Hello, lovelies! Hope you're all doing well. This is just a random idea I thought of while reading Wee!Chester fic. Please R&R! Love you all. Hugs and kisses and all that! .
~FiPsparkle~
It was Sam's first hunt. Nothing big, of course, just a wayward werewolf, but Dean still worried. Sam was only five, for God's sake! Dean, at nine years, was barely old enough to hunt himself. But, John was adamant: "I'm sick of paying for the damn motel rooms. He's coming with us. You'll look after him." So, there they were, driving along the highway with Sam in the back seat.
He bounced excitedly up and down as they drove. Eventually, he tired of this game and fell asleep with his head in Dean's lap.
"Dad?" Dean asked timidly after a while.
"What?" he snapped back.
"Do you...do you think this is the best idea? I mean, Sam's only five, and I don't know if I can take care of him that well…"
"Are you complaining? I've given you one job, and that's to protect your brother. I do everything else. I give you food, shelter, and protection, and now you're being ungrateful?" John shouted.
Dean shrank back against the seat, his arms instinctively tightening around his brother. "N-no sir. Not-not at all, sir." John glared at him for a moment, then swiveled back around to drive.
The investigation went, surprisingly, well. Sam was a natural detective. With his help, they found the guy who was responsible for all the murders within two days. However, it was still quite a while before John actually tracked the guy down.
When they finally had, John loaded the boys into the Impala and parked about two blocks away. He never once worried about Sam or Dean, because, he figured, they were armed to the teeth with silver; how could they be in danger?
"Alright, we should split up. I'll go in through the front, and you two go through the back. We'll bag 'im and meet back here," John instructed them. Dean nodded along, not quite meeting his dad's eyes. He still wasn't sure this was the best idea.
Dean stayed well in front of Sam and inched open the back door. Suddenly, they were face to face with the werewolf. He bared his teeth at them, licking his lips. Dean froze in fear. He had the sense to shove Sam into a nearby closet before the werewolf lifted him in the air and tossed him carelessly against the wall, as easily as one would toss a tennis ball. The frail nine-year-old hit the wall with a sickening thud.
Sam watched in terror from his hiding place as the creature crept up on his brother. Surely, their father would save them? But no John appeared. It was up to Sam; he had to save Dean! He lept out of the closet with a yell, hoping to distract the thing.
The werewolf looked up from where he was crouched over Dean. Grinning horribly, it leapt to its feet and stalked forward, pinning the younger boy against the wall. Sam shrank back and sqeaked.
Dean regained consciousness at the same time the monster pounced on Sam. He struggled to get to his feet and froze, watching in abject horror as the beast tore into his baby brother. An unholy rage swept through him; his vision was tinted red and everything faded away except Sam. He pulled out a silver blade and threw it with deadly accuracy, hitting the werewolf in the heart.
The monster died too easy, in Dean's opinion. The thing deserved a much more painful demise after what he did to Sammy.
He rushed forward and dropped to his knees as he reached his little brother. "...Sammy…" he choked out. His brother's heart was still beating, his lungs still breathing. But he was dying. Sam reached up and clasped Dean's hand.
His heart stopped. "Sammy! Sammy!" Dean shouted, sobbing. Finally, John strode through the door; the cold, cool mask never slipped from his face.
"He's dead, Dean. Help me get him out to the car," John said coldly. Together, they picked up Sam's body and carried him out to the car. Dean blubbered the whole way.
They drove out to an empty field off of Highway 12. Soon, Sam was buried in an unmarked grave, which, in Dean's opinion, was an insult. They stood there for a while, staring at that hastily dug grave, at Sammy's final resting place.
"It's your fault," John said suddenly, rounding on Dean and striking him across the face. "It's your fault! You had one job, and it was to protect your little brother! You failed!"
"I'm sorry! I tried!" Dean sobbed. And it was true; he had tried. But he'd also failed. He'd failed to keep his little brother safe. It should have been him in that unmarked grave.
The years went by. Dean never forgave himself. Even when John finally died, even when Castiel assured him that Sammy was in heaven and didn't blame his brother for anything, Dean never once stopped hating himself for his baby brother's murder.