Masks
By Mellaithwen
Rating: T
Genre: Angst/Drama
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and the challenge this is written for is from PL Wynter's forum :)
Summary: The Winchester masks fall away when one of their own is hurt...
Mask of Innocence
Everyone is unique but at the same time, most people do in fact fit into some kind of stereotype or quota. One of which, is the little brother. Now, most little anything's, be it brothers, sisters, or gremlins (though more often that not they all seem to coincide) are annoying. Most siblings are annoying, and Dean was sure, that his brother would fit perfectly into that category.
The annoying younger brother. The kind who, though intelligent, does not yet quite grasp tact. Or the importance of things, and because of this, finds it far too easy to undermine the eldest every move.
Like last night for instance, Dean, living up to his own stereotypical role as the good-soldier-son, in their own completely un-stereotypical and original family, though, complete with their own issues, was sitting quietly cleaning his gun. His father's lectures echoing in his head of the importance of such a task. The importance of the weapon itself and how an improper clean could be the means to an end where your life was on the line, or worse, your brothers life was on the line.
Indeed, that was a lecture Dean would rather forget. The words were repeated again and again, how Sammy was his responsibility, how his every move could be the wrong footing that would lead to pain for them both at the hands of god-knows-what while their father was god-knows-where.
"I won't always be there to save the day, Dean." He had said, and Dean had stared at him for a moment, attempting to discern the words. He spoke as though he always did save the day, when more often than most it was Dean who did so. Ever since his tenth birthday, and he had truly, truly told himself, that he needed to get his act together, it had been him protecting Sammy whole-heartedly, with not a seconds thought to his own safety. Sammy was more important, Sammy was younger...
But still, as the words swirled around his head, bopping to the rhythm of his own hand running up and down the barrel, careful to ensure not a single speck of dust was visible, there was Sammy, absentminded-ly throwing a ball he had found against the wall, knowing full well how each bounce irritated his sixteen year old brother. Knowing with a great clarity of how annoying he was truly being.
Thud
The ball hit the wall, and bounced back into Sam's waiting hand. He had gotten good at catching, his reflexes improving, and if somehow their father stumbled in from either hunting, drinking, or both, then that would be his excuse. That he was improving his skills, even if it did piss off his brother.
Thud.
He saw his brother flinch, and could imagine the contained fury in Dean's face. He couldn't see him, only the hunched shoulders as he worked on his gun, leant over the table while Sam lay on the sofa, leaving imprints in the wall each time he threw the ball.
Thud.
Another jerk from his brother, and he supposed that the slight pause between his now umpteenth throw of the ball had led Dean to believe he had stopped. Lulling his brother into a false sense of security as he threw it once again.
Thud.
"Sammy..." Dean began, his voice, clearly warning his younger brother that he would regret any other throw. But Sam was twelve, almost thirteen. He was more cunning having grown up with Dean showing him the ropes, and Sam had learnt how to assess a situation. For instance, his brother had opted for the warning first, which meant Sam had at least one more throw before screaming ensued
Thud.
"Sammy!" The warning was louder, but a warning all the same, and that meant that Sam could continue on his kamikaze mission.
Thud.
"Sam!" Much louder, much louder indeed, and the loss of his hated nickname had too disappeared, Sam threw it once more, but Dean simply leaned backwards, expertly flicking his wrist and reaching, grabbing the ball and tossing it beneath the stairs, with his little brother groaning.
"I told you to stop." Dean said simply, before going back to his work.
With age, comes maturity, but once you hit nineteen, and you've been at such a high level of maturity since you were four years old and your brother was placed in your care, and the first barking command of his father was called to him, there isn't much to learn as the years go by.
Dean sighed, something he did far too often when he thought about it. It filled the time when he had absolutely no way to vent his frustration other than clutching his stationary until his knuckles went white. He threw his things down, leaving his Maths for another day and turned back to the kitchen, looking at the piling dishes. Another sigh, and another more for comedic effect that anything else as he lugged himself over there and began his work.
"Come on, Dean, please!" Sam was pleading, this always amused him, but at the present time, as he continued with his chores, his brother having just dragged himself home, his feet heavy from the prospect of having to beg no doubt, it was beginning to get tedious.
"Dude, since when do you need my help when it comes to standing up to dad?"
"Since I need him to listen to me." God he could pull the guilt machine when he wanted to, but this was one trick the teenager had yet to master, and Dean could see right through it with great ease.
"You're needed on the hunt, Sammy!"
"Why? What can I possibly be doing that's so important."
"Watching my back, jerk."
Sam was quiet for a moment, as his brother continued with his routine of dipping the few plates and cutlery they owned into the sink, letting as much soapy water as possible run through them, before placing them on the mounting pile drying on the sideboard next to the sink.
"Dean, please."
"So keeping me alive isn't enough, Sammy?" An attempt to guilt his brother into the decency of feeling slight shame, and he does so, hanging his head for a moment, as Dean continues.
"Why does it matter so much? You've never given in work late before, so what if you ask for one more day."
"But it's not just one more day!"
"When did you get it?"
"Get what?"
"The essay question, when did you get it?"
"Today."
"And she wants it back by tomorrow, dude, that's unreasonable even by your standards."
Sam mumbled something, turning as he did so, and once again, Dean stopped in his work and turned to his brother. "What was that, Sammy?" He asked, irritated.
"I said," His brother huffed, "It's not in by tomorrow."
"So what's the big deal?" Dean cried incredulously and Sam groaned.
"It's a major essay Dean; I need to work on it for more than one night!"
Dean didn't answer; he merely continued to wash the dishes, letting his rough hands bask in the now lukewarm spuds.
"Dean, I'll pay you."
"With what? You already owe me five dollars, after you had to have that wonderful book, and I know dad hasn't given you extra, so how could you possibly have money?"
"I-." Sam faltered and Dean was officially interested.
"Sammy..." He said his tone akin to that of a warning, granted more timid than when Sam in his younger years had irritated his brother with the rhythmic bouncing of a ball.
"There's this old lady at the bottom of the street-."
"The cat lady?"
"Yes, Dean, the cat lady, the really nice kind cat lady, who doesn't actually own any cats."
"You took money from an old woman?" He asked amused, grinning still, "That's low, man." but Sam quickly shouted "No! She-she has these dogs-."
"Cat lady has dogs?"
"Yes Dean-."
"So she's dog lady."
"She pays me to walk her dogs, okay?" Sam said, having stared long enough at his brother's grin.
"What!"
"Dean, it's not big deal..."
"That's why you're home late everyday? You're walking dogs?"
"Look, it doesn't matter-."
"The hell it doesn't Sammy, you told us you were stuck in school finishing work!"
"And you never thought every night was a little suspicious?"
"We thought you were dedicated!"
"Sure you did."
"Sammy, don't turn this around on me! You've been lying and now you want my help!"
"Dean, this is like half of my grade, if I don't do this, it won't matter what I get in the exams-."
"We're not gonna be here, Sammy."
"What?"
"You know what, dad told us we weren't gonna be here as long as the last hunt, we can't afford to waste more time."
"How is getting an education wasting time?"
"Because it doesn't matter! How is being able to recite the periodic table gonna help you when there's a demon on your ass!"
"If it has a Chemical weakness, I could sure as hell find a way to kill it."
"And by the time you'd found the solution, and enjoyed your own little victory dance at remembering it oh-so-correctly, me and dad would be dead!"
The plate smashed back into the sink, Sam winced as it did so, and his brother stormed out of the kitchen, leaving a dripping trail of bubbles in his wake as his hand shook from anger.
The others faced was burned into the Winchester brother's mind. Sam, looking ashamed as usual, but also, seeming so defeated and deflated, as though he knew he had failed in his mission, and that Dean was no longer on his side. And Dean's face? Dean's face was set in stone as he walked away, leaving Sam to brood, as the cogs spun around in his own mind. He was stripping away the mask with every step he took, and he stopped suddenly. Taking a breath to calm himself down.
Sam caught up with him, and for a second both of them thought he would apologise, but he didn't, he didn't even look up. He stormed off himself, repeating his brother's skills at doing so, leaving Dean to ponder.
Maybe he should let Sam have this. Sam wanted to be normal far more than Dean did. To the eldest, it was fake, too fake, too perfect, and perfection was always ruined.
His own four years of perfection, though he scarcely remembered two, were horribly marred by the fire that had destroyed it all. Destroyed his own life and his father's having their mother, wife, torn from them without so much of a warning, and for Sam to be born into a life of hunting. It was Dean's way of having a soft spot, a chink in the armour, in the form of his geeky teenage brother.
So maybe it wasn't such a surprise that he allow Sam to keep the mask holding it all together, it wasn't a surprise when he fastened the clips on the white picket fence and the 2.4 children, the American Dream that was more flawed than any damn nightmare they would ever have.
"Hey dad, maybe, well-." The front room was stuffy, and Dean found it increasingly difficult to keep his cool, hating the prospect of lying to his father. Credit card companies, bar-men asking for ID, the odd call from confused neighbours he could handle. But John Winchester, ex marine, and pro hunter, was another matter altogether. He could banish spirits, keep a creature occupied by beating the crap out of it, or shovelling it full of round after round of rock salt and silver bullets but lying to his father, scared the crap out of him.
"Spit it out, Dean." The voice was bored, and clearly doing something else at the same time.
"Sammy doesn't need to go."
"What?" More of a perked up sound, and Sam could tell his father was finally giving a shit to what Dean had to say.
"I said, Sammy doesn't need to go."
"Dean, I know you feel it's safer for your brother to stay here-."
"It is!" Dean replied, taking a different tactic and relying on his more believable performance as the over-protective brother to get him through the bout of lies.
"And what about you?"
Sam frowned at the question and no doubt Dean had too by the lack of response. Their father sighed.
"You're watching my back Dean, but that puts you in just as much danger as me, you need someone to watch your back, even if it is from afar."
"Dad, I'm nineteen, I can look after myself-."
"Don't start that, Dean, I know you're capable, but it's risky."
"I know."
"And you're willing to take that risk, as well as the responsibilities?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine, you can tell your brother the good news, god knows he's been trying to get out of it for long enough."
Sam heard the footsteps and launched himself up the three steps separating him from the landing, crouching and crawling back to his room, before his brother could see him.
More footsteps coming up the stairs now, but by the lighter imprints of sound, Sam knew it was Dean.
"This better be worth it, Sammy." Dean muttered, knowing full well his brother was closer than he should be. The door to their shared room closed tightly, but didn't slam. It never did when Dean was on the inside; Dean never acted out his anger like that when their father was home. Dean never really acted his anger out around anyone, but Sam knew full well that was exactly what his brother did while he sparred in the yard, or aimed kick after kick at his makeshift punch bag of pillows and crap bundled into a sleeping bag.
John saw it as his son practising, while Sam wondered almost selfishly if it were him his brother was aiming each attack at.
Once upon a time, Dean had done so, but after a few seconds he would change, and it would simply manifest into the evil that took his mother, a mixture of every demon, ghost, spirit and creature he had ever faced, leering over him, with eyes red, and fingers manipulating the flames surrounding him. His waking nightmare he could control with the blink of an eye. The waking nightmare that was his life. And he would walk out, mostly once his father called down that whatever take out had been ordered was going cold, he would take a deep breath, do the whiff-test on his armpits, and sigh sigh and sigh again, before putting his mask of indifference and boredom back in place over the anguish and hurt.
Sam's innocence defined him, it made him the little brother. The stereotypically ass of a little brother.
He's the same Sammy, always. Sammy fighting demons, Sammy asking for the last of his lucky charms, it doesn't matter; he's always Sammy the innocent, naïve, brat. Sammy the ungrateful shit, who never looks past what matters to him. Sammy, his brother, who he loves and hates, though the former tends to overtake the latter in most situations. Sammy the selfish, lying bastard, then again, that could be blamed on Sam the now-grown-up.
Sammy, with the mask of innocence.
But now he wants me to be called Sam, to the point where he keeps reminding Dean time and time again. He wants him to destroy every memory and make them different. He wants him to separate his brother, and Sam the hunter, and he can't do it, because both of them, Sam and Sammy wear the mask of innocence like they own it, holding on as if its theirs and no one else's.
Sammy, wearing the mask of innocence, and Dean never even got the chance.
"Dean!" John calls, yelling from the bottom of the stairs, frustrated with his son's slow movements upstairs. "Come on, we got work to do!"
Dean opened the door, edging out clad with his jacket and jeans, and best trainers. His duffel bag over his shoulders with his newly cleaned and preened weapons. He caught Sam's eye as the younger brother came out of the bathroom.
"Shouldn't you be working on your paper?" Dean asked, almost bitterly, silently wondering if things would be all right with just him and his father before quelling the fears, and hiding his doubts.
Sam gulped at the look in his brother's eyes. "Be careful." He said quietly, leaving Dean to grin, smirking. "I always am, Sammy."
But even as his brother ran down the stairs, three at a time, and he heard the front door close, rattling, and the impala doors open with their own unique creaks, Sam felt the dread that maybe this time his fears weren't unfounded, his doubts weren't an overly paranoid intuition, and the maybe was becoming more definite, more secure in the thought that there was more than a distinct possibility that Dean wouldn't be careful, and things wouldn't be okay...
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