A/N: Hi there. So this is more or less just an experimental drabble. Basically me toying with Dean's memories. Perhaps not the best of my writing (the second person was a bit off-putting), but it fits, I think. So here we are—twelve memories with a dark twist. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I only wish I owned Dean Winchester.
Twelve Cracks
Earliest memories first. Mom is kissing you on your forehead. She's pulling the blanket over you—it's your favorite. It's got prints of cowboys and Indians. The edges are frayed. It's a bit worn, but it'll do. Close your eyes and smell her sweet scent. Cinnamon and fresh laundry. Juniper breeze. Something like that, anyway. Unforgettable. Open your eyes and her fingers are sliding along the side of your face, her soft hand caressing your cheek. And those eyes. Those eyes, filled with compassion and warmth—the kind of warmth you'd find in an old fireplace during the dead of winter. The kind that warms your soul. She breaks into a smile, eyes lighting up like a sunrise over the Atlantic ocean, sparkling in all its glory. She rises—a fluid movement, silky, smooth. Graceful. With one last look, she whispers, her lips curving around each word, each syllable that she utters. Her voice is classical music or vanilla ice cream with its saccharine taste on your tongue. "I love you," she says softly, the words rolling off her pink lips with ease. They offer an irreplaceable comfort. Safety. A mother's love.
Crack.
You're back in the hospital, but this time it's the real deal. Dad's sitting next to you, nervously rubbing his hands together in a clockwise motion. Wringing them over and over again. His face is pale; the creases in his forehead are more prominent than usual. However, there's a subtle excitement bubbling underneath his uneasy exterior. Your feet dangle over the edge of the rigid gray chair, swinging back and forth in anticipation. You look up at Dad and he looks back at you, offering you a small rewarding smile. You beam back at him and pump your legs faster. A man in a white coat steps in the room and motions for Dad to come. "Wait here, Dean," he says, holding up a finger. You nod and sit obediently. In another moment Dad is back, standing in front of you. He picks you up and swings you around, an enormous grin spreading across his face. "You're a big brother!"
Crack.
You don't say much these days, and neither does Dad. He's quiet. You start to wonder if he has a voice anymore. Sam can't talk, of course, but you talk to him anyway. You tell him things. Don't worry, Sammy, I'll take care of you. Everything's gonna be fine. Don't worry about Dad. He's upset. But he'll take care of us, right Sammy? He's looking up at you with those big eyes, just like when you saved him from the fire. You look over at Dad, who's sitting in the corner of the motel room, staring at a crack in the wall. Eyes glazed. Creases in his forehead. You look back to the baby in your arms. He's still staring at you with those wide eyes, as if expecting something. His lips curve up as his eyes meet yours, and he smiles, a sharp giggle escaping his lips. You glance toward Dad. He isn't fazed. Sam's your responsibility now. Don't let him down.
Crack.
Sam keeps asking when Dad is coming back. The truth is, you don't know. But you tell him the same thing every time—"soon". When you're exceptionally annoyed you say "He'll be back when he's back." Otherwise, the answer never varies. When Dad finally does drag his ass back to the motel, you'll be up and on the road by the next morning. Maybe even that night, if Dad's anxious enough. Nothing is constant in your life. Nothing except constantly having to cover for his sorry ass. You look at Sam. He's watching TV. Such a normal, innocent act. He notices you staring and looks at you, offering an uncertain smile. You try to smile back. For his sake, at least. Sam is the only other constant in this life you're forced to lead. He's the normal one. The smart one. "Wanna watch TV?" he asks in his young, boyish voice. You hesitate, and he stares at you with those big brown eyes. "All right," you finally agree with a sigh, walking over to sit next to him. Silence fills the room for a moment between commercials. Sam sets his eyes back on the television, and you watch him. Maybe someday he'll have a future. Maybe someday he'll get the hell out of this family. You wouldn't blame him if he did. After all, you want the same thing. An exit. An out. Anything. But you know you can never leave. It's the family business.
Crack.
Sam's throwing the baseball with you. The season? Fall. Autumn. Deep red leaves in a crisp orange October. Halloween is approaching—but no, Halloween never comes. The Winchesters don't believe in the holiday. It's much too close to home. You throw the baseball to Sam, not holding back. The ball hits his glove with incredible force, and he stumbles back a bit, flinching slightly as he catches it. Opening his eyes, he grins brightly. You imagine yourself on a large field of green grass, blades fresh with morning dew. As you step forward to catch Sam's throw, you are reminded of the hard truth. Concrete under the soles of your shoes. Burning black tar. The echo of the ball as it bounces on the ground. All characteristics of the charming motel parking lot Dad has you staying at this time. You bend down to pick the ball up, closing your eyes and centering yourself. Patience. Sam's young. Everything takes practice. He's still grinning when you stand back up. You offer him a semi-genuine smile. "Good job, Sammy, just throw it a little harder next time," you call to him. He nods enthusiastically, eagerly awaiting your next throw.
Crack.
There she is. Nicole Parker. Long, golden locks trailing down her shoulders and hanging in wisps off her back. Sparkling blue eyes and cherry red lips, accompanied by a smile as white as January snow. She walks past you, seemingly oblivious. But she notices. Every girl does. You see the way she looks at you when she thinks you're not watching. When you're leaning against your locker, wearing Dad's leather jacket, waiting for the bell to ring so you can walk into class a few minutes late. School doesn't mean much to you anymore. Hell, you probably wouldn't go if it weren't for the girls. There was a time once when you truly enjoyed learning, tried to keep up with your classes. You were a hard worker. You had it in you to succeed. But through the never-ending school-hopping, you gave up. Or that's what you told yourself. What you didn't want to know was the real reason you gave up—there was no point in learning. Your future was set in stone when the flames first licked the corpse of your mother. Maybe even before that. Maybe you were born to this cursed life. Your eyes follow Nicole Parker as she continues to walk, swinging her hips and talking extravagantly to the girl next to her. Then comes your epiphany—you'll never have a relationship. Sure, you'll have relations, but a relationship? That's out of the question. What person in their right mind will want to date you, knowing the truth about you? And will you really want to put their lives at risk? A long sigh escapes your lips and you turn back to your empty locker, slamming it shut. Destiny really screwed you.
Crack.
The phone rings again and again. No answer. Never any answer. Maybe he lost his phone. Maybe it's on silent. You'll believe anything but the truth—he just doesn't want to talk to you. After a few moments of silence, you hear his voicemail. "You've reached Sam Winchester. Leave a message." Short. Simple. In the two-second gap between his voicemail and the beep, you think. Should you leave a voicemail? It won't change anything. You've called him twenty times at least. Probably more. But he never answers, and he never will. Your thoughts resurface too late—the voicemail beeped already. Now you're sitting there, breathing into the receiver with nothing to say. Clear your throat. "Sammy," you begin quietly. "I, uh, just wanted to talk to you…see how things are going at, uh, college." Your voice cracks. Internal curses. Hesitation. "Call me back," you mutter quickly, flipping the phone shut and tossing it back on the motel bed. You stare at the phone, hoping it'll ring. How could he leave without a second thought? You practically raised him. You did raise him. And this is the thanks you get? Not even a phone call? Now it's just you and dad. You get lonely. It's not a family anymore. Hell, he's not even your father—he's your drill sergeant. Things are quiet around here. You're quiet. No more cracking jokes. Dad doesn't appreciate them as much as Sam did. You feel something vibrate on the bed and immediately your eyes flash to the silver cell phone. Without a moment's hesitation, you lurch forward and open it. "Hello?" you ask slowly, voice low and rough as usual. No answer. You wait a moment, then ask again. "Hel—," you're cut off mid sentence by dial tone. Pulling back the phone from your ear, you look at the ID—Sam Winchester.
Crack.
Soon it'll be just like old times. You and Sam are sitting in the Impala, listening to what he mockingly calls "the greatest hits of mullet rock". Maybe if you find Dad soon enough, Sam will change his mind about that interview. Law school? It's hard enough to imagine Sammy at college, let alone imagine him as a lawyer. Leading a life. A normal, average, run-of-the-mill life. Getting a job. Marrying a pretty girl. Having kids and settling down. The idea seems so foreign to you. And yet, it's appealing. You can't deny you haven't thought about it. Imagined yourself in Sam's shoes. Oh, the opportunities you've missed. That's all your life is, after all. A missed opportunity. You look at Sam, who's tapping his foot reluctantly to the beat of the bass. Do you really want to pry him from that life? The life that you wish you had? You're being selfish now. But maybe, just maybe, if you find Dad before Monday, everything will go back to normal. These past few years will have never happened. It'll be the three of you, hunting things, saving lives. But then what? Staring at the empty road in front of you, you grip the wheel tighter and wonder how long you can lead a hunter's life. All hunters have expirations. All of the Winchesters will die one day. The only question that remains is the order of death. You're not the praying type, but if you had one prayer, it would be to die first.
Crack.
Sam slams the trunk shut and climbs inside the passenger seat. You slowly open the door of the driver's side and slide behind the wheel. This isn't how you meant it to happen. Part of you feels guilty, responsible. It wasn't your fault—it couldn't be. But no matter how hard you try, you can't ignore the obvious: this is what you wanted. You, Sam, and the open road. Your foot eases against the pedal as you slowly drive down the road. Sam is dead silent. Words aren't enough to comfort him, and you know this. So you stay quiet. No jokes, no music, nothing. Just the quiet rise and fall of Sam's chest accompanied by the steady groan of the engine. For a moment, you want to be young again. You want to hold him in your arms, shush him, and tell him everything will be okay. Tell him that you'll take care of him. But those times are long gone, just like Dad. You comfort yourself by assuring yourself that you'll find him. You'll find him and everything will be like it used to be. It's your job to repair the broken family—it's always been your job.
Crack.
That's my boy, you think to yourself. You watch from the floor as Sam lowers the colt, staring at Dad. He won't do it. Even through Dad's protests, he won't do it. You knew he wouldn't. He's a good kid. Killing the demon means a lot to him, but when worst comes to worst, he puts family first. Just like you taught him. Black smoke forces its way out of Dad's mouth, disappearing as quickly as it came. Sam looks torn for a moment, but finally seems to resolve that he made the right decision. A strange mixture of pride and relief fills you as you exhale, the breath rattling through your chest like death. The pain comes back with a sudden jolt, slamming into you and vibrating all the way down to the tips of your nerves. You suppress a groan and look down to the side, seeing the blood spilling over from your chest onto the floor. It's starting to get sticky, and you can't feel your fingers. The demons words echo through your head in Dad's voice: They don't need you. Not like you need them. Maybe it's true. Hell, you know it's true. That truth has been looming over you since the night Mom died. But looking back at Dad and Sam, none of that matters now. All that matters is that they're all right.
Crack.
And just like that, he's alive again. He's up, walking, standing, talking, just like he had been a few days ago. Relief washes over you, running through your veins and arteries. You're suddenly overwhelmingly tired. But none of that matters. All that matters is that he's alive. You haven't failed him, after all. He's fine. He doesn't even remember. You embrace him, feeling the warmth of his body. It was such a small thing to miss, the warmth. But when his body was cold it brought a sick feeling to the very core of your soul. Failure. You had failed him. All that was left was you. Undeserving, pitiful, worthless, old you. Not Dad or Sam. You tried so hard to keep them alive, and yet there you were, alone, the last one standing. But those feelings have passed now that Sam's alive again. He hugs you back, eyes suspicious, but ignorant of the deal that has passed between you and the demon. With a sinking feeling, you realize it won't be long until he finds out. But right now, you can enjoy his well-being. After all, you gave your soul to bring him back. A selfless act. Or is it? Maybe it's the very opposite. Maybe it's the most selfish thing you've ever done. But you'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Crack.
Is this it? Is this the last enjoyable memory you'll have of your life on Earth? It seems that way. What with the task at hand, you won't have time to make nice memories. After you arrive, it'll all be about Lilith. Time's running out. Midnight's approaching. But even now, it's all about the fight. Not that you're complaining. At least you'll go out with a bang. But you can't help but acknowledge the growing fear inside you. It's the kind of black fear that drives you to your death. It almost makes you want to already be dead. Stop. Shut up. Stop thinking. Just…listen. Listen to the hum of the engine. Feel the gas pedal beneath your foot, the wheel beneath your palms. Smell the fresh countryside, the old fast food, the burning tires against the gravel road. It's too quiet. You reach for the radio dial and turn up the volume. Smile at the irony—they're playing your song. Wanted, you half-sing, half-bellow, dead or alive. Sam looks reluctant at first, but he joins in soon enough. You look at him. He's grinning as he sings, voice cracking in places. Your grin fades as you look back to the road in front of you. He'll be fine without you. But will you be fine without him?
Crack.
And now there's nothing but pain. White-hot, unrelenting, merciless pain. "That's the last of them," Alistair breathes, a satisfied smile settling on his lips. He grabs a fistful of intestines, ripping them out, grin never faltering. "Pity. The ribs are my favorite."