A/N: Hi! So, this is my first Supernatural fic and I'm pretty nervous about it. I'm going to incorporate a lot of characters and genres; there will be romance, supernatural, tragedy, etc. More characters to come include Jess, Castiel, Kevin, and Jo. I haven't decided yet who Dean is destined to end up with, so that will be a surprise for us all, hahah. Sam and Jess will be a pair, though! The plan is to have all the characters in college together. Now that Dean is back home, his father wants him at school to watch over Sam and to take time to heal before going back into the workforce. I know this first chapter isn't all that great or long, but I promise it will get better as I become more comfortable and confident with it :)
Rated M for violence, sex, language, drugs, and graphic details.
Hollywood does an amazing job at romanticizing war. The actors always manage to look gorgeous, even with fake dirt smeared across their chiseled jaws, and the dramatic music in the background never fails to excite and enthrall the audience. There's no shame in enjoying the movies, even Dean loved them at one point. But as he lay on his back in the dirt, blood bubbling from his mouth and pouring from his nose, he decided that maybe those movies weren't so cool after all. In fact, they were so horribly unrealistic. He didn't hear any dramatic music as he lay dying in Afghanistan. He didn't hear anything at all except for the slowing, dull beat of his heart. Turning his head slightly to the left, he watched with glazed eyes as his fellow soldiers ran in slow motion. Their mouths were moving, but no words came out. Dean's eyebrows furrowed and when he tried to talk, to call out to them, he merely drooled blood and sand. One particular soldier noticed him; Killian Milone. The Irish-American had gone through boot camp with him and they'd quickly become close friends. They shared the same dirty humor, love for good beer and kinky brunettes, and were both only twenty years old. He had a loud, quirky, and contagious laugh that even made the Sergeant-Major's mouth twitch into a smile. Together, he and Dean were known as the dynamic duo, the trouble-makers, and the barrack comedians. Dean remembered a specific time where Killian had gotten them into trouble.
Their recruit team had been woken up in the middle of the night for a random wake up call. The soldiers stood lined up outside the barracks, bleary-eyed and not daring to complain or fidget.
"Good morning, sleeping beauties! It is 0300, a wonderful time to go for a five mile run. What do you think of that, Milone?" the drill sergeant called, turning to face Killian. It was hard not to smirk at the Irish-American, whose dark locks stuck up in wild, unruly directions, his eyes rimmed red from being tipsy. He and Dean had snuck back into the barracks only two hours ago from one of the local bars. Of course, that was not allowed, but Dean and Killian were not exactly model soldiers. Dean gave him a sidelong glance, biting the insides of his cheeks to hold back the laugh that was bubbling up in his throat.
"Aye, a lovely idea, sir," Killian mumbled. The drill sergeant came over to stand directly in front of him. There was a moment's pause where nobody spoke, moved, or even breathed. Not even the air dared to whistle. This particular sergeant was known for being ruthless and had zero sense of humor. Rumor had it, he had sold his soul to the devil to make his voice even scarier. One time, a soldier named Johnson locked his knees during drill and passed out. Because he passed out, this sergeant, Sergeant Gomez, made Johnson run seven miles after dinner with a thirty pound pack on his back.
"Are you drunk, Milone?" the drill sergeant asked, his tone daring him to lie. His voice was low and incredulous.
"Amn't, sir," Killian replied indigenously.
"Excuse me? Amn't?" the drill sergeant barked.
"It's a contraction of 'am not', sir," Dean offered. The drill sergeant whipped on his heels to land his cold gaze on Dean, who quickly looked forward again, his spine straighter than the pole that proudly waved the American flag in the center of the base.
"Was I talking to you, Winchester?" Sergeant Gomez shouted.
"No, sir," Dean replied.
"Then shut up! Drop and give me twenty," Sergeant Gomez snapped, turning back to Killian while Dean immediately dropped to the ground and began his push-ups. Killian grinned at the drill sergeant.
"Aw, don't give me them boss eyes, sir! Me and Dean were just up to a bit o' bolloxology, gettin' a bit langered, ya know? We go in, and I ordered seven shots o' tequila…alright, and a Guinness, but only 'cause it's an Irish sin to not. I downed them as fast as I can – one, two, three…so on! The bartender says…He says…Wow that was fast! And I says…I says, ya would too if ya had what I had! He goes, what do ye have? And I says, fifty cents! I ran right outta there! But this wanker -," Killian paused his story to thrust his hand at Dean, who had just finished his push-ups and was back at attention. "This wanker was all scundered, probably because this cute lass was watching, so he paid the tab and we came back and went to bed."
Dean couldn't hold back any longer, he burst out laughing at the story. Not just because the memory was funny, but because Killian was so screwed. Other soldiers started laughing as well, and soon the laughter was echoing down the aisles of barracks. Until the sergeant blew his whistle painfully sharp and loud, then silence resumed.
"I don't understand half of what you just said, Milone, and you better thank your Irish ancestors for that. But from what I pieced together, you and Winchester broke the rules. So now your fellow soldiers can thank you when they're running six miles instead of five. And, once again, you and Winchester are on bathroom cleaning duty," the sergeant said.
"His accent's really exaggerated when he's drunk, sir," Dean said with a dimpled grin.
"Speaking out of turn, again, pretty boy! Give me another twenty!"
Killian's shocking gray eyes were wide and filled with panic, his camo-clad chest heaving. He was drenched in sweat and someone else's blood and he didn't look like a sexy Hollywood actor. He looked like a young man who'd just finished holding his dead friend. He looked like a young man who'd just shot a twelve year old running at him with a bomb strapped to his chest. Dean's gaze met Killian's and the Irish-American ran over, collapsing beside him and grabbing the sides of Dean's head.
"Winchester," Killian said, his eyes roaming his friend's body, looking for injury. Dean had been shot in the stomach; his torso was soaked with dark blood. Dean smiled at him, delirious from blood-loss.
"Milone. Do me a favor," he mumbled thickly. Killian nodded, shrugging out of his backpack to pull out a kit. He looked away from Dean, screaming for a medic, but his voice sounded far, far away to Dean.
"Tell my brother Sammy I'm sorry. He didn't want me to join the army. He felt that my dad pressured me into it. Tell him, Milone, and watch over him," Dean pleaded. Killian turned to him with fire in his eyes.
"Tell 'im your fucking self," Killian shouted over the roar of gunfire and a landing helicopter. But Dean didn't have the energy to reply. His gaze left Killian and went to the sky, staring at the stars with tears in his eyes. He refused to cry. He was going to die bravely, even if he didn't have an ounce of courage left. It didn't hurt. He didn't feel anything. In fact, he felt very warm and comfortable. Killian was shaking him and screaming his name, but Dean could barely hear him. He could barely taste the bitter, metallic flavor of his own blood, could barely smell his sweat and body odor. Everything was fading, and he blinked hazily at Killian one last time. The Irish-American was crying, his tears leaving clean streaks in his dirty, bloody face.
"Medic," he screamed over and over, his voice cracking, Dean's body relaxed and his eyes closed, allowing darkness to swallow him in its warm embrace, whisking him away from the battlefield.
"I think he's waking up."
Dean opened his eyes and he squinted at his bright surroundings. He was in a hospital, that much he knew, and he felt very clean and comfortable. He was tucked carefully in the bed, with a few machines beeping quietly somewhere behind him. An IV was attached to his arm, an oxygen tube wrapped around his face and plugged into his nostrils. He looked to his right to see Sam and Dad sitting by his side. Sam looked exhausted but relieved, his big puppy brown eyes looking at him with desperate concern.
"Dean, how are you feeling?" Sam asked. His soft brown hair was too long and messy, as usual, but that was to be expected from an eighteen year old kid. He reached out and took Dean's hand, frowning.
"Thirsty," Dean rasped. Dad quickly handed him a blue plastic cup, and Dean gulped the contents down too quickly. The water splashed down his chin, soaking into his hospital gown.
"Easy, tiger," Dad said quietly, his hand resting on Dean's head.
The fire burned brightly in the darkness, smoke eating up the oxygen. People in the village fled screaming, avoiding the gunfire between the American and Afghani soldiers. It was impossible to tell who was winning or losing; too many bodies were dropping to the ground. Was that a civilian or a soldier? Dean's eyes were wide and tearing from the smoke. He could hardly see, and he was half-deafened from the gunshots.
"Tiger, tiger!" Killian shouted, pointing wildly at the flames. Dean looked in the direction he was pointing, but he didn't see anything except smoke.
"Do ya see the tiger?" Killian screamed. He tripped and fell back on his ass, scrambling backwards. Dean grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.
"There's no fucking tiger, get it together! You're hallucinating; too much smoke. We have to keep moving," Dean shouted, dragging him away from the village. Killian clung to him, trying to see over his shoulder to look at the imaginary tiger.
"…okay? Dean? Dean!" Sam was calling. Dad was getting up to get a nurse. Dean blinked, realizing he'd dropped the cup to the floor.
"Milone," he said. Sam's eyebrows furrowed and he frowned, concerned.
"What?" Sam asked, glancing at the nurse's station. Dad was talking to them, making sure they were coming over to check on him.
"Where's Milone? Is he okay?" Dean asked impatiently. Sam opened and closed his mouth, then looked back at their father.
"Dammit, Sammy, where is he?" Dean shouted. Sam jumped, startled, and looked back at him. His eyes were wide, as if Dean had grown a second head.
"Dean…I don't know who that is."
Suddenly, someone started singing loudly and off-key from behind the curtain that separated Dean's half of the room from the other half.
"Oh, vodka's in the bottle and rum is in the flask/I've got a shot of brandy, and tequila in my glass/imported wines from off the vines will sometimes serve the task/but whiskey-Bailey's-Guinness will knock me on my ass!" The voice carried an Irish accent, and Dean immediately grinned with relief. Killian was alive.
"Milone, I'd recognize that awful singing from my grave," he called out. Sam seemed amused by the song, as well as relieved to see his brother lightening up.
"I didn't know that was Milone…I only saw his first name," Sam said apologetically. Dean squeezed his brother's hand reassuringly.
"Fuck off, ya muppet," Killian called back. All three boys laughed together, until the nurses came over with Dad and hushed them to give Dean a routine check. He settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes, exhaustion suddenly coming over him. He allowed the nurses to probe and poke without complaining or making comments. He was home, and he was alive. His best friend was alive, and he had his brother and dad here. Everything was going to be okay.
Later, Dean would laugh about believing that. This was only the beginning and he blamed the pain medication for making him naïve. The nurses gave him a shot of morphine, explaining that he would soon experience a lot of pain, so giving him the morphine now would help lessen the blow later. He simply nodded heavily, faintly hearing his father and brother laugh at his dopey expression and the way his soft green eyes grew glassy.
"Feels good, huh?" Dad joked. Dean grinned widely at them and bobbed his head in agreement.
"Oi! Gimme some o' that, too!" Killian called. Sam laughed, and Dean's head tilted back against the pillows, his lips pulling into a numb smile as he drifted back to sleep.
A/N: I really hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review to let me know what you think/if I should continue! :) Next chapter, Dean is released from the hospital. Sam introduces him to his girlfriend, Jess. John orders him to apply to Sam's university.