Chapter 1
/death may come invisible/
The dogs surrounded him, barking mad and slobbering. They snapped at him, working as a pack. He wasn't sure where to look, the rows of teeth distracting him from his only job of protecting Sam. He was a soldier, he should be focused even in the face of his own death. He was a soldier.He was a soldier. Calm. Cool. Collected.
Soldier. Soldier. Soldier.
One of the hellhounds nipped at his heel. Razor fangs sank into his tender flesh, yet he felt nothing. The room spiraled out of control, as the only real dog of death sprang on his chest, ripping it to ribbons.
Sammy's screams echoed in his mind, and he felt tears spring to his eyes. He wasn't there to protect him. All this, he did to save him and it wasn't enough. He would give anything to give his brother a normal life, but he was so selfish. /So selfish./ He wanted Sam with him. But at least in doing this, he gave his brother life. A little bit longer. Much longer than he had.
He was surprised to find he couldn't feel pain. The hellhound clamped it's dribbling maw over Dean's bright soul, and quickly descended to the Pit.
/or in the holy wall of fire/
Fire. One of Dean's few memories is of how the heat licked at his skin, despite how far that terrible beast was from him. /Fire/ and /screams./ (His mother's.) (His father's.)
((Sammy's.))
He still wakes with the smell of cooking flesh in his nose, and he is reminded of the smell by the burning skeletons, long dead and free of this phantom smell.
Still. Dean can't help but remember the thick smoke, the utter terror.
/The mask that slipped over him, cultivated in silence./
(Protector.)
/in the breath between the markers, on some black I-80 mile./
The few good memories Dean had of his childhood, involved traveling in the Impala. The road brought peace. They weren't meant to be running, or hiding. No schoolyard drama and no hardships brought upon them other than the typical issues of childhood.
"He's touching me!" Sammy whined, tired from a long journey and not wanting to admit it.
"I wouldn't be if you weren't on my side," Dean argued, the mile-markers shining rainbows into the car as they reflected the headlights' harsh glare. John sighed, the sound like too many whiskey nights that left him with no love left for the day.
John droned out a "Sam, don't be a whiner," and gone back to staring at the road. Playing the words back in his head a few years later, Dean could hear how meaningless those words had been. But young as they were, Dean and Sam had heard what they wished in his dreary statement.
"Ha!" Dean grinned, happy his father sided with him. Quiet washed over the car as weary boys dozed to the soft sounds of rock playing low in the background.
Dean missed those days.
/from the madness of the government, to the vengeance of the sea/
Dean used to look forward to the night his father returned from his long days away. He didn't feel the need to hide the bottles away or hope his father drank to the point of passing out. That wasn't to say that John beat Dean or Sam. He believed in strict discipline sure, but beating? That was a little too far, in his opinion. Besides, his words hurt more than John's backhand ever could.
He tried to keep Sam away from it. He tried to make sure he was safe. But as Sam got older, it he was harder to fool into going to sleep, or staying at a friend's house. Dean knew this would happen, but he hoped with all his heart it wouldn't.
"You and your useless books!" his father slurred, ripping Sam's library books in half. "All you do is stick your nose in them all day! You just ignore me, what an ungrateful dipshit you are! Look at me in the face when I'm talking to you. I SAID LOOK AT ME." John bellowed, stomping towards Sammy as if his ego depended on the authority he has above his children.
Although he never said so, he blamed Sam for Mary's death. He blamed Dean for not waking up instead. He blamed himself for not knowing enough at the time. All this anger bottled up inside, /corrupted/ him. His self control was great. Great enough to never have this show, unless a bottle opened up his sealed lips. Like a lockbox opened, the darkest corners of his mind spilled out all those treacherous ideas.
Sam sniffled, staring at the pages in disbelief and horror. Dean looked from John and Sam, unsure of what to do. His instincts were screaming,/PROTECT PROTECT PROTECT/ and at the same time /OBEY OBEY OBEY./
"D-dad." Dean stuttered. He figured, if he couldn't choose between them, he'd just do both. If he got his father's attention away from Sammy, then it was a win-win. "Uncle Bobby called last night. I forgot to tell you."
"Oh, and now you tell me," John rolled his eyes, spittle still clinging to his chin. "And here I thought Sammy was useless. But you win, Dean. Of all the miserable, hopeless things that could ever exist, you had to go and take up space. A dog could do a better job than you, Dean. Are you a dog?"
Dean looked at the ground, hoping this would just end. But it wouldn't. This was his life.
"No, Sir," Dean answered.
"I think you're lying. Get out of my sight, the both of you! You disgusting animals. Worthless." John muttered, picking up the phone on the motel desk. At least this only happened when he was drunk.
After that, Sammy ran away.
/well everything is eclipsed by the shape of destiny/
A/N: I am experimenting with a new style, please tell me if you enjoyed reading the story, or if instead of adding emphasis, it took away from it. Thank you.