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A gust of wind more powerful than the others rattled the boards of the house, making the whole thing seem to sway with a sinister grinding sound. Sam pressed his hands tightly to his ears, squeezing his eyes closed so hard that his nose wrinkled too.
Dean pursed his lips, the storm outside wasn’t reassuring him either. Dean didn’t like storms; he’d been woken by them once too often, bleary and scared and still half-dreaming of the smell of jasmine, the tickle of soft blonde hair, the press of lips to his forehead and a quiet, musical laugh, assuring him that there was nothing to be afraid of, that storms made the world clean again. But the night of his mother's death the weather was dry and the wind mute. If there had been a storm that night, maybe it would have slowed down the flames, maybe it would have saved his mother's life. Maybe then he would have liked them. There had been a storm the next night after his mother’s death, of course, too late to make anything clean. And, deprived of his mother’s usual gentle comfort, he had spent the night holding Sam in his arms and watching his father stare into nothing.
Dean sighed and turned back to the trembling lump on the bed.
"S’all right Sammy, the house is old, so it’s seen worse storms than this. You’re safe here." He said, grabbing a second blanket and tucking it around his little brother, who flinched when thunder rumbled low and distant, like the growl of a great beast just waiting for two young boys to make the wrong move.
"You don’t know that!” Sam whimpered, clutching at the blankets as though they were the only things stopping him from being snatched up by a whirlwind. “They always say that on TV, and then the next day they tell you about people disappearing in the debris!"
Dean frowned, giving his brother a disapproving look.
"Jeez dude. Aren’t you supposed to be watchingScooby-Doo and My Little Pony at your age rather than hanging out on news channels all the time?"
Sam shrugged his shoulders with a sulky pout, mumbling vaguely that he preferred to keep abreast of reality rather than watching stupid cartoons.
‘Abreast’... what nine-year-old knew the word ‘abreast’? That was the kind of word Dean only used in school essays and not before he’d had a good laugh at it. Sam was too smart for his own good and he was growing far too fast for Dean to keep up. He might still have the chubby, baby-fat cheeks of a child but his mind was already sharper than Dean’s. Dean’s own face had lost its softness over the past few years; it had taken him a while to notice but now that he had, he couldn’t look in a mirror without seeing it: the hard jaw, the pinched cheeks, the shadowed eyes. But sometimes their lives required putting a foot in the cruelty of the world around them. For Dean there was no avoiding it, but Sam… Sam seemed to be fighting against it with all that he had.
"I've never heard of a rich house like this damaged by a bit of wind,” Dean said as he bustled around Sam's bed, tidying up the school books, spare pens, worn clothes and legos that Sam had left strewn around the floor. “Dad said he'll be back soon, so relax for two seconds and enjoy the triple-layer mattress while you can! Besides, you can’t believe everything you see on TV. The newspeople get it wrong all the time, otherwise everyone would know about monsters and Dad would be rich."
They both knew what Dad’s return meant: moving again. Despite the luxury they’d been treated to this week, Dean couldn’t feel disappointed by this news. The family that owned this house were on a month-long vacation and John had thought it best to take advantage of it rather than pay an umpteenth motel room for the privilege of disappointing them. In exchange, they were forbidden to turn on the lights, to get too close to the windows, to make a fire in the huge fireplace in the living room or to use the front door. The bed in Sam was using belonged to one of the children that grinned in the family portraits in the hallway, and Dean felt a little guilty occupying the place. He felt like a thief, and he hated it. To minimise this feeling, he’d laid out a camping mattress at the foot of Sam's bed to sleep on that instead of disturbing the perfectly made sheets in the next room so that he stayed close to his little brother and avoided intervening more than necessary in the living space of these people. If Dean had had a room of his own, he certainly would not have liked anyone to occupy it without his permission.
"Damn Sammy, would it kill you to tidy your stuff?" He finally growled, throwing a dirty t-shirt on his brother's head. Sam protested sharply and stuck his tongue out in the darkness of the room.
"Yes Mom!" He replied with a mocking sniff. Dean raised a particular finger that made Sam's eyes widen like saucers.
“No shit… You know, the family who live here could hire me as a freaking maid, and I’d take it too, to get away from my pain in the ass little brother.” He laughed and pulled the curtains closed, trying to preserve Sam from the flashes of lightning that periodically lit the room bright white, despite the heavy shutters.
Sam did him the honor of displaying one of his bitch faces as he watched him leave the room.
"You're right, the maid's costume would suit you." He retorted, raising an eyebrow.
"Bitch!” Dean said, mock-offended. Then, softer, “Try sleeping now, Sammy, I'll meet you later. I have a couple things to do in the kitchen."
He closed the door on a half-whispered "jerk".
Dean shook his head in amusement and slowly guided himself through the dark house, one hand tracing along the walls to orient himself. The wind howled at the windows of the building and Dean thought back to the pocketknife stuck in his sock to give himself strength. Nothing could happen to him, John had already taught him plenty of things to defend himself. Even the werewolves would be afraid of him! It wasn’t a bit of falling water that would destabilise the great Dean Winchest-
Dean froze, hearing a jingle of glass from the living room. His heart shot into his throat and he threw himself against a wall, his toes scuffing in the carpet. He waited for several minutes, his ears on high alert and panic sizzling under his skin. When he heard nothing more suspicious, he decided to take a step forward in the direction of the noise. The good thing was that he was in the only hallway that could lead the sound man to Sam's room, so his brother wasn’t in danger yet. But Dean doubted now that a small knife could come to the end of a supernatural creature, his weapon suddenly seemed to him no better than a toothpick.
Dean moved cautiously through the house, his eyes wide open to try to discern the slightest anomaly in the dark corridors. Sometimes the lightning lit the hallway, which made it easier for him, but his anxiety didn’t subside. Once at the doorway, Dean quietly took his weapon out of his sock, unfolded it, and took a deep breath before entering. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary: the large windows were still intact and diffused the light of the moon which was reflected on the perfectly waxed floor, the large, soft sofas took over the middle of the room and the fireplace remained cold on the wall opposite.
Then, as his breathing eased slowly, a reflection caused by the movement of a raised bottle caught his attention. Dean squeezed the knife handle further into his palm and finally noticed the silhouette of a man sitting on one of the sofas. He had been so still that Dean hadn’t even seen him the first time he had scanned the room. He was already developing a defense plan when he finally recognised the profile of the individual, his eyes getting a little more accustomed to the darkness. He suddenly breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"Dad? What are you doing here?" He asked softly as he stepped into the living room.
The man didn’t react immediately, but ended up up gently raising his head, as if it were too heavy for him. The net of light that then lit the top of his face finally reassured Dean. It was his father who was slouched on the couch in front of him, a rectangular bottle sliding between his fingers. The smile that had begun to form on the young man's lips froze slightly at this sight before he looked up at his father.
"I thought you wouldn’t come back until the end of the week." He continued when he didn’t get any answer. "Did you finish hunting earlier, did you win again?" He asked, a hint of awe in his voice, hoping for the story, as he always did.
Dean really admired his father. John Winchester was a hero who protected the weak and defenseless and still triumphed over the villain at the end. In his eyes, John was like all those cartoon heroes he enjoyed watching when they were on TV. Dean didn’t aspire to a bigger dream than to become like him growing up, to be an unbeatable hero too. He used to want to be a firefighter, until John sat him down and told him about monsters and after that, becoming a hunter was a logical continuation. You couldn’t sit and do nothing when you knew about the creatures that roamed in the night. Dean had already sworn to be America's greatest hunter.
John shook his head sadly from side to side, sending droplets of water flying from his hair. He was soaked through from the storm, probably leaving a damp stain on the couch, his eyes misty and staring into void. He still hadn’t looked up at Dean and turned the amber liquid in its glass jail. Dean swallowed cautiously from the doorway. There was no doubt that John was drunk. "Again." Thought Dean. His movements were slow and imprecise, his eyes vague when they landed on something even remotely solid.
"…Dad?" Dean asked softly, staying at a reasonable distance.
John wasn’t particularly dangerous with his children most of the time, but he was a man with his weaknesses. And Dean supposed that having to reconcile a family life and a hunter's life was more than complicated, even scary. He and Sam were still young, and in John's eyes it was a source of extra worry. If the man were to lose one of his children in addition to his wife, there would be no doubt that he would lose his reason. John Winchester already had one foot in the grave, Dean was smart enough to see it, so he didn’t blame his father when he lost his way. John was sick, not disturbed.
Alcohol didn’t help, however, and Dean did his utmost to empty the bottles lying around the houses they squatted in and clearing out the mini-fridges of motel rooms, but he was powerless when his father got drunk outside or came back with one—or more—bottle that he had bought. When John grew wise to what he was doing, a fight would break out, but Dean would take it without regret. He had to protect his family first and, foremost, protect Sam. The kid was terrified by their father when he was in a crisis, exhausted from a long day of hunting or drinking. Or both. He always had to be careful that Sam was as far as possible when it happened, or, if it was inevitable, he had to draw his father's attention to him. It sucked but it was all Dean knew. If Sam was fine, then he was fine. Whether it was healthy or not, he didn’t care, it was his purpose in life and he was perfectly at peace with it.
However, John was acting even more strangely than usual tonight. Dean was always entitled to an answer when he asked questions, and John hadn’t yet spoken a word. Dean worried at his lower lip and finally decided to retract his knife before putting it back in his sock before advancing towards his father.
"C’mon Dad, we're going to bed." He said as he reached him, still speaking quietly for fear of startling his father.
Dean put a hand on John's, so big compared to his own and still holding the bottle. John was still not looking at him, his eyes lost in the living room rug. However, he seemed to reconnect with reality when Dean gently removed the bottle from his hands and put it on the table. He stared in his son's eyes, as if uncertain of where he was. Then there was a glint of recognition.
"Mary?" He croaked, staring at Dean as tears threatened to fall from his suddenly watery eyes. That tortured expression broke Dean's heart a bit more.
"No Dad, it's me... It's Dean." He explained calmly, having stopped all movement to support his father's gaze.
John shook his head slowly from left to right, that expression of almost fear still in his foggy eyes. Dean gave him enough time to take stock. This wasn’t the first time John had mistaken him for his dead wife, it was only one more night among many others.
Dean allowed himself to breathe again when John finally seemed to calm down and realise who he was.
"Dean." He said, sounding disappointed.
Dean nodded.
"You have the same eyes as her..." Whispered his father, looking away, and Dean tried to ignore the stab of hurt at those words. He knew it, his father sometimes shouted at him when he had drunk too much. He saw it when John looked at him a little too long.
"Come on. I've prepared a room for you up there,” was all Dean said, gently pulling on his father's arm.
John grunted and let himself be pulled from the couch, leaning on Dean to steady himself. Dean had to shift his and his father’s weight both just so that he wouldn’t collapse under it. As he was about to guide him upstairs, relieved that the evening was calm, John spoke again.
"The hunt was bullshit..." He articulated with difficulty. "False lead. That f’cking demon knew nothing about anything."
Dean pursed his lips, but made no answer, just taking the path slowly to the bedroom. When John was like this, it was better to put him to bed as quickly as possible before he got upset over his unsuccessful hunting day. But his father didn’t help him because he refused to move after only a few steps.
"Da-"
"I know it's one of them that killed Mary! I know it. I know it ... "
Dean sighed deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. Talking about his mother with his father in such a state wasn’t really one of his favorite hobbies. John was still finishing up saying something he wasn’t supposed to confess, and that had the annoying side-effect of annoying Dean. Sometimes, some truths were better left unsaid.
"Come on, Dad, please, let’s go upstairs now. Watch out for the steps..."
But John didn’t lift his leg to begin the climb.
"Dad!" Dean raised his voice, John's weight began to numb his arms.
"Your mother deserved to live," mumbled John. "Sometimes I... You know, sometimes I wonder if..."
Dean took a deep breath and did his best to focus on the stairs in front of him, pulling John tightly to him to urge him upstairs. He wasn’t in the mood to hear his drunkard's mourning. Every time John did this he tarnished his mother's image a little and he hated John for that. He wanted to keep a perfect image of his mother, to contemplate the frozen smile she had on the photos without immediately thinking of the devastated face of his father when he spoke of her.
"Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier that you and Sam were never born... maybe we both would’ve been happier for it.”
Dean's blood froze in his veins. The words had the effect of a slap and Dean immediately stopped his attempts to get his father upstairs, wide-eyed.
After taking a brief moment to absorb the shock, Dean discreetly shook under the imposing body of his father. A sentence was automatically imprinted in his brain, a phrase that cruelly twisted what John had actually said. "Without you, Mary would still be alive. It’s like you killed her yourself." In Dean's mind, they sounded horribly the same. He closed his eyes to try to chase them away, but nothing helped. An unnamed rage was now pulsing through his veins, threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.
It wasn’t fair, he didn’t deserve to be told that! He always did everything to keep his family safe, he always had the feeling that he had to make up for his mother's death by offering Sammy a life, and watching over his father, and saving the people he could save during hunts. By sacrificing himself. John had no right to tell him so directly what he tried so hard not to let himself think. Maybe his mother's death wasn’t his fault, maybe he couldn’t have prevented it under any circumstances, but these "maybes" killed him a little more each time he thought about it. All there was maybe, maybe, maybe...
Too angry to continue with the farce of the devoted son, Dean finally broke free of John's dead weight, letting him fall heavily to the floor with a curse. Dean secretly hoped he had hurt himself by falling.
"How can you say that to me?" He hissed, trying to control his voice so as not to alert Sammy. "Coming from a father we see only twice a month, you have no right to tell me that! It’s disgusting."
Dean was now shaking from head to toe, his emotions too strong to be contained in such a small body. John was still in a heap on the floor with a bewildered look at the sudden change of situation, a hand still gripping the banister, watching his son glare at him. From Dean's point of view, he looked ridiculous, hardly the hero that he kept insisting he was, and his lost expression only increased his anger.
"Mom is DEAD!"
John jumped at the hurt tone of his son.
"She's dead, and you know what? It’s not my fault! I want her back too, because you might not be such an asshole if she was still around. But I... I can’t help it. And Sammy can’t help it either... And…" He could hardly breathe now, the words jostling in his head, all wanting to get out at the same time. He forced himself to close his mouth for a moment to put his thoughts in order, the tears threatening to escape his eyes.
John took advantage of the brief silence to get up laboriously, leaning as best he could on the banister. His face was low, hidden again by the darkness as a thick cloud passed the moon outside and thunder sounded again.
"Sammy got an A on his exam yesterday, and we’ve only been here a week. He had so much extra reading just to catch up and an asshole named Kurt Buglins is already trying to bother him at lunch time when I turn my back. On Monday he was sick, and on Tuesday he missed first period ’cause there was some kind of neighbourhood gathering and we couldn’t leave until they’d gone or they would’ve seen us. And he still got an A and... " Dean hated his voice for shaking so much. "And I was the one who had to make a special dinner with the leftovers in the cupboards to congratulate him, and I told him I was proud of him. I was the one who made him soup and I was the one who took him pills when he couldn’t get out of bed. And I ALWAYS skip the last few hours of the day to get home earlier so I can have dinner ready. Sometimes I just come in because I'm too afraid of finding you half-dead on the ground and I don’t want Sam to see you like that."
Dean had so much to say, and John still didn’t look up at him. It was strange, as if several years of resentment were rushing out of him all at once. He wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea, yet he couldn’t keep quiet.
"I'm ashamed of you, Dad! Sammy is ashamed of you, he doesn’t even talk about our family to the few friends he managed to get to the schools you leave us in. He wasn’t even able to write a fucking essay on your job when a teacher asked him a few months ago! So we may not be a picnic, we fight and we poke at each other but you, you're the worst asshole we could possibly call a father!"
The last was a yell, his voice no longer capable of keeping a reasonable tone, and then, even the storm outside seemed to quieten as his words filtered out into silence and fear gripped his heart.
He knew he should never have said that. He wasn’t even sure he truly believed it; it wasn’t entirely John's fault and he knew it. But his own anger blinded him and it was easier to blame John than to blame circumstances, or the world, which he couldn’t yell at.
He ended up regretting his words when John looked up sharply at him before bringing a hand hard across his face. The power of the blow made Dean wobble and he fell full backwards into the stairs, spine landing against the uneven surface painfully. A leaden silence fell in the house. Dean kept his eyes carefully lowered, a ball forming in his chest, crushing his heart and compressing his lungs. His cheek started to burn, and he swallowed hard to hold back the sob that clawed up his throat. He didn’t dare to meet his father's eyes, afraid of the disappointment and anger he would find there. However, he felt that a weight had flown off his shoulders now that he had screamed at John.
"Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, boy." John shot coldly, his voice hard and emotionless.
A shiver ran up Dean’s spine at the hollow sound of it.
"I hate you..." He whispered. Standing quickly, he climbed the stairs as fast as he could, running away from John and leaving him to fend for himself with the climb. He barely heard his father calling him back, he felt like his cheek was pulsing under his palm.
He found his way automatically through the darkness of the house and returned to Sam's room as quietly as possible. When he closed the door behind him, he took care to flip the lock.
"Dean?" Gently called Sam from the bed, his voice a little scared. Of course, his little brother hadn’t been asleep.
Dean didn’t answer him and went to hide under the covers of his camp bed, still dressed, his breathing jerky. When he heard Sam start a movement to come towards him, he threw a "Dad came home," in a tone without appeal. Sam hesitated a moment before gradually retreating into his blankets. Sam knew what Dad being home meant, he was a smart boy. After all, he’d got an A just yesterday on a biology test that Dean didn’t understand at all. And he was four years older...
"I love you Sammy,” Dean said suddenly in that same hasty voice, as if this was the last time he could say it. His anger still boiled within him, feeding the hurt in his chest. He was doing his best to hide his condition from his little brother, and for once, he was glad they weren’t allowed to turn on the lights in the house. The dim light due to the moon and the storm offered him a semblance of protection to prevent Sam from seeing the silent tears rolling down his cheeks before disappearing into his pillow.
"I love you too, Dean." Sam replied timidly, with a surprised child's voice. Dean understood it, it wasn’t really in the family's habit to express their emotions so directly. But he knew that Sam was happy to hear him say that when he heard his little brother's breathing deepen significantly. The shadow of a smile settled on his face.
"Goodnight?" He asked.
Sam seemed to understand that Dean needed to end the conversation and said "goodnight" before turning around in bed. Dean gave a quiet sigh before settling more comfortably in his bed. On the ground floor, John wasn’t making any noise and Dean wouldn’t be surprised to find him collapsed tomorrow on a sofa in the living room. Or halfway down the stairs... He bit his lower lip to drive such thoughts out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about his father, how he hated him at that moment. Instead, he focused on his little brother's breathing behind him and tried to mirror them. After a few minutes, he began to sink into the limbo of sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, another city, another hunt. Maybe the storm outside too will have calmed down. Maybe.