Title: Even Heroes Weary
Summary: With Sam sick, and John gone, Dean is at the end of his rope. He's frustrated, and he is sick-and-tired of just about everything. Sam aged sixteen, Dean aged twenty.
1999.
The bowl of the toilet was a familiar and strangely welcoming sight. But sixteen-year-old Sam Winchester did not have time to admire the porcelain texture as he lurched forward into it, surrendering the contents of his stomach for the third time that day.
It was shameful – the mighty young hunter down for the count, and all because of some stupid flu virus. This was his fourth day "home" from school, with no one but his older brother there to look after him. He felt pathetic, especially with his face shoved in the toilet. He fought monsters, but he couldn't handle one microscopic virus?
"You okay, Sammy?" the voice floated under the bathroom door. It was concerned.
"Yeah, Dean," he replied, once the wave of nausea had passed. He leaned back against the sink, and caught his breath. The taste in his mouth was foul, and his throat burned. The sooner he got well, the better.
"Need anything?"
"Some Gravol." Slowly, Sam picked his body up off the floor. He felt as though he were trying to steer a stubborn, crooked-wheeled shopping cart. His lanky body was difficult enough to maneuver on a good day.
Sam brushed his teeth, and accepted the small pink pill Dean offered. He swallowed thankfully, hoping it would calm the storm raging in his abdomen.
Crawling under the fresh sheets his brother had just put on his bed, Sam glanced at Dean. He looked tired and restless. Sam knew he'd rather be hunting – Dean wasn't one to be cooped up anywhere for too long. But, of course, Dean had once again risen above and beyond the call of duty, waiting completely on Sam, never taking a single moment for himself, never uttering a complaint.
"Dean, I'm sorry."
"Sorry? What are you talking about?"
"I know you'd probably rather be with Dad. Instead you're stuck here, with me."
Dean snorted. "Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up, and go to sleep."
"...Dean?"
"What now?"
"Thanks." Dean smiled softly, and walked to his little brother's bed. True, he would have liked to be with John, instead of being trapped in a motel room, but he was not stuck with Sam. He had wanted to be here, to look after the person who meant the most to him. Screw John. He was needed here. Even with the constant vomiting, the coughing, and the growing pile of used Kleenex, Dean would rather be here than anywhere else in the world.
Dean laid a calloused hand on Sam's forehead. Fortunately his fever had dispersed. Gently, he brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his face. Ailment and fatigue made Sam appear years younger, almost like a little boy, but god, the kid was growing up fast.
Content with his brother's state, for the time being, Dean decided to make a quick errand. He needed some fresh air, badly. He felt like a smoker dying for a cigarette break - just that one drag to last him until his next.
"Sammy?"
"Mmm...?"
"I'm gonna step out for just a second. Want anything?"
"Huh?"
"Do you want anything while I'm out?"
"Mmm...chicken noodle soup?"
Dean chuckled softly, and shrugged into his jean jacket. "Coming right up."
The June sunshine warmed Dean's face and neck, beckoning him, inviting him to share in this glorious day. He breathed in the clean air greedily. It felt wonderful to be away from the germs and staleness. Dean wished he could stay outside all day, relax in the sun, drink a couple beers, maybe take a swim in the lake down the road.
A pretty blond sauntered past him, and winked. He watched her hips as she walked. Man, he really wished he could take that swim. Especially if she would go with him.
Dean was not gone any longer than ten minutes, returning with the requested soup in hand. The first thing he noticed was Sam's empty bed. Probably just in the bathroom again, Dean thought. The Gravol probably hadn't been any help.
"You'd better eat this now, so that at least you'll actually have something in your stomach."
Silence.
"Sam?" he tried again. No response. He checked the bathroom – empty. Dean couldn't find his brother anywhere, which meant something was seriously wrong. No way would Sam have taken off, not in his condition, never without telling Dean.
The single window stood open. Dean frowned. It had undoubtedly been closed when he left. And Sam's blankets...at first glance they appeared to be frantically thrown aside in a mad dash to the bathroom, but that wasn't so. They almost looked torn from the mattress.
"Damn it!" Dean kicked the bedside table. It didn't take a genius to realize something had happened to Sam, something bad. And he hadn't been there to protect him.
Dean methodically began to rip the room apart, searching for clues. The salt lines were all intact, the locks secured, no sulfur to be smelled, and everything else lay undisturbed. What the hell?
Frustrated, Dean sank heavily onto the bed, rubbing at his eyes. His brother was gone, taken most likely, by some merciless creature. The poor kid was sick. Of all the despicable acts... Why did this kind of stuff always happen to them?
Once again, Dean would not receive any help. His father missing-in-action as usual, the obsessed bastard. Oh, he could always find time to drag his boys into a dangerous hunt, or pick a fight with his youngest. But where was he when things really mattered?
Dean cursed, and assaulted the nightstand with a ferocious kick. A brown, leather object fell from its hiding place. Dean picked it up, and immediately recognized it, fire burning in his eyes. Had another living person, or non-living for that matter, been in the room they would have fled in terror from Dean's erupting wrath.
For in his hands, Dean Winchester held a hex bag. And if there was one thing he hated, it was witches. Filthy, skanky freaks with their disgusting dark arts and greedy souls.
It seemed one had made the mistake of stealing his brother.
Dean crushed the bag in his large hand. "The bitch is gonna die."
EvenHeroesWeary
The task of finding her proved to be easy. Sure to the average person she may have successfully cloaked herself, camouflaged among them. But she was no match for an experienced hunter, especially when that hunter was Dean Winchester, and he was on a mission.
The street rang with the sounds of children's laughter and merriment, but Dean took no notice as he pulled the Impala up to the curb. The house he wanted was two doors down. It belonged to a woman named Cytheria Acton.
The quaint little house was pink, of all colors, with a manicured yard, rose garden, and a white picket-fence. It only fuelled Dean's growing agitation. Once, just once, why couldn't a witch's house look scary and dark as it should, with tombstones littering the yard, and a giant neon sign screaming "Do Not Enter. I Will Eat You." That's how it should have looked; not harmless and tacky like this one.
Busting in the door would have suited Dean's mood perfectly, but he opted for the stealthier alternative, and crept around to the back. He found the door unlocked, and would have laughed at her stupidity, if the situation hadn't been dire.
"I hold a great grudge against that meddling John Winchester," a voice was ranting, as they usually seem to do. Dean rolled his eyes, and pulled out his knife, inching quietly toward the sound. Of course this was all about their father. "He killed my beloved sister. A shame really. She was such a talented witch. A fairly good teacher too. Although my skills will never match hers. But they'll do." The witch laughed delightfully. "Imagine my surprise when his two sons arrive here, in my town. Finally, I'll extract my revenge."
Dean rounded the bend, and beheld the Malibu Barbie of witches, hovering threateningly over Sam, who was tied firmly to a chair. She leaned in closer, causing the boy to flinch. "And that hunky brother of yours? If my little present did its work, then he's dead by now." Sam's eyes widened fearfully. "Oh, don't worry baby, you're next."
"Wanna bet?" Dean lunged at her, weapon held high above his head. It would have been a perfect kill, but she proved faster than he expected. She knocked the blade from his hand and sent a kick to his gut.
But he was still the better adversary. Dean had her pinned to the floor within seconds, and gazed, stunned, into the face of the blond who had winked at him. He groaned, "Are you fudgin' serious?" Of all the messed up...
That was the final straw. Dean snapped, unable to contain his frustration any longer. He started in on her, throwing one punch after another. Releasing penned up emotions with each swing.
"I am sick and tired of all this crap. Of repulsive, disturbing freaks, like you, breaking into our room, stealing my brother, and tying him to furniture! You good-for-nothing monsters, trying to get revenge on my father, who, if you haven't noticed, is not here! I am fed up with all you damned creatures always trying to hurt Sam and I, trying to have your own way. Come on! Do you think I asked for any of this? Do you think this is the life I would have chosen? I never get a break. A thank-you, or in the very least a look, from dear old Dad would be nice. I worship that man, became the obedient son, but does he give a damn? No. I never complain, and he never fails to take advantage of that, or my willingness. I practically raised Sam from the age of four, grew-up the day my mother died. No trips to Disneyland or fairy-tale endings for me. I've seen more, carried more weight on my shoulders, than I ever should have. How could he put that kind of responsibility on a child? A child! 'Protect Sammy at all costs,' he reminds me, as if I wouldn't give my life for him at any second. I'm here too, you know. I'm here too!
"I'm here..." Dean whispered, stopping mid-hit, suddenly very exhausted. The witch lay unconscious underneath him, lucky her. He took the opportunity to retrieve his knife, and ram it through her heart.
"Hey, Sammy, how you doing?" Dean asked, crouching down before him, and working at the cruel bindings.
"I-I-I'm f-fine," Sam managed, though he looked drained, and horribly pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "J-j-just s-so c-cold." Dean lifted the youth into his arms. His body warm and comforting.
"It'll be okay. I'm here, I've got you." Dean was there. He was always there.
EvenHeroesWeary
"Dean?" Sam asked days later, as he packed what few clothes he possessed into a duffel bag. John was back, and they were leaving. They voted not to tell him of their little adventure. He'd just fly into a frenzy, and there was nothing he could do now. Too little too late, as usual.
Luckily Sam was feeling better, having finally beaten the virus down. The journey would be bearable.
"Yeah?"
"Everything you said, before you killed the witch, was it true? What I mean is...is that how you really feel?"
Dean stiffened. Against his better judgement he'd allowed his tongue to fly loose, granted the words passage from his lips. "I guess."
"Do you..." Sam hesitated. "Do you hate me?"
Dean spun around. "What?"
"It's my fault, isn't it? You growing up too soon, you always having to take care of me. I'm a burden. All that stuff-"
"Woah, Sammy. You are not a burden. None of that is your fault. How I feel is my problem. You're my brother. Hell, you're probably my reason for living. So no, I don't hate you. Don't know what I'd do without you, except maybe never have to answer dumb-ass questions."
Sam smiled, "Thanks, Dean. You're awesome."
"Damn right I am. Now hurry up, Dad's waiting."
Sam slung the bag over his shoulder, and headed to the car. Dean glanced around the room one final time, and shut the door behind him.
He was always shutting doors, it seemed, but never reopening any of them.
He hated it.
END