It's only year four since Mom's death, but Dean's used to the cycle by now.
Dad never leaves the week before. The days that lead up to the horrendous anniversary are filled with drinks, sleepless nights, and, for Dean, nightmares.
Sammy's still four, so he doesn't quite understand what causes Dad and Dean to act like this each year, but he can clearly sense the tension in whatever motel room they're currently staying in. He's old enough now to notice how Dean's been ending up in Dad's bed each night these past few days, and the fact that Dean hasn't been going to school. He may not remember Mary Winchester, but Dean and John still do.
It's two days until November second, and Dean's working desperately to take his mind off the day that is like a dark cloud in the distance, foreshadowing the worst. He's reading a book, making sure to mutter each word to himself as to hope to actually retain the words his eyes are floating over. He's not good at reading—awful, actually—and he's only really become adequate this year in third grade. The moving from school to school hasn't helped Dean catch up with his classmates, and at his last school he was put in the dumb kid class to help him with his reading. He'd hated that, and he doesn't even care about reading all that much. He likes math better, since there's only ten numbers to remember rather than billions of words, and science seems really cool this year. Overall, school's alright, except for the reading, but just because he kind of likes some subjects doesn't mean that he's sad about missing school this week. Even if he attended, there was no chance he'd be able to concentrate.
Dad hasn't been home all day, probably off at a bar, and to be honest, Dean wishes he was here. Sammy's finally settled down for a nap, which is a good thing, but now Dean's stuck in a silent motel with nothing but his thoughts. His mind keeps traveling back to four years ago today. He remembers that last Halloween with his mom, how he'd dressed up like a police officer and had filled his little pumpkin basket to the rim with candy. Sammy had on a shirt that made him look like a candy corn, but he'd been too small to get candy like Dean. He remembers that night, barely keeping his eyes open from exhaustion and offering Sammy a piece of M&M's, though the baby just giggled and threw it at Dean's head.
He remembers it all, and it physically hurts to remember. He wishes he could be like Sammy and not remember at all.
Dean abandons his book, throwing it across the room. He wipes furiously at his eyes, not allowing himself to cry. He can't cry. He can't be vulnerable. He needs to be strong.
That night, when Dad returns only a little drunk, Dean snuggles into his side. Neither of them say a word. The television plays softly, as Sammy's already been put to bed, but they aren't paying attention to it. All they want right now is each other.
Dean sighs wearily, eyes drooping, but he doesn't want to fall asleep yet. He can't leave his dad by sleeping. Dad needs him.
"It's okay, Dean-o. Go to sleep," John murmurs, smoothing down Dean's hair. "It's all right, I'm right here."
"Don't wanna," Dean replies petulantly, but he can feel himself drifting off as he leans against his father. He feels comforted in his father's hold, and can't imagine a place he'd rather be right now.
Dean's used to cleaning up after his father.
It's the night before, and John has passed out on top of the toilet after vomiting up his copious amounts of alcohol, a half-empty bottle of vodka spilled on the floor beside him. Dean's nose crinkles against the stench of vomit, but he does his duty quickly and efficiently. Wetting a cloth, he cleans the sweat and other fluids from his father's face, flushing the toilet as well. He pats Dad's face gently, whispering, "C'mon, Dad, we need to get you to bed."
John eventually wakes up with a groan, eyes fluttering weakly. Dean supports him as tries to regain his bearing. He changes into some clean clothes, leaving the soiled ones on the floor for Dean to wash later. His father stumbles into bed and soon enough is sleeping with a soft snore. Dean sets off to clean up the mess his drunken father had created.
Dean doesn't want to wake up the next day. He wants to sleep forever, to escape the memories that keep resurfacing in his waking hours. At this point he wonders which would be worse: memories of Mom while awake, or nightmares of her death while asleep.
He's forced to awaken, however, when Sammy comes over to him and whispers, "Was Mommy's name Mary?"
Dean fumes. Of all the days for Sammy to ask a nosy question like that, he had to pick this one? "Shut up!" Dean yells, jumping out of bed and lightly shoving his brother. He pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing the tears will be coming soon enough. A choked sob escapes his lips and he asks more calmly, "How'd you know that?"
"Daddy was saying it in his sleep."
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, feeling retained tears spill out. Sammy wraps a chubby, four-year-old arm around him, but Dean shrugs him off, muttering a forlorn, "Leave me alone."
"You're sad, Dean," Sam replies innocently. "You always cheer me up when I'm sad."
Dean sniffs, looking at his brother's concerned expression. "Yeah," he agrees, "but this is a sad you can't take away, Sammy."
"Oh." Sam frowns, looking slightly confused. His face perks up slightly when he suggests, "Want me to make breakfast?"
Dean chuckles slightly. "Nah, kiddo, I got it."
He finds the Lucky Charms and pours Sam a bowl, purposefully forgetting to make himself some. Eating doesn't seem appetizing right now. Sam shoots him a look when he doesn't eat anything, but he doesn't say anything.
Dean sighs and goes to Dad. He's still sleeping and, like Sammy said, talking in his sleep.
"Mary…no…get out…Mary…"
"Dad," Dean hissed, shaking his father's shoulders lightly. "Wake up."
It takes a bit of persuading, but John eventually wakes, eyes wide and sad once they open. He sees Dean's tearful eyes and holds out his arms, offering for his son to climb in bed with him.
Dean's never agreed to anything more enthusiastically. He buries his head into his father's chest, allowing himself to fully cry for the first time this week. He hugs his father tightly, silently begging him not to ever leave like Mom did. He needs him.
"I miss her," Dean sobs, chest shaking as he takes in uneasy breaths.
"So do I." His father's deep, rumbling voice feels soothing as it reverberates throughout Dean's body. Dean sighs, feeling his crying slow to just a few hiccups. John continues, voice a mere husk of what it normally was, "But don't worry, kiddo. I'll find the thing that killed her. I promise."
Dean nods against Dad's chest, feeling safer than he's felt in a long time.
Yes, this is depressing, even for me…
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