What does it mean when waking up becomes a chore? Does it mean that it's time to give up? Or does it mean that you just aren't trying hard enough? Whatever the answer may be he doesn't have a choice. He doesn't get to give up, and his body can't take anymore pushing to work harder. Rolling out of bed quietly and quickly, efficient as always. A slight ringing in his ear and the burn of bile at the back of his throat. Soft whispers of a hangover lurked inside of him, normal morning routine. This just wasn't right, none of it was fucking right and he hated it. His room shouldn't look like a tornado went through it, clothing scattered everywhere books that had gone unread due to a hectic work schedule, and the overturned family picture. A picture that had a beautiful blonde. That blonde woman should still be there, singing 'Hey Jude', cleaning the house, and making sure her boys were happy. This was all so fucking wrong.
His little brother stood in the door way, big eyes on a small face. They were haunted, they had seen too much. Little Sammy, he would die to protect the boy and in return the boy never questioned why his brother's room reeked of whiskey. It was a sick reminder of their father. A ex-marine lost in grief. "You'll fucking die out there, just like her, you gotta do better boy. You gotta be better" The words still picked little sections of his wounded soul to slice day in and day out. There was no relief on the battlefield. John was gone now though. He fucking died out there, just like her, he couldn't do better. He never got better. The boys would never forget the accident, only a block away from the small brick shelter that was their home. The heat at the flames casting a warmth over them in the January night, melting the snow away. Happy New Years. The same way they would never forget sitting on the trunk of their fathers car, watching their home be devoured by flames. Sweet, beautiful Mary lost to what resembled hell.
He drove the young boy with a too long mop of hair to the middle school, it was adjoined to the high school that he had dropped out of to support his little Sammy. The young boy needed a hair cut, but his brother barely scraped enough by to cover their rent and food. He'd just have to trim his brothers hair again.
"Bye Dean" They boy muttered, the two words echoed quietly in the confines of car. It had been their fathers, he was so proud of it at some point in his life. But after her, after Mary, after the fire he locked the Impala away. Now it was Dean's, now it had an emergency six pack in the trunk. Like father like son.
He didn't say a word as the boy hauled his bag out of the car along with him. He was too skinny, needed to eat more, needed to grow, but Dean couldn't work twenty-five hours a day to give Sammy everything he needed, everything he deserved. There weren't enough hours for Dean to prove he was worth something, to prove that he did get better.
Not a beat was missed as Sammy left the car door open like he always did, little cogs to a broken clock that still managed to tick. Habits. A pale boy, a year younger than Dean slid into the car. He should be in class, but they didn't care. What was the point anyway? They needed each other more. His blue eyes that were nothing short of icy, in every sense as they never failed to send a cool chill through Dean's belly. They were empty though, those eyes that could make even the toughest soldier nervous.
He understood the pain, the ache. But they never talked about it, they just fell into one another and somehow the skin, the heat, the ice and the touch eased it all.
"Hello Dean" He stated solemnly closing the car door and leaning into the seat a bit as the car lurched forward.
Dean needed to go to work in a few hours, he probably needed to get a few more hours of sleep as well. But that didn't occur to him. He wanted to be selfish for a bit, he wanted to remember that he was just eighteen, he wasn't an adult, he wasn't his father, that everything was right.
The lithe form of his companion was on him in seconds. Bodies not fitting together smoothly as their needs for sanctuary clashed into one another. It felt right. He shouldn't be here, he had responsibilities but he wanted this. This kept him sane.
"Cas" It was the first thing he had said since he had rolled unwillingly and numbly from his bed that morning, and it was a muttered half sob into a teenage boys shoulder. Sounding like a prayer. This felt right to him, somehow.