This is my first Supernatural story so I would really appreciate some feedback!
Summary: Sam and John have their first fight, and it's about Dean. Both of them are stubborn, but back then it was much easier to strike a truce.
I'm considering writing a second chapter for this about Sam and John's big fight that made Sam leave. Should I do it?
"Dad, Dean hasn't come back yet," Sam said as he stood in the doorway to the garage, where John was cleaning his weapons. "He went for a walk after he walked me home from school, and he's still out."
John grunted in response, but he continued cleaning the machete that he was currently working onSam stepped into the room and shut the door. "It's the third time this week," he said, though he knew John was aware of that.
"He's out sulking again," John replied, setting down the machete so that he could pick up a gun. Usually, Dean would be doing this job. He enjoyed doing this job, detailing the weaponry, becoming familiar with it, making it shine like it was new. It was actually Dean's way of picking up his own bad moods, unless of course, he was feeling extra down in the dumps. In that case, Dean would go out and wander around aimlessly, a habit he'd only recently developed after he'd realized it was okay to let Sammy out of his sight.
"Dean doesn't sulk," Sammy defended his brother.
John shot him a look, the are-you-kidding-me look. "Dean sulks better than anyone. He just does it where I can't see."
"He's upset," Sam said indignantly while he took a seat on an overturned bucket. "But he isn't sulking."
"Right Sam," John said indifferently, looking back at the rifle. "Something you want?"
Sam said nothing, just stared at his father for a minute or two. He sighed as he leaned back against the wall. "Don't you want to know why Dean's upset?"
"Would it really matter?" John asked. "Dean'll be upset about whatever stupid thing he's upset about." He looked at Sam. "Besides, I got a feeling you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"
"Dean doesn't want to move yet," Sam said simply.
"Dean doesn't care about the moving Sammy," John said, as if his younger son was being absolutely ridiculous. He wondered if maybe Sam was really trying to say that he himself didn't want to move at the end of the week. "He doesn't mind it one bit. Besides, we've been here longer than usual. It's about time we leave."
"He never gets to make friends Dad," Sam said. "I make them faster than he does, I think, because I try to do some of the after school stuff. But he's always trying to look after you and me. And he knows we're just going to leave, so I think he just doesn't bother. He never makes friends."
"Then, why does he care if we leave?" John asked as he went back to cleaning he gun.
"Because this time he did make friends," Sam told him. "There's a girl."
John smirked and shook his head. "Of course," he said sarcastically. "Of course, there's a girl." Hard to believe, but his older son, who had once been a very awkward-looking little boy, had really grown into his looks. His big green eyes weren't so big any longer, his jaw was strong and powerful, and his training had helped him buff up much more than other boys his age. The fifteen-year-old had the poise and prowess of an older, more mature man. John had been wondering when there would be a girl. "This girl got a name?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Never met her. She's really pretty though. I know that because I saw her walking with Dean a lot to meet me at my school. He never brought her close enough to meet me, though."
"So is that where Dean is right now?" John asked, as it suddenly hit him that Dean was sneaking around. "With that girl?"
Sam shook his head. "He hasn't been walking with her at all since you said we were leaving. He isn't out with her Dad." He put his hands on the edge of the bucket, between his legs, his left hand resting on top of the right as he leaned forward. "He isn't out sulking, either," he added protectively. What would Dean say if he knew that Sam was just as protective of him as he was of Sam.
"Right," John said, though Sam knew he wasn't really agreeing with him. "You already established that Dean doesn't sulk."
"Anyway, Dad," Sam continued. "There's this dance…"
That really got John's full attention. He looked at Sam skeptically. "Dance? Dean doesn't do dances."
"Dean's never been able to do dances," Sam countered.
"He wouldn't want to," John told the boy, as he set down the gun and the rag he'd been cleaning it with.
"Then, why were two tickets for it in the trash the night that you told us we were leaving?" Sam asked, standing up and pulling the two tickets from his back pocket.
John frowned as he grabbed the two tickets. Sure enough, they were for a semi-formal homecoming dance that was set to take place the Friday after their planned departure. "What the hell is a dance good for anyway?" the hunter said.
Sam shrugged. "Don't ask me. I'm still in middle school, so I don't know."
"Dean wouldn't buy tickets to this damn thing," John said as he handed them back to Sam. "He wouldn't want to go to one of those."
"But he did," Sam said. "And he does. He wants to go so that he can take that girl."
"Dean tell you all of this, did he?" John asked.
"No. But I can tell that it's what's wrong with him."
"He'll get over it."
"No," Sam said, walking closer so that he was almost toe-to-toe with his father. "It's not fair."
That was the first time John had ever heard those words from Sam. It had always been 'why?' Now it was 'not fair.' He had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time he'd hear those words from Sam. "Life's not fair."
"It's even less fair for Dean," Sam said angrily. "He doesn't get anything he wants Dad. Never. He doesn't even bother to ask you, probably because he knows he won't get it."
"Drop it, Sam," John warned. He towered over the boy, to let him know he was crossing a line.
But if Sam knew he'd crossed that line, he didn't care much. He squared his feet and stood up tall, puffing his chest out with indignation as he crossed his arms over it. He wasn't looking even the least bit intimidated. "No."
"Sam," John said in a low, threatening tone, expecting the boy to stand down. Why was such a simple conversation getting out of hand like this? They were talking about a stupid dance, for Christ's sake!
"No," Sam said again, standing even taller, if possible.
"What the hell is your problem?" John growled. "You do not get to tell me 'no.' Is that clear?" No answer. "I want a 'yes, sir,' Sam."
Sam's nostrils flared, and he narrowed his eyes. "No, sir!" he barked as if he were a military soldier, but the sarcasm behind the word sir was enough to piss his dad off even if he'd said 'yes.'
John's frown deepened. Dean had never been so insubordinate, had never so strongly questioned his father's authority. Sure, once he had hit the age Sammy was at, and he'd begun to deliberately expand his vocabulary of colorful profanities, the boy had definitely become a bit mouthy, but mostly with other authority figures. John rarely got the brunt of those verbal attacks.
No, when John had a problem with Dean, it usually involved some outside factors.
Like when Dean had been twelve and a little late in catching up to the height of some of his peers, he'd kicked some kid's sorry ass for calling him short. How could those kids have known that scrawny, awkward little Dean Winchester knew more ways to kill someone than most grown men ever would, and that, even with his inferior size, it made it all too easy for him to get the upper hand?
Or the time when Dean had mouthed off to his eighth grade science teacher for claiming that there was no such thing as a poltergeist. "Overactive imagination," John had had to tell the man. "Kid watches too many movies. I'll make sure he cuts down."
John's personal favorite had happened just a few months ago, when he'd found a cigarette butt in the trash can. Dean had never been a stupid kid, but hell if he had ever been exactly smart when he tried to hide something he knew would piss John off. And the trash? Bad place to try and hide the evidence, especially when the house still smells like a bar. John had presented the butt to him, promptly receiving a flat-out lie of 'It's not mine, I swear' that had pissed him off further. Then, he'd stormed out of the house, leaving a frightened Dean fairly sure that he was in for and ass-kicking, only to return with a pack of cigarettes from the nearest convenience store. He'd thrust the pack at Dean, said, 'Smoke up,' and forced the poor kid to smoke the entire pack. When Dean had become sick that night, coughing and throwing up in the bathroom, John hadn't helped and he'd commanded Sammy not to help either. Of course, his anger had dissipated later, and he'd gone in to help out his son while the younger one slept. Silent apologies had been understood while remaining unspoken, a truce had come, and all had been set right between father and son.
Dean was constantly going through new stages of rebellion, but mostly they were the normal kind for a troubled fifteen-year-old boy. The kind of rebellions that were directed against the world, not specifically John. But then again, Pastor Jim had suggested once to John that Dean's little escapades were his way of… How had Jim put it? Passive-aggressively rebelling against him.
John snorted. That, he could accept. As long as Dean made no clear sign of outright defiance, John could care less what kind of passive-aggressive attempts he made to express his anger. So long as Dean was one-hundred percent behind his father and came through when it counted, John was satisfied.
But the way Sam stood in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set firmly, his eyes glaring with so much heat in them John could almost feel it burning his skin… It was enough to send John over the edge. This was his Sammy, his loveable little guy. How could he be so defiant against his own father?John should have seen it coming though, what with the way Sam was always asking his father why they did the things they did and why they did them that way. He should have seen it in the way Sam always seemed to have no problem asking… no… telling his father what he needed or wanted. It was something Dean had never been able to do, pursuing his own needs, maybe because he was so used to looking after Sammy's, but Sam had it down to an art form, getting what he needed.
Not that Sam was selfish. Quite the contrary. All of those years of being taken care of by his big brother had made him very grateful… only towards his brother, that is. Sam could see just how much Dean gave him every single second of his life, and he appreciated and loved Dean more than any other person in the world. He would never ask Dean for a goddamn thing, because he knew Dean would give it to him anyway, whether Sam wanted him to or not.
His father, on the other hand, was always the prime target for his questioning. Ever since the age of seven, Sam had always told his father what was on his mind. But up until this particular conversation, it had always been in a friendly, curious manner. 'Why do we have to destroy the ghost?' 'Why do we move around so much?' 'Why us and not someone else?' 'Why can't I play soccer?' 'Why don't I get to have as much fun as other kids my age?' 'Why does Dean never get to have any fun?'
John should have known that his first fight with Sam would be over Dean though. With Dean's hesitance, or downright refusal, to strive for his own wants and needs, and Sam's ease at doing so for himself, John should have known that soon Sam would also find ease in doing it for Dean. Sam was lucky that Dean was out moping, because if he'd known that Sam was fighting his father for him, he'd have been pretty upset by it. Dean put his own desires on hold if it was something that he'd have to fight for, because he'd much rather fight for Sammy's or John's .
"One extra week," Sam said, calmly now.
"Who the hell do you think you are Sammy?" John asked angrily.
"One extra week," Sam repeated, standing his ground. "Then we leave. Dean gets to take the girl out, and then we can leave."
"You are in no position here to call the shots," John told him.
"Well, having you in charge puts you in the position to make our lives miserable!" Sam retaliated.
John glared at him. And eleven year old should never talk like that to his own father. John wasn't trying to make their lives miserable. He didn't even think they were miserable. Maybe not completely happy, but not miserable. It was the job, though, that did it. John couldn't help it. Mary's killer was out there. If they were miserable, it was Mary's killer to blame, not John.
"Dean thinks he's a freak," Sam said. "Can't blame him for feeling that way though, because I feel like I am too sometimes. We have a freaky life, that's for sure. It's such bullshit."
"Watch your mouth," John said, but he didn't sound as mean and gruff as before.
Sam didn't apologize. "It's one dance. Sure, dances are probably really stupid. And Dean probably doesn't even care about the dance, not so much as the girl he planned on taking. But it's normal. Can't Dean at least do one normal thing while he's still in high school?"
"Sam I made my decision, already," John said.
"Then, change your mind!" Sam shouted. "It's one fucking week!"
"You watch that mouth of yours!" John warned again. Christ, he's starting to sound like his brother the way he curses.
"I will when you stop being an ass," Sam said.
Oh, that was it. Sam had finally struck John's last nerve. Where did a kid his age get off calling his own father an ass? "Sam."
"Dad," Sam replied evenly.
"Go to your room before I give in to the temptation kick your ass to China and back," John said, trying to keep his voice calm. "You will stay in your room for the rest of the night, and you will only come out to use the bathroom or to eat, in which case you will not speak to either me or your brother. You will not read any of your books to entertain yourself, unless it is your homework. You will not speak even when you and Dean both go to bed. And you will do the same when you come home from school every day, until we leave next Saturday morning."
Sam's eyes brightened as he realized he'd won, but he tried to maintain an angry expression.
"Is that understood?" John asked.
"Yes, sir," Sam said, the sincere use of the response as somewhat of a truce, telling his dad he was more than happy to accept the punishment if it helped Dean.
Dean came back about a half hour later and went to his bedroom as if nothing was wrong with him. "Hey Sammy," he said as he saw his little brother staring at the ceiling. "Where's your book, dork? Kind of weird seeing you without one. Twilight Zone-ish."
"I'm not allowed to read," Sam said simply, not bothering to look at him. "Or talk." He was doing a very good job at appearing grumpy and bored, but he was actually quite proud of himself.
Dean quirked an eyebrow and shrugged before walking out of the room. He found his father in the kitchen, heating up some frozen dinners in the microwave. "What's up with Sammy?" Dean asked as he went to pour himself a cup of orange juice.
"Grounded," John grunted.
Dean's eyes widened. "His first grounding?" he asked, in shock. "Wow this is a momentous occasion Dad. I mean, I got grounded for the first time when I was eight-"
"You were a pain in the ass when you were eight."
"-I was beginning to think he'd never get grounded. What did he do?" Dean put the plastic cup to his lips and took a sip, while waiting for an answer.
"Mouthed off," John replied. "Big time."
"'Bout what?" Dean asked.
"Does it really matter?" John pulled out the first of the dinners from the microwave and set in front of one of the stools at the counter. "Sam!" he bellowed. "Come get your dinner!"
A minute later, the youngest Winchester was there, looking very grumpy as he sat in front of his plate.
"So, what did you do?" Dean asked him while he waited for his own dinner to heat up.
"He's not allowed to talk," John said. "So don't bother trying to get a word out of him."
Dean sighed, giving up on his quest for answers about Sam's crime.
Five minutes later, his own plate was in front of him, and he began eating it hungrily. He paused, however, when his father set something down in front of his plate. Two tickets that Dean was sure he'd thrown in the trash three days earlier. "Dad?"
"Found those and thought you might want to keep 'em," John said, while putting the last dinner in the microwave. "It'd be pretty silly to have to buy new ones."
"Why would I need any at all?" Dean asked, trying to sound like he didn't care. "Aren't we leaving this Friday? Besides, dances are really gay."
"Yea, well," John replied, "girls don't think so. And now that Sammy's grounded until next weekend, I guess we have to stick around here until he serves his time. So you might as well go. I'm sure there is a pretty girl who'll want to go with you. I mean, since you clearly take after your father's good looks and all."
"You don't think dances are stupid?" Dean asked him.
John shrugged. "I went to a few, back in my day," he said. "I had a good time. Trust me, the girls love going to them. Did I ever tell you that I took your mother to our homecoming dance junior year? That was before we started dating." He poured himself a cup of orange juice to go with his frozen lasagna. "I know dances sound dumb, but with the right girl they can be a lot of fun. Just give it a chance."
"Fine," Dean said, as if he was giving in to some horrible demand, but Sam saw the spark in his eyes. Dean was more excited to be able to take the girl to the dance then he would ever let on. John saw it too.
The two glanced at each other while Dean wasn't looking, and both of them felt the strong urge to grin. John turned back to the microwave that beeped just in time to divert him, and Sam ducked his head to hide the satisfied smirk that wouldn't leave his face.
John sat down beside his boys with his food. He and Sammy had had their first real fight, and they'd come out no worse for wear. And now it was even more clear to John where Sammy stood when it came to Dean's happiness. Well, I must have done something right with these boys.
"So Sammy," Dean asked mischievously. "Does this mean that I can say anything or call you whatever I want and you can't do a damn thing about it?"
John shook his head and grinned to himself. Wonder how long it'll take before Sammy regrets this one…
So let me know what you think! Thanks!
