Warnings: Language, chick flick moments, underage drinking

Misconception

Damn, he wishes things were like they used to be, back when all it took to make his brother happy was a little face paint and a fading glow stick. He misses telling his brother to shut-up and eat his chicken fingers only to have the three-year-old reply, "Dean, chickens ain't got no fingers."

Now, the little brat's correcting his grammar and that knife tucked in Sam's shoe definitely ain't no glow stick. He might be a little biased, but Dean's almost certain he wasn't this ornery when he was fifteen.

"If you don't sit still, I'm gonna freakin' stab you in the eye." Dean grits out the warning through clenched teeth, trying his best to hold the needle still. He should stab the kid in the eye, it'll serve him right for not following orders. How hard is it to point a gun and aim? What part of 'Sam, I want you to watch your brother's back. If you see it coming, you aim and shoot,' translates into running and hitting the damned thing with the gun, holding onto the barrel like it's a fucking baseball bat?

It's only a few stitches, five at the most, four if he can space them right-barely even anything to worry about, except it's making Dean want to throw up. The bag of Doritos and grape soda are slowing threatening to make an encore showing as he gestures to the bottle of Jim Beam resting on the bathroom counter, encouraging his brother to take another swig.

To Sam's credit, he isn't making much noise. He's trying his best to keep quiet as Dean stitches the gash just above his left eye. It's his squirming that's the problem. He's had stitches before, the first few times his dad was the one to sew him up, Dean sitting nearby offering silent support as Sam screamed with each prick of the needle.

The first time Dean had to give Sam stitches, Sam had sat on the bed holding a t-shirt to his knee as Dean emptied their dad's duffle bag, searching for the bottle of whiskey they both knew was hidden there. They hadn't even been on a hunt, it was one of those freak accidents that happen to most kids, usually prompting a panicked mother to rush her baby to the emergency room where they'd receive a promise and a lollipop.

Dean had only had a box of Batman band-aids he had stolen from the Walgreen's in the last town they were in. Sam had fallen, tripped while he was running through the motel's parking lot, slicing his knee open on a busted beer bottle embedded in the gravel.

Dean had cleaned it out, telling Sam to put pressure on it in hopes that it would stop bleeding. John was gone, and they hadn't known when he'd be back. When it became obvious that the knee was going to need stitches, Dean had begun his search, quickly finding the whiskey before even looking for the first-aid kit.

If no one was there to object to a sixteen year old stitching up his brother's knee, then no one was there to bitch about him giving a twelve year old a couple of shots to numb the pain. If it worked for John, it should work for Sam.

"Dad still pissed?" Sam asks between sips. The burn isn't as bad as at first, but his throat still feels like it's on fire.

"He's not pissed. He was just worried." Dean ties a knot before cutting the thread and moving to begin the next stitch.

Sam forces himself not to shake his head for fear of losing an eye. "No, you were worried. Dad was pissed." His brother's sigh and the sound of Sam tapping the glass bottle against the closed toilet seat between his legs are the only sounds in the bathroom.

Four o'clock in the morning is that rare time of night. Too late for the night owls, too soon for the early birds. The hookers have all given up and gone home, while even the promise of coffee couldn't raise the saints.

Dean finishes the last stitch, setting the needle on the counter before reaching for the tube of antibiotic cream. Both boys hold their breath, listening for any sound that John's come in from outside. When nothing's heard, Dean finishes tending to Sam's wound, taking care not to place the tape over his eyebrow when applying the gauze.

"Why didn't you just listen?" There's no heat in the words, Dean's too tired to argue. He had heard enough of it on the way home.

"I did listen, but in case you didn't notice, bullets didn't seem to have an effect on the thing." Sam blinks rapidly, clearing the slight dizziness, a product of either getting kicked in the head, turning too quickly, or having drank a good portion from the bottle in his hand. They both ignore the slight slurring to his words.

"Yeah, well deciding to go hand to hand wasn't your best move there, Einstein."

"It saved your ass."

"And almost cost you yours." Dean angrily slams the medical tape back in the first-aid box, causing the plastic kit to fall into the sink, the echoing sound of metal scissors hitting the stained porcelain makes them both freeze, cautious gazes going to the door.

Truth is, John had been pissed. Not necessarily at Sam, but at the entire fucked up situation. They went in thinking werewolf, and were completely unprepared for what they found. Even after the thing was dead, it's misshapen head lying a few yards from its body, none of them could identify the creature. It was as though they had stumbled upon a new life form, something no amount of research could prepare them for.

So yes, John's pissed, but he has enough sense not to take it out on the boys. At least, as long as they have enough sense to stay out of his way. He'd never hurt them, not intentionally, but experience has taught them that poking at a pissed off Papa Bear will only earn them extra special quality time cleaning weapons, detailing the car, or training, usually in the form of running. Dean hates running.

Then there's all the yelling, something that's seemed to increase in frequency over the last few years, much to Dean's chagrin. At first, it wasn't that bad, but Dean suspects that Sam's stubbornness and lack of common sense when dealing with all things John Winchester is directly proportional to his size. The fact that Sam's already towering close to six feet gives Dean great cause to worry when leaving his father and brother alone together.

John would never hurt them, Dean's sure of it, but there's no need to actively test that theory.

He picks up the contents of the first-aid kit, placing it back on the counter before opening the bathroom door and peering into the dark motel room. When there's no sign of his father, supporting Dean's assumption that the man might not be coming back tonight, Dean turns back to his brother, taking the half-empty bottle from Sam's heavy hand.

"I'm gonna shower," Dean says, taking a swig from the bottle now that the needle's been put away. "Go get some sleep."

Sam just eyes his brother, and Dean can see the kid's wanting to say something to him, wanting to continue the argument he had started with their father.

"Sam, I'm not pissed, Dad's not here, it's late, and I stink. Get out of here, or I swear to God, I'm dropping my pants whether you're here or not." Dean lifts his hand to his belt buckle, raising an eyebrow threateningly, letting the smirk take over when Sam rolls his eyes and stands to leave.

Dean brings the bottle back to his lips, closing his eyes against the sting as he takes a larger mouthful. When he coughs, choking on the burning in his throat, he points angrily at the door, trying to ignore Sam's laughing snort. "Out!"

Sam leans back against the doorframe, watching as his brother wipes at his watery eyes. It isn't until Dean lifts his hand, the bottle still clutched in his fist, and extends his middle finger that Sam pushes from the frame and pulls the door shut behind him, laughing as he hears an embarrassed Dean mutter something that sounds similar to one of Bobby's favorite throwbacks. Something involving the word 'idgit'.

With Sam out of the way, Dean sets the drastically emptied bottle down on the counter, bracing his hands around the sink as he studies his reflection in the mirror. There's only one light in the small bathroom, a small, exposed sixty-watt bulb—the motel being too cheap to bother with complete fixtures.

He looks pale, dark circles under glassy eyes, a product of little sleep and a few good swigs of Jim Beam. The fact that they've been pulling all-nighters since school let out for winter break probably has something to do with the sickly appearance. That and whatever identical pair of sticks someone seemingly shoved up John and Sam's asses.

The two have been going at it more often than not lately. Dean remembers the first time Sam got brave enough to argue with their father. It was about the same time the kid began insisting they call him 'Sam' and not 'Sammy'.

It was kind of a build up, little instances of back talking and eye rolling, a hate-filled 'yes, sir' or indignant sigh. Looking back Dean realizes there where warning signs, occasions where Sam was letting them know that it all was about to hit the fan. In reality, Dean should have been more prepared for the yelling match, about soccer of all things.

Thanks to the life they lived, the boys were used to missing out on some of the things other kids took for granted, despite Dean's best efforts to make things normal for his kid brother. However, there were some things John would allow. Dean had been more than a little surprised when their dad agreed to let Sammy play soccer, especially since John had adamantly refused to allow Dean to join the Cub Scout's a few years before.

Deciding jealousy didn't look good on him, Dean had selflessly staid after school, watching Sam as he practiced, keeping track of practice times and game schedules. Sam's team had made it to tournaments that year.

The next year though, when soccer season rolled around, John had turned Sam down, telling him that there wasn't time for sports, that he'd just have to suck it up. That was the first time Dean felt like an outsider in his own family. Neither John nor Sam paid any attention to his efforts to get them to see reason, at least not until it was time to force him to pick sides, back them up in their fight against the other.

Long story short, John had won, much to Sam's disappointment. Both father and son had been angry with Dean, spending the next few days taking their frustrations out on him as though it were his fault soccer had been invented.

Now, listening to Sam drunkenly move about the motel room as he readies for bed, Dean wonders if his brother's still giving them warnings, if the other shoe's already dropped or did it just bounce, suspended in air as it readies for a second strike.

Reaching for the bottle, Dean forces himself to turn away from the pitiful reflection and moves to the shower, turning on the hot water and hoping this motel has a decent water heater. He kicks off his shoes and takes another sip before putting the bottle down to work on removing his belt.

His clothes are disgusting. A mixture of sweat, dirt, blood, and lighter fluid cover the thick material of his jeans, his shirt stained beyond salvation. Lifting the soiled fabric above his head and letting it fall to the ground, he steps into the shower, hissing as the hot water meets goose bumps. He dips his head, letting the hot spray run down his neck before tilting back, opening his mouth to fill with water in an effort to rinse out the fuzzy taste. The sudden movement throws off his sense of balance, forcing him to reach out and brace a hand on the wall to maintain his equilibrium. Realizing it probably wasn't a good idea to try and chug a bottle of whiskey when he's running on nothing but adrenaline, he hurries and washes away the grime from the last two days before bending to shut off the faucet.

The cold air hits him immediately. He hurriedly pulls the curtain back, dislodging one of the metallic rings from the shower rod as he reaches for a towel. It's as he's wiping the water from his eyes that he recognizes the familiar sound of muffled yelling coming from beyond the closed door. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he carefully steps out of the tub and pulls open the door, frowning when he sees his dad and Sam standing toe to toe, each trying to tower over the other, vying for dominance.

"What's going on?" They both turn to look at him, Sam unconsciously taking a step back now that Dean's in the room. John looks between both boys, before turning and dropping the bag of weapons he'd brought in on the bed, ignoring Dean's question.

"You been drinking?" he asks, looking back towards Sam. Though he's no longer yelling, his voice is still stern.

"Stitches," Dean says, answering for his brother before he can make the situation worse. John barely puts up with Dean drinking, and he's nineteen. There's no way he'd allow it for Sam if it were anything other than an injury.

John glances at the bandage over Sam's eye, and decides to let the issue go. Dean catches Sam's attention and silently begs his brother to do the same, not wanting to play referee when he all he wants to do is crawl in bed and sleep till spring.

When Sam drops his head, moving to sit on the bed, giving Dean the impression that his brother isn't up to fighting either, Dean finally grabs his bag and walks back towards the bathroom. He keeps the door ajar, not wanting to leave the match next to the fuse. When left unattended, things always go boom.

Winchesters are combustible. John and Sam are nothing more than a flammable mixture of ire and stubbornness thrown into the same keg, leaving Dean to put out the flames, always getting burned for his efforts.

As he pulls on a thin pair of sweat pants, he hears his dad begin to talk again.

"Go ahead and get everything packed up and loaded tonight. We'll sleep a few hours and then head out."

"Where are we going?" Sam asks, and Dean's pleased to hear that there's no fire in his brother's voice.

"Tennessee," is John's answer. Short and simple, no further details and definitely not the answer Sam had been waiting for.

"Why Tennessee? When are we going back to Iowa?"

"We're not." Hearing his dad's cryptic answer, Dean knows someone's lit the damn match. He grabs his shirt and pulls the door open the rest of the way just in time to see Sam stand from his seated position on the bed and take a step towards their dad.

"You said we'd go back after Christmas break. School starts next week!"

"This is more important than that!" John tosses the now empty bag against the bed's headboard, moving to step around the foot of the bed in order to close the distance between him and his son.

"Guys—" Dean tries to get their attention, his shirt hanging loosely at his side. Both ignore him.

"You always do this! Do you have any idea how hard it is to start up at a new school every time I turn around?"

"You've been doing good so far! Your brother never complained!"

"Yeah, we'll I'm actually trying. I don't have any intention of being a freaking dropout!"

Dean stops his failing attempts at gaining his family's attention. He stands still, staring at his brother as he continues to glare at their father, neither of which is aware of Dean's sudden silence.

"Samuel, I'm not doing this again. You can go to school in Tennessee just as well as you can in fucking Iowa."

Sam scrunches his face in disgust, and shakes his head. Dean remembers the first time Sam made that face was when he was two years old and had just had the finer points of potty training explained to him.

Instead of firing back and trying to make his father see the importance of finishing his sophomore year in Iowa, Sam turns and reaches for the front door, slamming it hard as he walks out.

"Sam!" John turns to look at Dean who's staring blankly at the door, his shirt still in his hand.

Sensing his father looking at him, he pulls the shirt over his head before slipping his bare feet into his boots. "I'll go get him." He makes sure not to look his father in the eye.

"Dean…" When Dean turns around, his father tosses him a knitted cap. His hair's still wet and Texas may not be as cold as Iowa in December, but it's still cold enough to catch pneumonia.

Zipping his jacket, he looks around the empty parking lot, seeing no sign of a hardheaded, angst ridden fifteen year old. The town isn't that big, and the motel's located at the far end of town, putting a good bit of distance between them and anywhere a teenager could go at almost five in the morning.

Dean breathes out a heavy sigh and begins walking across the parking lot, already knowing where Sam went. He smiles when he sees his brother at the swing set, his knees nearly reaching his shoulders thanks to the low hanging swing.

The lone streetlight is blurred, dimmed by the early morning fog.

Sam doesn't move as Dean eases down into the swing next to him, his knees rising just as high as Sam's.

Dean sits quietly for a moment, waiting for Sam to acknowledge that he's no longer alone. They're both silent, the only sounds in the park being the slight squeak of the swing's metal riggings as they slowly rock back and forth, a distant echo of a far off train, and the occasional bark of a stray. When the snap on his jacket no longer seems interesting, Dean nervously clears his throat as he thinks of what to say. "You, uh, you know when you were little, the first time you noticed fog you asked me why the sky was fuzzy."

Sam doesn't say anything, he just leans his head to the side, letting it rest against the swing's metal chain. Dean lets out a shaky laugh at the memory, his breath visible in the cold night air. "We were at Bobby's and it had just rained. You were like three or four and you and that dog were all over the place."

"Stella," Sam says, letting Dean know that he's listening.

"Yeah, Stella. She was just a pup then. I thought Bobby was going to go crazy. You kept asking what he was doing, what that picture meant, why couldn't you touch that book. As soon as the rain quit, he told me to take you outside.

"I don't even remember why we were there, hell I don't know if Dad even told me. But I do remember you running outside and stopping dead in your tracks. You had this whole bug-eyed, oh-my-god-Dad-just-shot-Santa look on your face."

Dean grins when Sam snorts, the sound unattractive and funny coming from his normally articulate and put-together brother.

"Anyway, I ask you what's wrong, and you turn to me, eye's still wide and ask in the most serious voice you could muster, 'Dean, why's the sky all fuzzy?' I don't remember what I told you, but I think about that every time there's fog."

Sam finally turns to look at Dean, his head still resting on the metal chain. The movement causes his hair to stick up, and Dean can see the glassed-over look in his brother's eyes. Sam definitely had more than a couple of swigs.

"You're such a dork," he says, one dimple forming thanks to a crooked grin.

"Says the guy that knows the origin of the word 'dork'," Dean shoots back, matching his brother's smile. "Dude, you're wasted."

"So are you."

Dean purses his lips and tilts his head, assessing whether or not he's truly wasted, or just a little buzzed. "Nah, I won't be the one puking my brains out when I wake up."

Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to face the light pole. "Why do you do it?" he whispers, all sense of mirth gone.

"Do what?" Dean asks, backtracking to see if there's a part of the conversation he's missed.

"Put up with all his crap," Sam gestures to the motel, the gesture causing the swing to twist. "I mean, you're nineteen. He can't tell you what to do anymore."

"Dude, you seriously think that when you hit eighteen, you can just start ignoring him?" Dean asks, frowning when Sam refuses to answer. "Sammy, he's our dad," Dean starts, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting to start a fight with a drunk Sam. "He's doing the—"

"The best he can. Yeah, I know." Sam snorts again, only this time, Dean doesn't find it as funny as before. "It's just…how come you never question him. You just put up with it, all the time."

Dean wants to point out the moments when he's stood up to their father, tell Sam about the times he and John disagreed on something, but he doesn't. The bigger truth is there's a part of Dean that wants his dad to be in charge.

John's good at giving orders, Dean's good at following them. When it comes down to it, Dean knows he doesn't mind following John blindly because it means he isn't left with the responsibility. If something were to go wrong, Dean doesn't think he could handle being the one left accountable. Too much can rest on one decision. The most important being the person sitting next to him swinging on a playground in the freezing cold before the sun's even come up.

"Do you know when Mom was alive, Dad would laugh and call me a momma's boy?"

Sam turns and gives Dean a look that screams what the hell are you talking about, clearly finding this tangent more random than the fog story.

"I don't remember it all, but Dad told me about it once. We would always team up against him. If they argued about what to have for dinner, or what channel to watch, or what your middle name should be, I'd always side with her. Two against one."

Dean doesn't look at Sam; he keeps his eyes on the light pole, watching as a single moth flies in and out of the shadows. "When she died, I didn't have that any more. I just sort of…drifted?" He shrugs, not really sure if the word fits. "Anyway, Dad was all I had to listen to. No more momma's boy."

"So now you side with him," Sam says softly, the heel of his boot digging into the gravel, his eyes refusing to look at his brother. "Two against one."

"Bullshit," Dean says, causing Sam's head to jerk up, confused eyes meeting angry green. "Sammy, do you realize every time Dad and I have almost come to blows, it was because of you?"

Sam doesn't say anything, he just keeps staring at Dean, trying to remember a time when Dean hadn't snapped to attention, shouting 'Sir, yes, sir' while waiting for their dad to tell him how high to jump.

"Dad wanted to leave before opening night of your freakin' play, that weird one with no props. I kept waiting for him to kick my ass when I told him we had to stay."

Sam opens his mouth to ask when that had happened because he doesn't remember Dean ever telling John they needed to stay, but his brother isn't done. Dean reaches up and grips the chain on his swing, planting his feet firmly on the ground to stop the slow, back and forth motion. "Remember when you begged to spend the night at that kid's house, the one with the unibrow? Or what about that time you threatened to go on a hunger strike because Dad wanted to stock up on MREs?"

Dean stops and catches his breath, eyes widening slightly as though he just realized he'd spoken out loud. He lets his hand drop, and kicks his feet to propel the swing into motion again. "I don't team up against you," he says, almost like an afterthought.

They fall back into silence. Dean keeps shifting uncomfortably, regretting having opened his freaking mouth. There's never been a need to point out everything Dean's done for Sam, why start now?

It's Sam's turn to clear his throat, his turn to fill the awkward silence. "Dean?" he whispers, scared that his brother may still be on the defensive.

"Hmm?"

"Sorry."

Dean turns to look at him, dropping his feet so he can look Sam in the eyes. "What for?"

"I didn't know you did all that," Sam admits, sounding a little embarrassed and grateful at the same time.

Dean's face burns with an unwanted blush, and he turns so Sam won't see it. "Yeah, well, don't worry about it. It wasn't really nothin'."

"You really talked him into letting me stay at Justin's?"

"Justin who?"

"Unibrow."

"Oh, yeah. That only worked out because he needed my help and didn't want to leave you alone."

Sam nods, vaguely remembering Dean begging their dad to let him go on the hunt, making a decent argument for why John would need his help. He stops the movement and leans his head back against the chain when a bout of nausea tells him moving his head is a bad idea.

"Hey, Dean."

"What?"

"My head hurts." Sam squints, frowning when a deep throb starts above his left eye. He lifts his hand and feels the gauze taped in place. Maybe the throb was always there, just the anger and adrenaline dulled the pain— that and whiskey.

"Come on Quasimodo," Dean stands and reaches for the metal frame of the swing set, remembering that Sam isn't the only one who knocked back a little Jim Beam. "Lets get you back inside before one of us passes out. Up and at 'em."

Sam takes his brother's offered hand, closing his eyes as the playground tilts. When it feels like gravity is no longer threatening to make him her bitch, he starts the process of putting one foot in front of the other, trying to figure out how the hell he made it to the park to begin with.

"You think you can go in and pretend not to hate the old man?" Dean asks, his hand on Sam's elbow in order to help guide him in the right direction. Sam may be tall, but the kids still skinny. It'll be a while before he outgrows the rank of 'lightweight'.

"I don't hate him," Sam corrects. "I hate the way he acts."

Dean shakes his head, smirking at Sam's logic. "Alright, Poindexter. You can explain the difference to me tomorrow…or whenever we wake up."

Sam breathes through his nose, missing the warm buzz he had earlier. "Like you'd get the difference."

"Yeah, dropout and all," Dean whispers, not thinking Sam can hear him. However, Sam stops, looking at him with those wide, shocked eyes.

Oh my god. Dad just shot Santa.

"Dean, I didn't mean it like that," Sam says, squeezing Dean's shoulder, pleading with him to understand.

"Whatever, dude. Forget about it." Dean tries to steer Sam back in the direction of the motel, urging him to start walking again, but Sam refuses to budge.

"No, I was just—"

"Maybe you should stay in school, Sammy. 'Cause you sure as hell haven't learned what forget about it means." Dean ruffles Sam's hair before pushing him towards the motel, forcing him to walk.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm chalking all this up to that kick in the head and your inability to hold your alcohol."

"You're a jerk sometimes, you know that?" Sam jokes, both dimples making an appearance as Dean searches his jacket pockets for the room key.

"Yeah, and you're a whiny bitch, lets just call it even." Dean's smirk only lasts so long before he realizes he left the key in the pocket of his jeans. The ones currently resting near the bathtub. "Damn."

He raises a hand and raps his knuckles against the door, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity, praying that their dad hasn't already gone to bed. John opens the door, toothbrush hanging out one corner of his mouth. He studies his two sons for a moment, before stepping aside and letting them in. "We good?" he asks, closing the door and turning the deadbolt.

"Yeah, we're good," Dean answers as he pushes Sam down on the bed before pulling off the knitted cap and removing his jacket. He kicks off his boots and climbs on his side of the bed, quickly grabbing the extra pillow before Sam even finishes untying his shoes.

John wakes them a few hours later, loading them in the car before heading towards Tennessee. They have to pull over three times so Sam can throw up. Sam laughs when they have to pull over for Dean.

Dean simply glares at his brother, readjusts his sunglasses, and tries to fall back asleep. He's just waiting for the shoe to hit the ground.

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