AN: This will be a chapter fic. As of now, I have no idea where I'm going with it. That's always fun, lol. I don't own Dean, Sam, John, or anything affiliated. Title of the story and even the subject of the first chapter itself comes from Bauhaus' "All We Ever Wanted Was Everything."
Dean watched Sam from the motel room window. Fourteen years old and he still never passed up the opportunity to play on a swing set when he saw one. It broke Dean's heart. Of course he still loved to swing even as a teenager. Swings were hardly ever at his disposal as a young boy. His first elementary school hadn't even had a playground, and his second only had one set of swings which were always occupied by the bigger and meaner kids. By that point, Dean was in middle school and could do nothing about it.
He sighed, eyes still on his long and lanky brother as he ran the blade of his father's carving knife smoothly over the Arkansas Whetstone that had been his gift two weeks ago on his birthday. He'd asked for it because it was a necessity, not because he wanted it. His bowie was dull enough to do nothing more than cut butter and his throwing knives were getting there. What he'd secretly wanted was a football or a basketball. Something that he could take into the parking lot and toss around with Sammy. The both of them had great potential when it came to athletics. The basketball coach had approached Sam countless times during the lunch hour at school practically begging him to try out. Sam may have wanted to, Dean didn't know, but he always turned the coach down. Even if he made it, he'd be cut from the team for never coming to practice. The same with Dean who wanted very much to try out for the football team that year. He would never have had the time.
Dean closed the whetstone and left his seat near the window to go slide the knife back into it's compartment on the side of John's belt which was hanging over the headboard of his bed, neat as a pin with that one exception. John had yet to sleep in it in the two nights they'd been staying there. The first night he spent sitting up sentinel in the stuffed chair by the window. That morning, Dean found him asleep with his chin against his chest and the rifle still laying flat across his lap. He covered him with his own jacket and let him sleep until the afternoon. When John woke, Dean took his well-deserved scolding. He had been wrong to let his father rest. It left them open to the cryptid. The second night, John only returned to the room for a few moments to re-stock ammo. He hadn't been back since.
The sound of Sammy flinging the door open and entering the room shocked Dean out of his daze and he turned to look at his younger brother who was in what would probably be his most awkward stage of development. He was only fourteen, and already he loomed over his classmates and his older brother. His voice had deepened a lot since last October. The tight and wiry muscles of young boyhood were beginning to fill out and Sam could no longer be considered just skinny. His hair had reached the tips of his ears a month and a half ago and now, when Sam wore a collared shirt, his hair brushed over that as well. But his eyes were still the large hazel almond-shaped puddles of depth they'd always been. Sam could never hide his true feelings or intentions if it hadn't been for his rebellious teenage need to grow out his bangs halfway over them. Dean could never deny that his baby brother was beautiful.
"I see you discovered the swing set." He remarked fondly, physically bracing himself from running over to his brother and defiling him in every conceivable way.
"Yeah." Sam smiled, closing the door quietly behind him and making his way over to Dean. "You were sharpening Dad's knives for him?"
"Yeah." Dean looked down to the whetstone in his hand and set it on the bedside table to the side of John's bed. "Thought I'd make sure they were sharp, just in case."
"Why don't you come swing with me?" Sam took Dean's hand by his fingers and swung his arm idly back and forth between them. "I saw you through the window. You looked bored."
"If I had the time..."
"You have plenty of time."
"True." Dean wouldn't argue. "Alright Sammy." He sighed, looking to the whetstone again and wondering if Dad would come home tonight. Or ever. He didn't want that, but it would mean he'd never have to sharpen another knife for the rest of his life if he didn't want to.
Sam smiled at him, tugging on the tips of his fingers, walking to the door and pulling Dean with him. Sam was mumbling something about a butterfly that landed on his knee while he was on the swing, but Dean was too far gone thinking about missing fathers and wasted childhoods to really listen. It was unfortunate, because Dean would have loved to hear about Sam and his insect friend. It would have reminded him that Sam hadn't missed out on all that youth had to offer. For him, it had only been delayed.
AN: Reviews are welcome since I'm not sure what the next chapter will bring, myself. If people like this, I'll likely keep the somber melancholia of the tone. If not, I might lighten it up a bit. Or I might not listen to what anybody says and I might do something crazy. Who knows. Also, I love John and I'm not being hard on him because I'm one of those fans that's all "John Winchester's a dick and a bad father!" because I don't feel that way at all. It just works well with my story to characterize him that way, lol.