Cut my life into pieces
Dean Winchester is the man of three lives.
His first life lasted only four years. He likes to think of this as his should-have-been life. He should have had a life where his father was a mechanic, his mother made him lunch and cooed over his every accomplishment, and he thought his little brother was smelly but, secretly, fascinating. He should have been able to grow up at a normal rate. He should have been carefree, whining about having to pick up his crayons, and staying in the same school district until he graduated. But because this was the should-have-been life, none of it happened. Besides, the should-have-been life had been dead for a decade now.
Dean currently lives two of his three lives.
The first one he likes to call the "normal life". In quotations, of course, because it's not the true life and it never will be. The "normal life" is a nice escape though. It is as close to the should-have-been life Dean will ever experience and he likes to cling to it a little bit, knowing that it will only last another few years. In the "normal life" Dean is your typical fourteen year old kid. He complains about going to school every morning, sneaks coffee (though he doesn't know why he sneaks it – John isn't going to care about his eldest drinking coffee), rarely does his homework, and makes eyes at the girls in school, who are usually making eyes at him in return. This is the "normal life" because it's what most fourteen year old boys do. But for most fourteen year old boys, there are no quotation marks, because their "normal life" isn't a lie.
Then there is the soldier life. This is the life that, after the age of four, has become his truth. For the past decade, he has been raised as Daddy's little soldier; Daddy's second hand. He knows how to handle weapons properly. He knows how to shoot. He knows how to stab. He knows how to kill. He knows how to get rid of everything that goes bump in the night – everything that, once upon a time, had only been faceless fears lurking in his childhood closet. Dean knows better now. He knows the truth of the world. So he did everything his father told him. He trained until he felt his body about to give out on him and then he pushed himself even harder. He knew he had to be able to do everything; he had to know everything; he had to be the best damned soldier his father had ever seen.
This is my last resort, suffocation, no breathing
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arms bleeding
Dean taps his pocket again for his gun, loaded and ready with three silver bullets. His father has another gun with other silver bullets in his own pocket. Dean is hoping that his father will find the werewolf first and that he'll be the one who will kill it. While Dean knows the killing is justified – it is, after all, a creature that hurts and kills innocent people – he also knows the werewolf will be in human form and he doesn't know if he can handle shooting a man through the heart.
He stays where he was stationed: just outside the building were John has tracked the werewolf. His father has gone inside, intending to kill the werewolf before it even has a chance to pick up on the fact that there are hunters after it. Dean is simply a safety precaution, for two reasons. First – the age old rule – unless it can be otherwise avoided, one should never hunt alone. Second, in case the werewolf gets Dad and comes bolting out the door, it's Dean's responsibility to kill it.
Dean shivers. It's late, hours after midnight, and it's freezing. He wants to be back in the hotel room they're renting, asleep next to Sammy (who hopefully won't wake up and realize his family isn't there) where it's warm. He especially doesn't want to get up for school in the morning but knows that John will make him go.
He lets out a breath, watching it crystallize in the air, and shifts onto his other foot. He hopes Dad will come out soon; tell him the job is done, and then they'll both pack into the Impala and head home.
Dean perks as he hears footsteps. But they're not Dad's footsteps. For one, they're much too light – Dad's footsteps are heavy – and for two, the person is running. Dean's heart clenches. The werewolf must've escaped Dad and now it's coming out the front door. Dean pulls his gun, braces himself, and waits for the creature to appear.
A perfectly normal looking human man bursts out the front door. Dean gasps in spite of himself. It's going to be a lot harder than he thought to pull the trigger. Before the boy can blink, the werewolf has turned at his noise. The man's deep eyes narrow and he lunges. Dean manages to get off a shot but it goes into the man's shoulder, rather than into his heart. Dean winces at his failure because he knows now that the man is going to attack.
Dean readies himself for another shot but there's no chance for him to fire. The man is on top of him, sending them both flying to the ground. Dean's head smashes sharply against the pavement and his vision goes black for a terrifying moment. One of the werewolf's arms is against his throat, impairing his breathing while its other arm is scratching along Dean's flesh. He can feel it scraping the undersides of his arms, against his sides, trying to get to his heart.
Dean doesn't even think he can handle breathing right now, but he knows that he has to muster up some kind of strength. He thinks of the fact that John is, undoubtedly, on his way out the front door to rescue him and he only has to hold the werewolf off himself for a few more minutes. He forces himself to take a breath through the pressure the man is keeping on his throat. He'd let go of the gun during his fall to the ground, but he still has his own body and John has made sure that both of his boys are very effective weapons on their own.
Dean brings his fist up weakly to the man's face. It's not enough of a punch to injure the man, but it takes the werewolf by surprise. He rocks back, away from Dean's throat. Dean gasps for breath, his vision returning as air travels to his lungs again. The werewolf is back to clawing at Dean's tender torso. Blood is seeping through his ripped clothing and the werewolf is starting to lick his lips, transfixed by the fluids.
Dean knows the claws of a werewolf won't do anything to him but he also knows that, above all else, he must not get bitten. So when the werewolf leans in again, face heading toward Dean's wounds, Dean brings his arm back as much as he can manage and lands a punch squarely to the man's jaw. The man whimpers this time. Dean pushes him away, trying to take advantage of the fact that the small wound has left the man temporarily vulnerable.
The werewolf isn't letting him go that easily. He snarls, bringing a hand back to Dean's neck. Dean lets out a noise as the man's hand tightens harshly against his windpipe.
Then there's a bang.
The man slumps forward, his blood mixing with Dean's own. Dean rolls the body off of himself, trying to sit up but finding he's too lightheaded to do so. He lies on the ground and pants. John comes, hovering over his eldest.
"Here," he says gruffly, removing his coat. "Wrap yourself in that. I'll burn the body and then we'll get you back to the hotel room and patch you up."
Dean accepts the jacket, nodding. His father hauls the body off to take care of it, and Dean slumps back against the freezing ground. He knows he should stand up, go and help Dad, but he can't manage it. Winchesters aren't supposed to be emotional and they aren't supposed to feel pain, but right now Dean is doing both. He was lying here, bleeding from a werewolf attack and his father's job still takes precedence – Dean has often felt abandoned by his father, particularly on dark nights when it's just him and Sammy, but he's never felt it quite so acutely before.
Dean groans, waiting for the pain to pass.
This is my last resort,
Cut my life into pieces
I've reached my last resort, suffocation, no breathing
"How are you feeling?" John asks as he stations his oldest son on the bathroom counter of their hotel room.
"Bad," Dean manages, pale with hurt. They're both trying to keep their voices down, knowing that Sam is sleeping in the next room. Neither of them want the ten-year-old boy to wake up and see the damage done to his brother.
"That's to be expected," John sighs and cracks open the first aid kit. He quickly and efficiently cleans Dean's wounds and begins to bandage them. "They're not deep enough to need stitches," he begins but then inspects a deep wound on Dean's chest. "I stand corrected. Grit your teeth, bud."
Dean closes his eyes and pretends he can't feel the needle repeatedly piercing his skin. He wants to cry out but knows that he can't. Soldiers don't show weakness and pain is weakness. He keeps his eyes closed even after John leaves the chest wound alone. He feels his father prodding his body, bandaging wounds and even, twice more, stitching them up.
"Are we almost done?" Dean wonders after he feels like he's been sitting for an eternity.
"'Bout halfway," John admits.
Dean squares his jaw as he feels the cool needle rest against his skin again.
John begins to speak, about to ask another question about where his boy hurts, when the bathroom door flings open.
Both of the elder Winchester men jump, John accidently sliding the needle across the crook of his son's arm. A thin line of blood appears but no one notices, both too concentrated on Sam to say a word.
Sam swipes his arm across his eyes, not expecting the bright light that he was greeted with. He yawns, forcing his eyes to adjust to the light and the scene ahead of him. His child's eyes, nearly hidden behind a mop of hair, widen as he looks to his brother.
"Dean! Are you okay? When did you get hurt? Dad! He's still bleeding!"
"Breathe, Sammy," Dean instructs, aware that his little brother is about to go into overdrive.
"You're hurt," Sam repeats, empathy welling on the child's face.
"I'll be okay," Dean assures him, even though his body is throbbing and he's still bleeding in several spots. It doesn't matter how injured he gets, he'll always end up being okay. Soldiers never give in. Soldiers never show weakness. Soldiers carry on, no matter what.
"You're hurt," Sam echoes again.
"Go back to bed," John orders. "I need to fix up your brother."
Sam stares at Dean, unable to leave his big brother.
"Go," Dean repeats. "I'll be right there. I swear."
"Swear?" Sam echoes, turning the word into a question.
"As soon as Dad gets done with patching me up," Dean nods. "And you know how good he is at that."
Sam, though still clearly worried over his brother, finally obeys his family members and wanders back to his hotel bed. Dean swings the door shut and closes his eyes again, waiting for his father to finish to job.
"Did you hit your head when you fell?" John asks, focusing on a particularly tricky wound to bandage.
"Yes," Dean admits.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
John finally leans away from his son's bloody torso. He's patched every wound as best as he could. Now, he just needs to wait for time to take its course and heal the boy. "I'm going to need to check for signs of concussion."
Dean patiently sits as his father goes through the motions.
"I'm still worried," John admits though there's no evidence to say that Dean for sure has a head injury. "I'm going to set the alarm clock to wake you in an hour. When it does, I want you to set it for the next hour until it's time to get up for school, got it?"
Dean nods. "Yes, Dad."
"Now go get some sleep." John orders.
Dean slips from the bathroom counter and to the bed he shares with Sammy. He crawls in next to his brother, fully expecting the child to be sleeping. Yet, he's not. As soon as Dean slips between the covers, the much smaller boy has twined his ever growing limbs around his brother.
"Are you really okay, Dean?" Sam implores.
"Yes," Dean manages, rearranging Sam so that he's not clinging to any sore areas.
"I don't like when you get hurt."
"It's better than you getting hurt." Dean runs his hand through Sam's hair, knowing the action soothes him and, hopefully, it'll make him sleep.
"I don't like it," Sam insists. "I don't want you to get hurt anymore."
Dean knows that he's going to get hurt again. In fact, he's probably going to get hurt a lot worse than this in the future.
"Go to sleep, Sammy."
Sam touches one of the bandages on Dean's arm very gently, knowing that anything rough will hurt.
"I want to protect you."
"I'm the big brother. I protect you. And if I have to get hurt to make sure you don't, then I'm okay with that."
Sam is silent for a beat. "I'm really glad you love me, Dean."
Dean cracks a smile. "I'm really glad you love me."
Sam doesn't respond. His breathing evens out and soon he's flung out across the mattress, snoring occasionally. Dean pulls a pillow over his head, pressing it against his face. He screams silently against the fabric, a vice for his frustrations over his soldier life.
Sometimes he wonders if it's really worth it.
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arms bleeding
Do you even care if I die bleeding?
Dean is so angry he feels as though he's going to burst. He doesn't want Sam to see how upset he is, though. He knows that Sam's upset enough right now without Dean adding to his emotions.
"Okay," Dean faces his little brother. "Why don't you call for food and then we'll walk down to that ice-cream place we saw? Would that make you feel better?"
Sam stares back with red-rimmed eyes. "Why wasn't Dad there?" He asks Dean because his brother always has the answers. "I won an award. Isn't that important to him?"
Yes, it was. His children were important to John Winchester. But, for some unfathomable reason that neither of them could explain, the job came first. It was a harsh truth that both of them had to live with every day as they trained under their father's watchful eye or as they looked for him but he wasn't there – absent from yet another important event.
"Something probably came up," Dean says through tight-lips. "I was there, though. And I talked to your teacher. We're both so proud of you, Sammy."
Sam looks down to the floor. He huffs and meets Dean's eyes again, coming to some sort of understanding. "Chinese food?"
"Sure."
"And double scoop."
"Whatever you want. You won the award, you deserve it."
Sam grins. "You're really proud of me?"
"I'd be proud of you no matter what. But I guess right now I'm extra proud of you."
Sam's grin widens and he bounces over to the hotel phone to call in their order.
Dean slips into the bathroom. He wants to punch a hole in the damn wall. Sam had been talking about this award and the upcoming ceremony for over a week, soliciting daily promises from John and Dean that no, they wouldn't leave before the ceremony happened and yes, both would be in attendance – no plans to hang out with friends, no hunting, no plans to leave; Sam wanted their complete attention for one night.
John couldn't even keep one lousy promise. Dean wouldn't have cared if his father hadn't kept a promise to him but John had promised Sam who was far more important in Dean's eyes. He had sat in that crowd, clapping and cheering for his little brother as he stumbled across the school stage, and had felt an agonizing pull as he realized the child was looking for the father who wasn't there; who couldn't reserve one night for his sons and not for the job.
Dean knows he needs to calm down and get it together, for Sam. And he needs to do it fast. There's only one thing that can calm him down. Dean falls to his knees, digging under the sink. He pulls out the small plastic bag that he's hidden up in the piping – somewhere that not even his vigilant father will find it. He leans back against the locked door, unraveling the plastic bag and opening it.
His fingers search out one of the small pieces of metal in the bottom of the bag and he pulls it out. He stares down at the razor in his palm before shrugging his bracelets off his wrist and pressing the blade to the sensitive skin. He gasps in relief as he feels the pain – slow and gentle, covering his mind and drowning everything out. He makes several more lines, deep and precise across his wrist, careful not to exceed the space his bracelet would cover.
He makes lines until he's sure Sam's wondering why on earth he's taking so much time in the bathroom.
He makes lines until he can't remember why he's angry at his father – a father who wouldn't care about his son if he walked in the bathroom right now, would only care that his perfectly trained soldier is weak after all.
He makes lines because he knows his father doesn't care but hopes that, one day, his dad might think to look a little further, see exactly what this hard life is doing to the son who pretends to love it, but really loves his father more.
And he's careful not to take his lines just a little too far because he knows that if he died like this – slumped in the bathroom with metal buried in his wrist – it would absolutely kill his little brother.
Under no circumstances would Dean willingly leave Sam.
Would it be wrong, would it be right?
If I took my life tonight,
Chances are that I might
Dean wearily packs his bags, wondering (as he always did when he packed up another hotel room, rental house, or apartment) just how they managed to acquire so much stuff when his family was essentially nomadic and how it managed to scatter to every corner of the dwelling. He finally zips the last suitcase closed and decides to do another once over of the room, remembering to slip into the bathroom and tuck his plastic bag into the pocket of his jeans where no one else could accidentally find it.
He's just finished making sure they're leaving nothing in the room when Sam returns – stomping red faced to one of the beds and falling face first on it. He hears a growl of frustration from his father outside the door. He swallows, knowing that Sam and Dad are fighting again – even though Sam is only ten, he's already rebelling against their father's way of life – and Dean hates it every time they do. Not only does he hate feeling like he has to choose a side (the father he's dedicated his life to pleasing or the little brother that was the light of his life?) but he also hates the fact that Sammy's so dedicated to appearing normal. It's something that Dean has coveted since the fire that took their mother, but something he's accepted he can never have; something he can never be. He knows that Sam hasn't come to the same acceptance.
Dean drags the suitcases to the door, pushing them out to John. His father stares at him.
"I thought you could put them in the car while I calm Sam down," Dean breathes.
"Good idea," John admits, beginning to heft the bags.
Dean disappears back into the hotel room, sitting next to his brother and rubbing his back.
"Sammy," he croons, "talk to me."
"It's not fair! I don't want a new school or a new town or a new place to live. I don't want to be the new kid again. Why can't we just stop moving around? Or why don't I ever get a say?"
Dean sighs. "I know how hard it is. I feel that too."
"You never say anything," Sam accuses, peeking up at him. "Dad might listen to you."
Dean scoffs. "Dad never listens to anyone but himself."
"Why doesn't he let us just stay somewhere?" Sam suggests. "Just you and me in the same place forever. Imagine! I mean, it's just you and me a lot of the time anyway and we could do it, Dean. I know we could! Do you think he would let us?"
Dean shakes his head. "We belong with Dad. We're only ten and fourteen. We wouldn't be allowed to live alone."
"But we'd be together. And he's never home anyway."
Dean wishes he could seize his life in his hands. He wishes he had the courage to tell his father "I'm not sure if I want to do this hunting thing anymore and I know it's not the right life for Sam" but he can't. His life belonged with his father and whatever his father asked of him. Whether it was right of his father to ask him of certain things was certainly up for debate but regardless, he was John's boy, John's soldier, and he did what he was asked. His life was not his own. His life was dictated by his father.
"Dean!" Sam reaches out, snatching his brother's arm, looking up at him with large puppy eyes. "Please. I don't want to do this anymore."
Dean looks down to his little brother, the one person he will always love, and he realizes something. No, his life isn't his own. But, his life doesn't belong to his father either. Though his father has shaped every aspect of who he is – has turned this mama's boy into a hardened fighter – and tells him what to do and where to go, he doesn't belong to his father. No one owns him, no one controls him like Sam's pleading eyes, dependent on his older brother.
Dean wouldn't fight for his own right to life – his own escape from the demands of a hunter – but he might just fight for Sam.
Mutilation out of sight
and I'm contemplating suicide
Dean left Sam sitting on the bed and made his way out to where his father was leaning against the Impala. His heart was hammering in his chest. He couldn't breathe. Never before had he even so much as suggested that he didn't like hunting. He was his father's oldest. He had to do whatever his father said. It was the truth that Dean had grown up with since his mother had died. If I do exactly what he says, if I do exactly what he does, then he'll have no choice but to love me.
"Where's Sam?" Were the first words out of John's mouth when he saw Dean approaching. He was itching to get on the road, to get on the hunt again.
"In the hotel room." Dean leans against the hood of the Impala, aware of just how very small he is standing next to John.
"Why's he still in there?"
Dean swallows, knowing that in this next moment, he could lose all he's worked for. He could lose his father's dependence, his father's trust, his father's approval, even his father's love. Sam's pleading face swam in front of his eyes. Somehow, Sam being happy meant more than a father's love to Dean, no matter how much of his life had been dedicated to that father. He knows, with certainty, that he is about to fall from grace in his father's eyes and, no matter what happens between them in the future, nothing could bring him back to where he was before.
"He wanted me to talk to you about something." Dean keeps his eyes trained on the black asphalt, knowing this conversation is easier to have with the ground than his father's eyes.
"What?"
"He doesn't want the hunter life anymore, Dad. And I've been wondering too if it's the best thing for any of us. Sam, and me too I guess, we were hoping we could pick a spot and settle down." Dean keeps going. Now that he's started, nothing can make him stop. His thoughts come spilling out of him, lightning fast. "It's been so hard on us, the moving around the switching schools. I know Sam is always talking about it, and I've never said a thing, but I've wanted to. I hate slipping into town and then slipping back out, sometimes not even giving people my real name. I feel like you're taking away pieces of me when you say 'your name is Jimmy Mercury' or something.
"I am Dean Winchester. That's the name Mom gave me. And I know that if she were still here, none of this would be happening. You can't tell me this is what she'd want for us Dad."
Dean knows that bringing up his mother is crossing the line in his father's eyes. John never speaks of her except on three occasions: her birthday, their anniversary, and the day of her death.
"Dean Winchester," John roars, "I don't want to hear that kind of talk again. You are my boys. You do what I say. And don't talk about what your mother would have wanted. She isn't here now. It's just me."
"But, Dad," Dean protests, knowing that it's useless. He's already lost. "We want to be normal."
"Normal is relative," John growls. He snatches Dean's arm and drags him around to the side of the Impala. "Get in. I'm going to get your brother."
John throws the door open, shoving his eldest in the car. Dean collapses in the passenger seat, rubbing his temple where it had collided with the dashboard. He rights himself up in the seat, bringing his knees to his chest forcing himself to breathe. His father has neverhandled him like that before. Though John can be gruff and demanding, he's never been physical with them – a few lectures here and there when deserved, but John has never laid a hand on either him or Sam.
Dean drops his head. He hadn't had much hope that John would agree to leave his sons in one place, or become stationary himself, but he hadn't expected John to react so negatively. Dean closes his eyes, hand absently going to his wrist and stroking his self-inflicted scars.
He knows he's going to have to rededicate himself to his father – become even more intense in his efforts to please. It's the only way he knows to protect Sammy, keep him as far away from the life as a hunter he possibly can under the circumstances. If he's Dad's little solider – even better than before – then Dad would rely on him and him alone and if Sam ever wanted to get out of the life, though Dean knows it'll kill him if his little brother ever leaves, then Dad shouldn't fight.
Because Dad will have Dean, the better fighter, the more dedicated hunter, and Sam will be free.
'Cause I'm losing my sight, losing my mind
Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine
Dean tries to open his eyes but he can't. Everything about him feels achy and heavy; all of him hurts. He just wants to make it go away. He wants to disappear from the pain. One thought breaks through the deep haze that is his mind: Sam is in danger.
He begins to struggle, trying to fight against the weight of his limbs.
"Shh," a female voice begins to soothe. "You're all right. Just lay back down. You're fine."
And Dean obeys.
Because she sounds like Mom.
I don't own anything recognizable. The song is Last Resort by Papa Roach. There will be 3 chapters. Thanks to my beta: ImagineYourself64.
~TLL~