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Head low. Light steps. Slow Breathing.
Dean inches forward into the broken-down corridor, ignoring the dead small critters on the floor.
Weapon close. Angled. Muscles tensed.
His father’s voice echoes through his head. But he’s forgetting something. There are so many steps to keep in mind.
Move slowly. Watch where you step. Stay close to the wall.
He’s missing something. His head is searching for the missing piece, the missing instructions. What had John said?
Watch your back.
The words pop into his head the second something collides with his back. The force knocks him off his feet and he tumbles towards the floor, managing to avoid falling straight into the blade just a moment before impact. A strained huff on his lips he turns on his back, bringing his weapon between him and his attacker only to have it ripped from his hands a second later.
You kept the machete too far away! It wasn’t angled! Your muscles were lax!
John is screaming at him in his thoughts as he rolls again, away from the dark shadow. He is able to get to his feet before another strike hits him hard enough to shove him into the wall, and he hears bells ringing once his skull meets the wall behind him. Dean makes a move in the direction he heard his weapon fall, but he barely gets away an inch before sharp fingernails dig into his skin and his whole body collides painfully with the wall. Foul breath ghosts over his face from the vampire as it leans in, moving down to his neck. Dean squirms against the claws restraining his arms, tries to drop to the floor, but he’s too weak.
He whimpers.
And the vampire snaps his head back and stares at Dean.
Dean still tugs at his arms, twisting around in a desperate attempt to get away. The vampire isn’t fazed by it in the slightest. The thing sounds like it hasn’t spoken in weeks when it croaks:
“How old are you?”
Dean isn’t inclined to answer, but when the monster digs his nails deeper into his skin he forces out:
“Eighteen.”
Even though it is dark, he can see the anger flash across the thing’s face.
“Don’t lie to me.” Dean takes a second before he corrects himself.
“Fourteen.”
“What the hell are you doing here, kid?”
Dean doesn’t get it. Why is the thing making small talk? If he is going to die now, he would like to get it over with.
“What does it look like? I was hunting you, bloodsucker.” Is it wise to anger the monster that is about to feast on your blood? Dean doesn’t know if it makes a difference.
“This wasn’t your idea.” Maybe the vampire thinks he’s too young to find it, and Dean should be insulted. Maybe it only draws his conclusions from the fact that Dean has stopped struggling and is rather content with getting caught.
“My father sent me.” Dean doesn’t know why he tells the monster the truth.
A few long seconds later, Dean’s hands drop to his side and the foul breath moves away. The vampire’s voice is a low hiss:
“Get out.”
Dean is frozen in place. He should take to his heels, but he doesn’t.
“Now!” The bloodsucker yells impatiently. Dean still doesn’t move, even though his path is clear. His voice is flat when he states:
“He’ll beat me black and blue if I let you get away.”
The laugh from the thing is humorless; it throws his head back. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine.
“Stay,” the vampire instructs as he turns to grab Dean’s machete. He didn’t plan on going anywhere.
The bloodsucker is gone for quite a while, long enough for Dean to start wondering what he’ll do. He can’t go back. He can’t stay here. He can’t run away. Because of Sammy.
The thing coming back interrupts his turning thoughts. A bloody machete is pushed into his hands and the vampire hisses:
“Don’t ask questions. Go. I won’t be here for your monster at home to notice you didn’t get your job done.”
Dean still hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall long after the vampire has left the building.
///
“Why don’t you smell of smoke?” John barks when Dean limps through the motel room door, blood dripping from the machete and from the back of his head.
Dean steels himself as he reports:
“The vampire rolled down a slope and into the river when I decapitated it. There was no body for me to burn.”
Dean’s head flies to the side as John’s hand connects with his cheek. The headache from falling to the floor and being thrown into the wall lets him see stars. His face burns, as do his eyes, and he wants to curl into a ball on the floor.
But he knows better. He swallows as he holds his head up and holds John’s stare, standing still.
“Fucking useless kid.” His feather’s angered look burns into his mind.
Sammy whimpers somewhere in the back, and Dean prays John doesn’t notice. John never raises his hand against Sam, but he likes to take his frustration out on Dean. A minute goes by without his father moving. Then John orders:
“Make Sam dinner.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean drops the machete on the door scraper before he asks his brother without looking at him:
“What do you want to eat, Sammy?”
“Spaghetti, please.”
The question is rhetorical, and the brothers both know. There is nothing else in the tiny kitchen, because John had eaten what was left in his drunken rage the day before. But Sam knows that if he asks for something Dean can’t provide, John would hold his older brother responsible, regardless of who’s fault it was. So he always asks for pasta. Plain bread on bad days.
Dean gets to work without a word. He gets three plates with pasta ready. Two with leftovers of tomato sauce, one without. There isn’t enough for him to take any. He places the beer next to his father’s plate without a second thought.
They eat in silence. There is nothing to talk about.
John gets up before Sam has finished his dinner.
“I want the dishes done and the weapons clean when I get back. And you better both be sleeping, do you hear me?”
He stares at Dean. He always just stares at Dean.
“Yes, sir.”
Their father is gone to the bar within seconds.
Sammy scrapes the dishes while Dean scrubs the blood from the machete. He tries not to think about any detail of how it got there. When it is clean, he locks the bathroom door and pulls his blood-stained shirt over his head.
Motel room mirrors are ruthless. He hates them.
His skin is pale and a stark contrast to the bruises on his body. Most of them are greenish, but some are just starting to form and shine bright blue and red. The cuts scattered across his skin only make it look worse.
With a soundless sigh he turns away and climbs into the shower. When he is dry and in his pajama pants, trying to squeeze some ointment out of the almost empty tube, Sam hammers against the door.
“Let me help, Dean. You can’t reach your back.” His voice is quiet but determined.
“I’m not an old man, Sam. I’ll manage. Go away.”
“Let me help,” Sam insists.
“No. Your just a kid.”
“You are, too!” his younger brother protests.
“I’m fourteen,” Dean bites and winces as he attempts to reach a bad spot between his shoulder blades. His fall to the floor had damaged some muscle in his arm.
“Exactly!” Sam yells back, clear anger in his voice.
“Still a no.”
“Dean!” the hammering continues, and Dean sighs. Sam has always been stubborn as hell if he had his mind set on something. He turns the lock and his younger brother slips through the door.
Dean doesn’t fight it when Sam grabs the tube from his hands and starts rubbing the stuff on the worst wounds. He even closes his eyes, lulled in by the careful touches.
Sam rips him from his calm state:
“It got away, didn’t it?”
Dean will never understand how Sam just knows some things that he shouldn’t be able to. He shakes his head.
“No.”
Sam sighs, as if he thinks Dean is lying because he thinks he can’t tell Sam. Dean corrects him.
“I got away.”
Sam only stutters a second in his task of taking care of Dean’s wounds. The older brother doesn’t expect to hear anything from him anymore when Sam whispers:
“I’m glad you did.”
Dean would say “me, too,” but it feels like a lie. So he doesn’t say anything at all.
Sam continues on his own, stating:
“I will not let you go alone next time.”
“I’m not taking you with me.”
“We’re not going to discuss this.”
“You’re right, we won’t.”
They both know that they can’t convince each other, so they don’t even try. But Dean’s heart swells at Sammy being so eager to keep him from harm. Sam eventually puts the dressing materials away.
“I’m sorry,” the younger brother whispers barely audible as he carefully runs a single finger over the handprint on Dean’s cheek. Dean just shakes his head, not trusting his voice.
He holds back his tears until the lights are out and they are curled up underneath the blanket. But once they start flowing, there is no stopping them.
Sam’s hand finds his, and the child is his anchor in the night.