Growing Pains
A oneshot of what I believe could have been part of the Winchesters childhood. Something short and simple. Enjoy.
To me, reviews are chocolate and solid kicks in the face for my muse. I adore them.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Supernatural.
He is five and freezing.
Huddled on the cold leather, he can't stop the shivers from racing up and down his thin arms. He only has a thin blanket, having sacrificed all the others to bundle up little Sammy, covering him and it's far from enough. Sam's little face is scrunched in displeasure of the temperature, but he is at least warm enough to sleep.
Dean, on the other hand, is not.
It's perhaps midnight, maybe a little later but he can't tell and Dad is still not here. He still hasn't come back and brought more blankets and turned on the heat like he said he would. The back of the Impala has slowly grown colder of the hours, dropping him into a permanent state of shivering.
He misses mom.
Dean wishes once again that Dad hadn't taken him and Sam away from her parents. It was warm there and he was never hungry. But he can't say no to Dad. He hasn't been able to say anything to anyone. And when Dad says to watch Sam, that's all Dean can do.
He peers once again out the window, looking around to see if Dad is on the way back yet. But Dad isn't and Dean is too young to figure out how to turn the car on. All he can do is pull Sam closer, wrapping his scrawny form around Sam's little one for protection.
It's just another motel room in another town in another state. Same old, same old.
By now, Dean is well used to the constant moving. At thirteen, he already knows that this was how they lived. And he accepts it. This is what they have to do. What Dad has to do to stop the bad things in the dark. But Sam doesn't. Or he simply refuses to believe that this is all our lives were. Dean can never really understand his little brothers mind, don't quite know what the kid is thinking about.
"Dean, where's Dad?" Sammy's young voice floats out from the bedroom and into the tiny living room where Dean is sprawled lazily on the couch.
"Sammy, you know he's out. What do you want?" He ask, something akin to annoyance seeping through his tone. Normally, he loves when Sammy asks him things, looks up to him in hopes of learning things, but tonight, all he wants is rest.
"Uh…" Then there is silence. Something at the back of his neck prickles, telling him instantly that something is off. Dean sits slowly, hand going toward the small switchblade that Dad intrusted him with years ago. The one he doesn't go anywhere without.
"What's wrong Sam?" He asks, dropping the nickname that Sam says he hates when Dean know he loves that he pay attention to him.
Slowly, Sam pads out from the bedroom, head hanging and sullen. Dean has yet to relinquish the grip on the knife, still with the feeling that something is wrong. He eyes Sam quickly, searching for anything out of sorts, but finds nothing.
Then Sam murmurs softly, "none of my clothes fit. They're all too small." With an almost meak air, he holds up his arms, displaying how the sleeves stop in the middle of his arm. Dean nearly hisses, seeing Sammy's misery.
And he also feels anger at Dad. Dean told him weeks ago that they needed new clothes or they wouldn't make it through the winter. It seems as though he has forgotten, yet again. It's not until one of them will get sick, that'll he'll notice. He know this, as it's happened before. With winter bearing down, it won't be long until one gets a cold or flu.
"Okay Sammy, you borrow one of my shirts for now," Dean tells him, crouching so their eyes are level.
"Won't you get cold?" Sam asks, his young voice holding only concern for his big brother and Dean feels a sharp stab of sadness that Sam has been forced into this.
"Nah. I never get cold, remember?" he jokes, turning so he can pull one of his last remaining shirts from his bag and tossing it to Sam. Dean feels his piercing eyes never once leaving his form as he turns back towards the couch. But he says nothing. And, deep down, it stings.
Dean leans casually against the Impala, eyes weary and watching.
The air is crisp, with enough bite that him wish he hadn't forgotten to pull on a flannel shirt before he had left, but there is nothing he can do about it now. All his things are back at the motel, ready and packed to go.
The sound of a bell slices through the air and he looks towards the door of the school. He already knows how Sammy's going to react, but there's nothing Dean can do now. Dad already decided that they were moving out, so moving out they were. He sees his fifteen year old head bouncing through the hoard of students, talking animatedly with some kid that Dean thinks Sam's mentioned before.
His eyes light upon Dean and they darken slightly, shooting a pang of hurt through him before he can mask it. Somehow, Sam knows. Sammy always seems to know when they move. Dean doesn't bother to shift from his position until Sam reaches him.
There is some hope in his eyes, some small part of him that's still innocent enough to hope. Part of Dean envies him for having that. So, him isn't surprise when Sam asks, "Why are you here Dean? The motel's only a block away; I walk, remember?"
"We're leaving, Sammy." Dean tells him, voice trying to be gentle for Sammy's sake. Or perhaps for his sake. He know what this will lead to; fighting and arguing and discontentment. Why can't they just get along and agree on something?
He doesn't react when Sam explodes. "What? I just started settling in here! I'm finally getting caught up with what they're doing in class! You know this Dean! How could you let Dad do this?" There is a rage in his voice, a fierceness that Dean wishes could be directed elsewhere.
"Sam, you know I don't have a say in what we do. Dad has a hunt in Montana, so that's where we're going." Dean replies in a low tone. What he doesn't expect is his little brother's bitter response, something Sam has never done before.
"And like a good little soldier, you're just going to follow him along aren't you? God Dean, why do you always let him think for you?" Sammy is nearly yelling, ignoring the curious eyes that have fallen on the both of them.
Dean doesn't breathe for a moment, maybe he forgets how and he feels as though he has been punched. A sick anger and sadness race through him, forcing him to clench his jaw and tighten his hands into fists. Sam suddenly realizes his mistake.
"Dean, I-" he tries, shock replacing any rage that he had just held as he recognized what he just said. He pales in realization of what he has done.
"Get in the car Sam." Dean grings out, eyes burning. He can see Sam try to apologies again, but he simply turns and yanks open the door to the Impala, dropping in and slamming it shut, starting the engine with a roar as he does so. He waits until Sam has rushed around and has the door almost shut before peeling out. Dean refuses to meet his pained eyes, knowing he will try to say something else as Dean drives, letting the riffs of Zeppelin wash over them instead.
Because, deep down, there's a part of Dean that knows Sammy's right. And it hurts to know that there's nothing he can do to change it. This is all Dean knows; all he will ever know.
Dean is the good soldier.