Chapter Text
It all started with a hunt. Typical.
Dean sat on the rusty, uncomfortable couch of the motel room, watching—or better said, waiting— for the battle to start. Because the tense atmosphere that had taken over the three of them usually didn't end well.
He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his newly patched-up ribs. Another gift from yet another creature that was now dead. Not that he was complaining about it. The two lives kids for busted ribs and another claw mark? You can take your pick.
The bathroom door slammed shut, startling him. Dean jumped, cursed under his breath when his ribs protested. Before he had a chance to check if Dad had broken the hinges. Again. Another door slammed shut after Sam.
He sighed. He was so not up for this right now. Even though injuries were nothing new, it didn't make them any easier either. But better safe than sorry. So, the one who was heated enough to storm off the room got the first attempt at talking. It was his ground rule.
Dean stood up carefully, using the back of the couch as leverage to find his feet. One glance at the bathroom relieved the deathly silence. Terrific. Now Dad was brooding like an overgrown teenager. He'd have to remind the man he was getting too old for this.
Dean shook his head, grabbed Sam's jacket, and walked out the door to address the actual teenager of the family.
As expected, Sam was standing beside the Impala, hands on her hood, staring unfazed into the darkness. Yeah, perfectly healthy.
He walked over and stood beside Sam. "Your done auditioning for world's moodiest teenager' or are we Planning to frizz your ass off?", he said and held out Sam's jacket.
He wasn't surprised when Sam's shoulders set defensively at whatever he thought Dean was going to say and didn't accept the jacket. Dean placed it on top of the hood in silent truce.
"Your gonna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?", he asked, giving his brother a free pass to talk, yell, or start a freaking tap dance. He didn't care, as long as it would take this look off Sam's face. A look of utter devastation and hollowness.
Sam spared him a glance, then resumed his newfound interest in the parking lot. "You know what", he said tersely.
Dean hung his head before rounding the Impala. He stood on the other driver's side so they were face to face. "Sam, I tried to stay as long as we could, but Dad—"
"But Dad had to drag us here so he can risk us again," his brother snapped, hazel eyes glaring daggers at him.
Dean took a breath to calm his nerves. "Dude, we've been over this. This was important."
"So was my project, Dean!" Sam sneered, slamming a hand on the Impala's hood and turning a vicious glare at him. "I could have won that competition. I was so close." He clenched his fists.
He knew that. He also knew his brother was aiming for the prize money so he could continue his studies in college— how? That was a matter for later discussion.
But that competition was important to Sam. That's why Dean had argued with Dad and got his head bitten off for staying one extra day. Unfortunately, Sam needed an extra week.
But Sam doesn't need to know that. "You can find something here," he offered. "There are plenty of these geek competitions, as far as I know—"
"Yeah, and how would you know, huh?" Sam challenged, two days of anger bubbling to the surface. "You dropped out of school, Dean. How the hell do you know about the importance of this?"
And that.. hurt. He tried not to let the it show. It's not like this was the first time Sam had used this as an argument. Not like he could ever explain to Sam why continuing school after getting a glimpse of real childhood at Sully's had been difficult.
Dean set his jaw. "And what does that have to do with any of this?" It wasn't the first time he had said those words either.
Sam shook his head, shoved off the Impala. "You know what? Forget it," and without waiting for his answer, Sam stormed inside and again slammed the door, leaving Dean to stare after him, wondering what the hell he had sighed for.
He had heard folks complain about teenage kids. But having a teenage brother and being only one around? Someone gotta tell those people how punches weren't even pulled before landing.
No one prepared a guy for the hurt that came from this. Sam staring at him with disappointed eyes over his school, his education, and not wanting the same things as Sam was a different kind of torture. Who was going to tell his brother that Dean hadn't dreamed of being a high school dropout?
But shit happened. And in their case, a shitload of crap happened.
The sign of the 'Hallway Motel' flickered as he stared at it. Dean was just wondering if it was an unwanted ghost when the entire motel did an odd tilt to the left. He slammed a hand on the door handle and snapped his eyes shut. He was not giving his injuries as the next topic to argue over. No way.
When he felt steady enough —thanks to the big-bad-black dog— he opened his eyes to a steady motel building. So the neon light wasn't flickering now. Maybe it was the blood loss then.
Okay, next step was to defuse two ticking time bombs. Cheer up the upset kid—even if the kid was being a total brat. And have a little talk with Dad to let them stay here for summer break. This was one of those fancy towns. Hopefully he could find something for Sam to geek over. And if he got some spare time, then sleep sounded good.
Plan in hand, Dean nodded in agreement. He let go of his death grip, patted his baby once before grabbing Sam's discarded jacket and started toward the motel door.
Stepping inside, he was met with a normal sight. Well, normal enough for him. Dad sat at the coffee table with the journal open, shoulders tense. And Sam sat on the far corner of the bed, book in his lap, hair hiding his raging eyes. Both brooding in their own way.
No one bothered to look up as he entered the room, and that was good. No one saw him drop onto the couch when he swayed. Freaking blood loss. The sudden fall revealed that his freshly bandaged side was burning. He added choking down some painkillers to his mental to-do list.
The list also had top priorities. Like this.
Dean cleared his throat and said, "I'll go grab some food. What do you want, Sammy?"
Sam looked up from his book, shoved his too-long hair out of his eyes. Seriously, wasn't that too much hair for a sixteen-year-old? His dad looked up as well, and both gave him individual bitch faces. Then returned to their scowling.
"Come on, we just had a win, why not celebrate it?" he asked, a little more enthusiastically than he felt, hoping to lift the tension and silence off the room.
"Go get whatever you want and the usual for me," Dad said without looking up, sounding too much like the drill sergeant he was.
Dean sighed, looked at Sam, who just nodded his agreement. So much for celebration. He didn't spend much time dwelling on his failed attempt. Every one of them was tired. Maybe it was best to try again in the morning.
But leaving these two on their own was a risky move. He debated for a second about sending one of them to dinner, then decided against it. Dinner was just a few minutes away. It would hardly take him twenty minutes to be back. What could go wrong?
Famous last words.
Dean stood up carefully, grimacing and silently hoping the painkillers wouldn't wear off on the way. It was on the second attempt that he was able to locate his wallet in his jacket. He turned toward the door, opened it, and was stopped at the threshold by—
"Be careful with ribs."
"Don't jar your side."
Came unison orders from behind him. He could imagine the exact stupid look on Sam's and Dad's faces. Dean grinned and headed out.
000000
'Milly's Dinner' turned out to be a busy place.
He dwelled on getting pie or not while waiting for his order. The apple pie looked—smelled fresh. They had only been here for two days, but he had already figured out this pie place was popular in town.
He could enjoy his pie and force a bite or two into Sam. Dad wasn't fond of pies, but he could be if insisted. And if they both decided they wanted to be brooding bitches? Not that he ever needed help finishing pie anyway.
But money was on a leash. He had a small job in their previous town— no, he didn't prefer jobs over hustling, but some of the sophisticated areas they hunted in didn't always have pools or bars. And growing expenses meant needing more money. So now he just had enough for food for the next few days and a little extra, just in case.
Also, he wasn't in the mood to go play pool with some cheater jackass right now— yeah, he didn't cheat. He never needed to, was good enough not to be defeated anyway. Play with guy Who started a fight over a loss that hurt their delicate pride? Not with these ribs.
Pie would have to wait until he was well enough to find a job or hustle, or both. Dean made a face, scowled at the display of pies, and flashed a smile at the pretty girl staring at him.
He exited the diner after twenty minutes. The chills of Minnesota were nerve wracking, even at the start of June. Or was it the injuries?
Dean scanned the area out of instinct as he walked toward his baby. Getting into the car, he breathed out slowly. The painkillers had worn off a few minutes back, and the burn of his stitches was as prominent as the cold that was slowly enveloping him.
He leaned back, trying to ease some pressure off his ribs. At least he wasn't bleeding out to death now. He could handle the rest. "Com on," breathing out under his breath, Dean fired up the Impala. Taking some satisfaction as she rumbled under his hands, he headed out of the parking lot toward the motel.
The bumpy roads did nothing good for his ribs or stitches. He was ready to down some painkillers and pass out. Without dinner. But the thought of having a peaceful—or silent, depending upon the mood of the motel—dinner and possibly cheering up upset Sam and Dad gave him some sort of hope. He could at least do that.
Taking strength from the thought, Dean climbed out of the car and stopped dead when he heard it. His family raising hell personally for him.
"Because I'm your father Sam." Dad hollered from close door, and Dean closed his eyes. Not again. Not now, when he wasn't even in shape to play referee.
"Yeah and now you remember that? After everything?", Sam sneered. Crap. Ignoring the sharp jab of pain, he strode toward the door.
There was a brief pause where he wondered if they had both decided to use their brains instead of their mouths. Then Dad declared, "I'm leaving now. I don't care if You want to come or not"
Dean frowned while fumbling with the take out bags to dig out his keys. Where was Dad headed now? Keys, keys, ke-, finally.
He heard a bitter laugh. "Care? You even know what that means?"
Dean cursed and unlocked the door while Dad glowered in a tone that put a Wendigo to shame. "Watch your mouth, boy!"
The door swung open at same time. He wasn't surprised by the sight he was met with.
Dad and Sam stood a few feet away from each other, maybe battling down the urge to throttle the other or deciding what to say that would do the most damage. Probably both. But one thing that didn't get past his eyes— two steps and Dad was at Sam's collar.
Dean shut the door behind him. No one paid him any mind when he walked in, placed the bags on the nearby couch, and said, "What happened?" He got a vague image of that from the yelling match but needed a clearer picture.
"Get your stuff in the car," Dad barked, pointing generally in his direction but not taking his eyes off Sam.
Dean was taken aback for a moment, not shocked at the treatment but at the tone. "Why? We just came here, Dad." If he thought he would get an answer, then he was an idiot.
"I'm not going anywhere," Sam growled. For all his teenage voice, he managed to sound authoritative.
"Like hell you aren't!" came another growl, punctuated with a step. Dean took a step forward with dad but stopped when no one seemed to get physical. Yet.
"Dad, where are you going?" He raised his voice in order to be heard at least. Dad was vibrating with the need to bail. To go right now. What was so important?
His father spared him an answer. "Jeff said they maybe had information about.. what happened," he said tersely.
The tone of his voice and the rare emotion in Dad's eyes—or maybe the fact that he still couldn't talk about it— told Dean it was about Mom. He fell silent at that.
It wasn't the first time Dad had gotten such a lead. It wouldn't be the first time they would be packing in the middle of the night to go find something. Most of the time it turned out to be nothing but a load of crap. Didn't matter. Dad would make a run for it like a madman.
"We gotta go," his dad said, looking at him. Almost looking desperate for Dean to understand. And that—that look wasn't made for Dad. He shouldn't look this.. devastatingly pleading. Dean swallowed.
But Sam deserved a break. The kid had to leave his competition, and it didn't matter if it was important or not to him or Dad. It was important to Sam.
"Where?" Dean finally asked.
Sam turned toward him accusingly. "Your kidding right?", he said in a vicious tone. "Your gonna follow him around on this Dean. Again." Dean opened his mouth, but Sam beat him to it. "You do that," Sam turned toward Dad, "but I won't."
"Sam, listen—"
He was cut off by Dad as he barked, "This about your mother!" Sounding way more desperate than Dean would like to think about.
Dad never knew when to stop so it wouldn't hurt others. The problem was Sam was his father's son, had the same DNA and everything.
"Yeah and she is dead for gods sakes!"
Shit.
He saw the extinguished hurt flash in his dad's eyes. Then it vanished like it was never there, and Dean barely managed to lunge forward in time to come between them as John reached for Sam's collar. He grabbed Dean's instead, sending three of them stumbling backward toward the beds but rage blinded the man.
"Dad!" Dean barked, shoved Sam behind him with one hand, and bodily pushed his father back. Not letting his eyes off the man, he shrugged his jacket collar free. Keeping both pig-heads at arm's length.
"That's enough. Both of you!" Dean hollered.
Barely managing not to double over in the pain that flared up. He couldn't help the hiss that escaped past his lips. Sonovabitch. Restraining his hand from pressing against his injuries, he stood guard between the two Winchesters.
There was precious silence for a few seconds. The three of them stood there panting. Some with emotion, others with pain. Some with both. While Dean wondered what it was like to have one fight-free night.
His breathing back under control, Dean threw a glance back at Sam, who was staring at him apologetically. He ignored it. And when he looked at Dad, for reasons he couldn't figure out for the life of him, Dad had the same look as Sam. Angry and apologetic.
He didn't need either of that.
"Dean, meet me outside," that's all Dad said before he stormed out.
Dean closed his eyes, unconsciously pressing a hand against his side. Man, it hurt. So much for dinner and cheering anyone up. He wasn't doing jack to cheer anyone. But bigger fish now. He turned toward Sam.
Who stood there just as fuming as he had been mere seconds ago if you ignored the emotions his young eyes reflected. Hazel eyes gazing with the need to be understood. And he did. Dean did. Even if he didn't say it out loud or make fun of Sam's obsession with school. He still did understand it.
Understands the longing for normal life. Even if sam don't think he did.
Dean peered down at him and quietly said, "Sam, you can't talk about mom like that," because... because he can't. No one can't. Not when that wound was still too fresh.
Raging eyes turned toward him. "Your saying I'm wrong?", Sam challenged, being the rebellious teenager he was. But it wasn't just that. Dean could clearly see the hurt disguised as fury. An effort to bury pain in rightness.
His voice softened automatically. "I'm saying not to bring Mom into all this crap," he spread his arms out, then dropped them, lethargically rubbing his face— God, he feels old sometimes. He looked at the door.
"I'll go talk to him." Sam kept his eyes strictly on the wall past him. "Talk him into letting us stay here for a while." That brought Sam's attention to him. Finally the anger subsided, and Dean could catch a glimpse of his brother again.
When Sam didn't offer any words, he turned toward the door.
"Your hurt?", Sam asked when Dean's back was to him. Right on the edge of sounding all emo like he was.
Dean couldn't bring himself to lie just then. Not after he felt weighed down by everything. Not when Mom's name had been mentioned after years, and in this way. She didn't deserve this. Nor did Sam or Dad.
He settled on plain old, "I'll live."
Walking stiffly, he opened the door when he reached it, only to find Dad near his truck. Bracing himself, Dean paced toward him.
"This is important, Dean," Dad said without looking at him when Dean was near enough.
"I know." That got him a scrutinizing look.
"But?" John asked, eyes narrow.
Dean sighed, absently rubbing at his ribs once before dropping his hand onto the truck's open door. "Sam is a kid, Dad." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "All he wants is to stay in one place a little longer." He knew deep down this wouldn't work. But right now, it had to.
"We can't do that," came the terse reply. "You know that damn well."
"I know you can handle this one."
Dad didn't answer. But that was answer enough. This wasn't a hunt. Still, he would prefer nothing more than to have dad's back but he couldn't leave Sam.
"Dad?" Dean probed. He hoped he didn't have to argue here. Because his pounding head and throbbing side wouldn't appreciate that.
Dad's hard expression managed to toughen even more. "Fine," he grumbled. "But don't let him out of your sight. You got that?"
"Yes, sir," Dean breathed out. Despite the gruffness and all the disagreement, along with the distance between the two of them, Dad cared about Sam. He almost always worried about him. Wanted to protect him. If only he let the kid see it once in a while.
Dad's expression softened a little as he asked, nodding toward his side, "Stitches?"
It was only then that it occurred to him that he might have busted a few stitches in their little wrestling match. Even with John Winchester's sutar work. It wasn't often that he let Dad patch him up. Preferring to do it himself—or let Sam do it sometimes—was easier. But apparently today was the day for pretty much everything.
Though he got the feeling that the man missed doing that. Maybe it was his dad's way of letting some affection show.
Dean just shrugged. "Don't know. I'll check them." It still managed to surprise him when Dad managed to look worried for him.
He received a thoughtful nod. "I'll be back in few days."
Dean returned the nod. Noting the reluctance in Dad's demeanor, he checked his duffel—also, when had that come out?—and his weapons.
"Take care of your brother," Dad said as he opened the driver's side door. "And yourself," he added quietly, giving him an assessing glance before settling inside.
It was odd to hear his own name included in that order, but Dean bobbed his head again. "You too."
Added uselessly, because since when that happened? If he were there, then he could remind the guy to at least eat and sleep. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He couldn't be in two places at once.
Dad nodded and sped out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind.
Dean watched him, feeling the familiar but habitual sense of loss at the absence of yet another family member. A protective shield over them. Over Sammy. When Dad was around, he can let his hunting radar go silent for a minute or two. But it was nearly impossible, considering Dad was rarely around.
It never ceased to amaze him how Dad managed to hunt alone. He hated the idea itself.
Dean shook his head and headed back inside. He doesn't have all day to stand here and play emo. He was tired, sore, and cold. Screw dinner. He was making a beeline for bed. After Sam ate. And after painkillers.
000000
Inside, Dean was welcomed with guns and a rifle of words.
"He didn't listen did he?", Sam asked—demanded. And if the kid forgot to level his tone, then Dean was giving him a free pass. This time.
"He did. We are here for a while," he sat on the edge of the nearest bed, shrugging off his jacket gingerly.
An indignant huff came from behind him. "So, dad can agree if you want to stay. Good. At least I know where I stand."
Angry Sammy equals no brains. What was that kids used to write in math tests? Oh yeah. Hence proved.
Dean sighed, bracing one palm flat against his ribs, he half-turned. Sam was perched on his bed, glaring at him yet again. "Dude what's gotten into you today? It's not like that. You know that."
Sam managed to look even younger when his face set in determination. To argue.
"Yeah right," he got up. "You know what else I know, Dean? I'm done. With this life, with hunting, with dad, with-" he caught himself deliberately. Then strode towards the bathroom.
Dean watched the closed bathroom door, wondering in how many different ways he had screwed up to have this pleasure. It wasn't the words Sam carefully didn't say. It was the tone. A tone that wasn't teenage hormones but pure venom this time.
Sighing, he got up. Picked the takeout bag from where he had discarded it, fetched plates from the excuse for a kitchen the motel offered this time. Leaving dad's order in the bag, he dumped the contents onto the plates after rinsing them—who knows who had used them last time—and brought them to the nightstand.
Then he just stood there glaring at the food. He had bought a sandwich for himself and Sam's favorite girly crap he liked. Neither was doing anyone any good now.
Dean sat on the bed, toed his boots off, and shrugged off his shirt. Peeking through his tee revealed that the stitches had held—thank whoever there was to thank for small pleasures—with just a little blood pouring sluggishly.
He cleaned the blood, bandaged the site again, and shrugged into a clean tee, wishing he had money to buy some beer the entire time.
Sam decided that was time to emerge from the bathroom, looking like a rat with a mop after a shower. Dean's lips twitched at the sight. But Sam just scowled at him and proceeded to get dressed for bed.
Silent treatment. Yeah, that's always good.
He cursed at the stiffening pain, grimacing as he settled back in bed. There was no way he was finishing all of that sandwich, but he had to take a painkiller if he wanted to get some sleep. So halfheartedly, he reached for it.
Sam settled on his own bed and wordlessly grabbed his dinner. As long as the food wasn't paying for the fight, Dean was okay with the silence. He seemed to get a lot of it anyway.
They both ate while the TV filled the room. Dean managed half of his sandwich before his dead appetite died again. He wrapped the rest of the food.
The first aid kit had to be in the drawer. He had left it there last time. He noticed Sam's worried gaze tracking his slow movements. He had probably seen the red bandages in the dustbin.
"Your ribs are worse?" Sam asked quietly.
Dean rolled his eyes. Of course his injuries were the only thing that could divert his family's attention towards him.
"They are fine. Just sore." He had to arrange the first aid kit. It looked like a murder scene in here.
"What about the stitches?"
Yup, they were almost out of painkillers. "Same old, same old."
He popped the pills, gulped them down with water, and grimaced at the taste.
There was silence again that made him look up. Sam wore his pensive face. Brows furrowed below his bangs, indicating that the kid was deciding something. Or there was something else bothering him. Dean was about to break the silence when Sam said,
"Dean I-uh I'm sorry," a pause, then, "For jarring our side."
Dean frowned. The soft words held too much sincerity for bleeding stitches. Sam's voice, downcast eyes, and slightly pained expression carried something close to loss, grief. And for whatever reason, it was something Dean found himself hating.
He swallowed his cocky comeback. "It's fine, Sammy," he assured.
Sam nodded. Still lost in his thoughts, he deposited his plate in the kitchen and settled under the covers, curling into a ball and turning away from Dean's gaze.
Dean stared at his back, dwelling on the sudden change in behavior. He didn't mention anything to bring that look onto Sam's face—like someone had kicked his puppy—did he? No, they had barely talked.
And even if Sam screamed his lungs out at dad or said something that couldn't be taken back, it never made him look... devastated.
He debated asking what was bothering Sam. The kid wasn't hurt on this hunt, no girl he liked had ditched him or he had to leave because they had to move. Then what had made all the emo emerge on the surface?
Maybe it was fatigue. And if it wasn't, then it was better to let him get some rest and ask tomorrow.
Dean decided and turned off the lamp. He settled under the covers, only realizing how cold he was when warmth enveloped him. Thanks to the painkillers and the crash adrenaline, sleep, for once, came easy and deep. Dean didn't even notice when his eyes closed and he was out.
Deep into merciful, dreamless slumber. Deep enough not to stir even when the door closed with a soft thud.
Continue..