as the weirdo because he liked drawing murder scenes in art and playing imaginary knife fights in the playground.
When he got older he realised he was different in a good way. His incredible good looks got attention from girls and he was never without a date. It didn't matter to him that they would never be the one. That he could never tell them the truth.
Countless times where they'd ask him about his home life, about meeting his 'parents' and the brother he spoke about so often.
One time he was at the movies, a shitty romcom that the girl made him take her to. He was sitting in the cheap fabric seat, ticket stubs in his jacket pocket and arm around her shoulders and he wondered why he was putting himself through this.
The only time he was truly happy was when Sam was and the only time the act fell was when he was alone with him. Sitting with a girl on a date didn't qualify as relaxing. Because he had to watch every word that spilled from his lips.
It only really became worth it when he turned 17 and the girls were less bothered about romcoms, more about the sex scenes. Instead of paying to go out they'd sneak into her room and turn out the lights. Then it was fun because he was taking care of someone else and himself with no strings or hard feelings.
Then he reached graduation year and he gave up. Stopped bothering with even asking for dates and started going to bars at 1pm rather then school. Spent what little he had on a drink and a wink across the bar and that was it.
No papers or exams and they drifted so often that he stopped mentioning enrolling to their father, something that bothered Sam who valued intellect and a future.
It was around this point that he realised Sammy couldn't have the same realisations that he had. Already Sam was ten times smarter, getting straight A's even with all the moving. Already he couldn't talk to girls and stammered his way through a group presentation.
Dean knew this was a good thing. A sign that they were polar opposites and Sam would never have to hide away so his family didn't see him cry. That he would have a big brother there for him whenever the slightest thing made him sad.
No one ever gave Dean the credit he deserved for always maintaining the cocky, nothing you say could ever touch me, persona through childhood up to early adulthood.
Maybe that's why he starts taking longer showers to relax under the hot stream, instead of using them to only get clean.
And so he's away from the prying eyes and needy faces.
Because that persona needs to be taken off if only for minutes rather then hours. And sometimes not even that, just as he steps into the cubicle he'll hear the rising voices that signal an argument and it's back to being peacemaker.
As the drinking increases so does the recklessness. Hunts are wilder because he cares more about protecting Sam, even if it puts them all in harms way. He swears more, laughs harder and makes stupid jokes that make Sam smile. And at the end of the day Sam doesn't know that the wounds covering Dean's body are because he was sheltering his brother and he doesn't understand the reality of hunting and how dangerous it is; especially when you don't have a bodyguard.
Until the day Dean isn't protecting anyone.
Dean's on his first solo hunt in Michigan somewhere, not too far from Sammy who's studying alone at the rental they call home for the month. Dad's not there, as usual.
He's standing by a payphone, coins in hand ready to make the call where he knows Sam will be on the other end, his smart as hell, stupid, adorable Sam.
And he wants to be able to tell him about the days research without making the entire call about him. He wants to describe how gut wrenchingly devastating it was to sit there as the widow cried her eyes out and not be able to help her.
Most of all he wants to explain to Sam that it's the same with them, that all the times he's intervened in family brawls and all the time he's spent busting his balls over trig homework that he didn't get the first time around, that all that is the same as the poor widow crying until her throat was scratchy and her eyes red raw.
It's the same because he can never fix all of Sam's problems and he can never replace their mom who would know what to do in every situation. And it's the same because sometimes he thinks about jumping off the next fucking bridge the Impala crosses because it will never ever be his moment.
Not in the bullshit way, fame or attention seeking. But in the way that he will never be able to kick the door down after a day at school and shout at his dad about how unfair his life is like Sam does.
Because Sam never had a mother and he doesn't want to travel around constantly but who said Dean did?
Who asked Dean if he liked it when they packed their bags in 5 minutes or less because John doesn't want to be traced to their location. Who asked Dean if he was okay with giving up his night out to actually unwind for once to watch Sam because Dad needed a break.
No one did. And no one will.
Dean pushes past the injustice and goddamn unfairness of it all and slots the coins in, pounding the number into the phone and grimacing when Sam picks up and immediately starts complaining that Dad hasn't been back yet and why the hell is he always left alone and when the hell is Dean coming back and this isn't fair.
After dealing with Sam and signing off for the night, he wonders if it's too emo to feel like he's alone all the fucking time even when he's in a crowd of people. Especially then because he can't relate to any of them and he will never have anyone to talk to.
So he goes to the first bar he finds and picks a fight, stumbles into his motel room past midnight with his nose sticky with blood and fist swollen purple.
It's Dean's twenty-first and Sam comes home with a pile of homework and locks himself in their shared room. Dean tells himself that birthday celebrations are for little kids and he doesn't need the embarrassment. But as soon as John brings back microwave mac n cheese because he can't cook to save a life, Dean murmurs something about a bar somewhere calling his name and takes off into the night.
He returns four hours later, reeking of sex, sweat and alcohol and Sam's sitting on his bed wide awake clutching a bottle of Jack that he stole from the local that has a red bow stuck on with sticky tape.
Dean wills himself not to feel bad because how could he know Sam remembered if Dad didn't, and doesn't he deserve
fun?
But one look at his brother's face and he's wishing he stayed even if it meant awkward dinner with Dad with the only conversation surrounding hunting because they don't know how to talk about anything else.
It's Sam's Eighteenth, he's taking the bag of beer, skin mags and a heavy book on pre law from Dean's calloused fingers and grinning because Dean didn't have to get him anything. Dean grins right back and wonders if he lives vicariously through his brother.
Like in a twisted way, when Sam's happy he can't help but explode with sunshine, and it's like a drug because he needs more to feel the emotion again.
And he's holding out a crumpled acceptation letter, Stanford seal on the top, blushing because he's fucked up good this time. Dean takes the papers from him and reads quickly, scanning for key words like a starting date and how much money and where the section for brothers conditioned into only being able to look after their kid brother is. Where it tells him what his new purpose is and why all his hard work resulted in this betrayal.
Dean shouts in his head, yells at himself that he cannot at all, no matter what, cry or look sad because that is weakness.
He sits on the closed toilet lid and bites into the meaty flesh of his palm to stop himself from weeping because nothing is how it should be for him. It's nowhere close.
Sam leaves and nothing changes.
Everything changes.
He makes small talk with his father and cleans guns, swaps hunting stories and waits for the day where he feels good inside.
It's a bar fight, fists flying in all directions. Dean frowns over his open bottle and steps up for the role of mediator, separating the truckers from the skin heads. It's in this moment, when everything stops and the fight is cleared, that he realises he misses this.
Sam and John at each others throats. Dean being useful for once because he has the power to stop bloodshed.
Now he's just following up mysterious deaths and getting jealous at the mourning of their loved ones. Because when he dies it'll be working a case and no one will care. Or know; Sam off at University and John on the war path himself.
But it's selfish to think this way, he was raised how he was raised and he should appreciate the fact he isn't disabled; missing a leg or something.
They stop talking. Before it was stunted without Sam there to provide the actual words and intrigue but now it's nothing.
Dean grunts, nods his head and says 'Yes Sir' when it's needed. John doesn't notice because he's concentrating on the road to revenge. Dean wonders if saying it won't bring mom back will change anything. He wonders if it would matter if he just stopped living altogether.
Sam slips in and out of Dean's mind like a repressed memory. He wants to believe he can move forward and make a life out of his own like Sam told him to, but he can't sit in the Impala without it feeling off. Like losing a limb because Sam is not sitting shotgun beside him.
Constantly he wonders what his real purpose is. Like an existential crisis but without the family or friends to talk it out with. Without the one person that will make him realise living is the purpose of life and he's better get to it before it's too late.
Instead Dean walks into bars and pretends to be a sailor, a naval officer, a superhero just so he can get laid and forget himself for a while. Remembers when the only superhero he needed to be was Sam's.
Hunting loses it's appeal, he craves a connection with another life rather than saving the future of another's. It used to be that Dean could express rage and pent up frustration in the gunshots and burning bodies. He could fire up the Impala and take off into the night feeling like Batman.
Now he feels like Superman when Lois Lane dies, alone and afraid and not like anyone around him.
Drinking becomes more appealing because of the rare occasion Dean hallucinates. Not in the trippy Pineapple Express stoner way, but blurry eyes that see Sam clutching at his jacket and telling him that he is his superhero. He is Batman.
It varies but the usual day is spent stumbling through research or interviews or the big fight scene, all with a hip flask in his inner pocket. Then the night is spending any money he makes from scams or pool games on alcohol and a bed for the night. Sometimes he just camps out in his car and listens to metallica with the motor running, humming under his breath and telling himself this is why he chooses to keep living.
John always texts Dean or calls him to let him know he's one step closer. Always checks in and mutters words about how he ganked the son of a bitch, or where this crusade is leading him.
They meet up at the start of the year, no Christmas gifts exchanged even though it was a couple of days before, straight down to business. John needs back up, Dean complies. They finish the hunt and John's hiding information that was recovered in the burning embers of death.
Dean pretends not to notice, aching body calling for bed and mouth too tired to make smart remarks. With no Sam
there, he has no reason to.
John goes off to Jericho without even looking at Dean.
Dean tells himself he doesn't care, tells himself it doesn't matter that this is how it's always gonna be.
But when he doesn't check in for a week Dean forces himself to pick up the phone and call. Just in case he's needed.
No reply and he's not surprised. Except for when it's an hour or so later and he's watching an old film where the lead kidnaps the protagonist and he's bolting out the motel room duffle unpacked from earlier.
Straight away he thinks of calling Sam.
Years ago that was his first instinct. Always. But he always chickened out half way, stalking Sam off campus in a beat up Camaro and willing himself not to be angry that Sam has friends and a life.
It was sometime in the second semester that he found out Sam had a girl.
Dean was two steps away from the main law campus when he saw the familiar mop of hair carrying a shoulder bag and walking with a blonde. He almost had a double take, not recognising Sam for who he's changed into.
Standing straighter, more confident and carefree.
And he doesn't even register the girl until Sam stops walking at the end of the path and ducks his head down, pressing his grinning lips to hers and it clicks.
It's what makes Dean think twice about going to Sam for help but he really doesn't think he has the effort to deal with this one alone. Dad's never missed his call time and he doesn't think he can handle finding him without giving up 5 seconds in.
But Sam can help. He has the brains and the charm and the trusting puppy eyes that have cracked so many cases. And Dean's so close to giving up- losing both family members without doing anything wrong.
So fuck it, he breaks into Sam's apartment and paces while he waits for Sam's hunter instinct to kick in and realise an intruder is walking through the kitchen.
When they're rolling on the floor grunting, re-enacting old defense routines, the oblong shape of light is filled with Sam's breathless painting face. Dean knows it's the first time he's been able to breathe since Sam left. First time he's felt anything positive that was his own since Sam was 5 and needed Dean as much as he needed a new haircut and a new pair jeans.
It's the first time he's asked for anything, and it's the only reason Sam agrees to go with him.