Title: Like A Powder Keg, Ready To Explode
Rating: T for language and ANGST.
Disclaimer: What's theirs is theirs, what's mine is mine - it's as simple as that.
Summary: Like father, like sons: tempers will rise.
A/N: Written in response to a challenge by Lia Walker. Hope you like it!
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It was a typical hunt. Big, Mean, and Ugly needed to be stopped, and the great John Winchester was there to stop it.
"Stay in the car," Dad had grumbled before slinging his bag over his shoulder, tossing Dean a loaded .9mm and giving him "the look". That look told Dean everything he needed to know.
Follow orders.
Don't leave the car.
Keep your eyes sharp.
Look after Sam.
Everything Dean already knew but Dad reminded him anyway. A guy slips up once, and eight years later, it's still his cross to bear. Dean sighed and shifted in his seat, pulling his jeans down to a more comfortable position around his hips. They were getting kind of tight, this pair, and definitely in need of being passed down to Sam. At the rate the kid was growing, he need them sooner rather than later.
"Dean, I'm bored."
Speaking of obnoxiously fast-growing little brothers. Dean swiveled in his seat and eyeballed Sam, thirteen years old and hair growing down around his eyes. He had bought Sam some hair clips, as a joke, to remind him that he needed a haircut, and had had to put up with that annoying, pouty, puppy-dog face for two weeks. If Sam wanted to go around looking like Chewbacca, that was his problem. Let the kid run into a tree, for all Dean cared.
"If you're so bored, do your homework," came the suggestion as Dean returned to guard duty. That should shut the kid up for a few hours, at least. Then Dad would come back and they could go.
"I finished it already," Sam groused, sliding towards the front of the car and looping his elbows over the back of the front seat. "When's Dad coming back?"
"As soon as he takes care of this thing," Dean muttered, not letting his eyes rest for a moment. The mention of whatever it was that Dad was after this time made him antsy and he itched to shoot something. His hand tightened reflexively around the gun in his lap and he heard Sam inhale sharply, noticing the weapon.
"Do you think you'll need that?" Dean didn't miss the slight shake to Sam's voice and his grip loosened marginally. "Naw," he drawled, slumping in his seat, the perfect picture of complete ease. "Dad just wanted to give you a reason to gripe."
"Shut up," Sam mumbled, but his words were stretched around the smile playing at his mouth. He could read Dean better than his big brother thought, and just having Dean's easy strength made him feel better than any gun could. There were a few minutes of silence as both boys were content breathing, until Sam started fidgeting again and Dean's patience broke.
"Would you quit?"
"I'm bored!"
"So talk to one of your little imaginary friends and be unbored!"
Indignant silence filled the Impala and Dean winced inwardly. Dad had just broken Sam of his imaginary friends phase, what with him never having many real ones since they moved so much, and Dean knew it was a touchy subject. He felt awful, letting it slip like that. A sniffle from the backseat just increased his guilt and he swung one arm over into the back, turning to face Sam.
"Wanna play a game?"
Hazel eyes swimming with unshed tears blinked up at him from behind too-long bangs. "What game?"
Dean smiled widely, relieved that Sam wasn't mad enough to be completely bratty. "You pick."
Sam's eyes narrowed, but he accepted the peace offering wordlessly. A quick wipe of his sleeve and he leaned forward, anxious to get his mind on anything besides what his father was doing at that moment.
"Can we play Risk?"
Dean's smile faltered. Ordinarily, that was a game they reserved for training, when John was teaching them both how to be quick and stealthy without losing track of their surroundings. It involved a home base and several landmarks strategically picked out. Whoever made it to the farthest marker fastest, won. The risk was that, normally, John was lurking behind a tree somewhere, ready to spring out and wrestle his victim to the ground. However, in this case, Big, Mean, and Ugly could be behind any tree, and Dean didn't feel like explaining to his father how it managed to string Sammy's guts out like tinsel.
"Please, Dean?" Sam's eyes were big and hopeful, and Dean let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. What the hell? They'd play once or twice, until Sam got too spooked to be out of the car anymore, and that would be that. Dad wouldn't even have to know.
Sam was out of the car and hopping like a jumping bean before Dean even reached for his door. Rolling his eyes, the elder Winchester stepped into the cool night air, hunching his shoulders under his leather jacket. "Alright, Sammy, what are the markers?"
Squinting, the thirteen-year-old took in his surroundings like a seasoned professional, gauging every tree for optimum advantage. "How about," he began slowly, "we just race?"
Dean wasn't quite sure he liked that idea. "Sam, you said you wanted to play Risk. Just pick the damn marker and I'll try to tag you."
"C'mon, Dean," Sam whined, pouting again. "We never just race. Why does it always have to be training?"
"Because it helps us!"
"If it helps so much, how come Dad still leaves us in the car?"
That caught Dean off-guard. All of a sudden, he saw his little brother differently. Sam wasn't just some kid who didn't understand what was going on; he had become fully aware of the situation. Long gone were the days of anxious questions. Now he was staring to piece things together, like some perverse puzzle that had slowly become their lives. Pretty soon, John wouldn't leave them in the car anymore – he would expect them to help. He would expect them to be soldiers. Dean's eyes hardened.
Until then, he could still protect Sam.
"Because you're still slow, that's why. Let's race if you're so anxious to get your butt beat." Dean shucked out of his jacket, a small smile playing across his lips when Sam chirruped happily and stripped out of his own coat. They knocked each other around for a moment to get the already-rushing adrenaline flowing a little bit faster as Dean picked out a "base". Nudging Sam's shoulder, he pointed to a big tree, about ten yards out, standing solitary and silent in this forest that was their momentary prison. "First one to that tree and back wins," he growled, a feral smile wrinkling his eyes when Sam crouched low to the ground, grinning viciously.
"On your mark, get set, go!" Sam yelped and took off in a dash of limbs before Dean even had time to blink. The older boy let out a laugh of pure shock and burst after his brother, letting his muscles get accustomed to a comfortable stride. This was what Dean loved – running and running with nothing to stop him. He would have played football if they ever stayed in one place long enough. Then again, equipment cost money, so maybe not. But he sure as hell loved running. He stretched out one hand and barely grazed Sam's back with his fingertips. The smaller boy grunted in surprise and burst forward with determination, but Dean just grinned wider and lengthened his stride. In mere moments, he was level with Sam, laughing at his frustrated little brother. "Like I said, Sammy," he jeered. "Slow!" With that, he put a little extra effort into his speed and took off, rounding the tree with ease and making for the Impala at a dead sprint. He could hear Sam crashing behind him, cursing and trying his best to keep up. What surprised Dean was that his little brother was doing a pretty decent job.
"Dean, wait for me!" Sam yelped, fatigue and the scary prospect of losing making his voice shrill and Dean smirked, almost at the car.
"Gotta be faster than that, Sammy!"
"Dean!"
That's when he heard it - the unmistakable roar of the exact Big, Mean, and Ugly he had been so anxious to avoid. Everything in the world ceased to exist for a moment as Dean put Sam's freaked-out tone into a different context.
The thing was going after Sam.
He didn't stop to think. The Impala loomed in his vision like a big, black haven and he reached inside his jacket pocket at the exact moment the creature came hurtling out of the trees toward Sam. There was a shriek – one that Dean would have totally teased him about if the situation weren't so dire – and Dean saw red. He grabbed the gun in one fluid motion and spun, letting off two stupid, rookie rounds.
The first round hit a tree, missing Sam's head by maybe a foot.
The second hit Ugly, square in the back, between the shoulders and spikes and scales.
Oh, God.
Red eyes, wide with fury and a barely visible cat-eye pupil, swung around and caught sight of a bigger, meatier prey. It snarled and hurled itself towards Dean, who very nearly folded in half in a hasty attempt to get out of the beast's way.
Attempt, of course, being the key word.
Claws like daggers collided with the Dean's right side, causing him to cry out in pain, but he kept his head enough to remember to roll over and out from underneath the onslaught. He could hear Sam crying, yelling, begging. Dean wanted to raise his head, wanted to tell Sammy that it was going to be okay, but he couldn't breathe. The hunter in him screamed at him to fight while the chickenshit seventeen-year-old pleaded for respite.
It was all becoming too much. In just a moment, the creature would end him, and then it would go after Sam. Dad would find their corpses, or whatever was left, in mangled heaps on the ground, indistinguishable from the loam and dead leaves.
The report of a rifle sounded close by and Dean feebly raised his head at the wounded howl of the beast. His heart skipped when he saw a familiar pair of boots, worn with age and use, step into his view sight and heard another shot go off, this time accompanied by the angry grunt of one pissed off John Winchester. Dean knew he was in trouble, knew he was injured, but his father's presence just made everything so much better.
Small hands pushed at him and he registered that it was Sam, sniffling and scared, trying to get him up. He managed to roll over enough to see his little brother's face, white and terrified, but otherwise unmarred. "Thank God," Dean groaned, wincing as Sam pulled him into a somewhat comfortable position. "Are you okay?" he asked Sam, green eyes searching when Sam didn't answer right away.
"Are you fuckin' kidding me right now?" John's voice shook with rage and Dean closed his eyes. Of course, now that the beast had been taken care of, it was his judgment day.
"I told you to stay in the car and watch out for Sam, and what do you do? Go running races and playing games like some girl!" John wrested Dean's arm out of Sam's grip and hauled his oldest son to his feet, ignoring Sam's indignant pleas. "I gave you orders, boy, and I expect those orders to be obeyed, you understand me?"
"Dad, he's hurt!"
"Dean!" John shook the boy hard, oblivious to Sam, tugging on his sleeve. "You better answer me! You almost got your brother killed!"
"Dad, stop!"
Raising hazy eyes to his father, Dean could barely keep the pain out of his voice as he whispered, "I'm sorry, sir."
"Sorry ain't good enough, boy!"
"Dad!"
"Get in the goddamned car, Sam!"
"He's bleeding!" Sam shrieked, pulling Dean from their father's grip and onto his own skinny frame, barely able to support Dean's stockier, more muscled body. The loss of his son's arms in his hands was like a bucket of cold water in the face to John and he blinked stupidly at his sons, both shaking – one in anger and one in pain. His eyes drifted to his hands, glistening red with his son's blood. The bile welled up in his throat like an explosion and his breath caught in his chest. He reached out to take his oldest from the boy and flinched when he saw how quickly Sam put up a barrier, protecting Dean from him. John sighed and dropped his hands, wiping the blood on his jeans.
"Sam, put Dean in the car. Let's go."
There was no argument from his youngest as Sam obeyed silently, helping his brother around to the back passenger door and sliding Dean into the seat easily. He laid his brother's precious leather jacket under his head as a pillow and shut the door gently, biting his lip against the tears that threatened to spill over his eyelids for the second time that night. Without a word to his father, Sam slid into the front seat, turning immediately to watch Dean.
John climbed into the driver's seat, silently starting the Impala and pulling out of the protection of the trees. He'd come back tomorrow and burn the carcass. Right now, Dean's labored coughing in the backseat was of far greater concern. He glanced at his youngest out of the corner of his eye and sighed.
"Sam, put your seatbelt on."
There was a moment of heavy silence as Sam contemplated disobeying, but one look from Dean had him turning in his seat and reproachfully reaching for the restraints.
John didn't miss the daggers in his son's eyes as Sam fastened the silver buckle and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You better watch your attitude, boy," he growled, accelerating as they hit the highway. "As I recall, there were two disobedient sons out there tonight."
"Don't get mad at Sam," Dean croaked from the backseat. "I'm the one that said we could play."
"Yeah, but I picked that we race. Get mad at me all you want."
"Shut up, Sam."
"You shut up."
"Both of you keep quiet until we get to the hospital. Sam, if you wanna do something useful, think of an excuse to tell the nurses, and keep your black looks to yourself. And Dean," John glanced back in the rearview mirror and saw his oldest wince, "you better not bleed out on me, boy."
It was the best he could do. They were getting too old to be mollycoddled, and Dean hated being treated with kid gloves anyway. There was nothing more to say in the heavy silence of the Chevy. If he lit into Sam for being an antagonist, Dean got pissy, and if he told off Dean for being irresponsible, Sam became an absolute brat. The two of them gravitated so completely around one another, it was amazing that they didn't have their own solar system. It made John feel lonely, but he supposed it was his fault. He had too often left Sam in the care of Dean, and therefore made it acceptable for Dean to become Sam's hero. This also meant that Sam took a sort of fierce pride in protecting his hero's integrity. Any insult, any reprimand, and John was immediately the villain.
He had brought it upon himself.
All there was to do now was wait out the angry silences and keep the powder keg from exploding.
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Whew! What an endeavor! I must say, it's the most I've written in a long while.
Reviews are loved.