A/N: Hey, guys! So, my first Supernatural fanfic. This was supposed to be more humorous, but since the Winchesters were involved, of course it became angstier and more dramatic.

The Winchesters, I swear. Endless chasms of angst, they are.

But, yeah. This idea came to mind and wouldn't leave me alone. It seemed (still seems) kinda pointless, but I wrote it down anyway, and decided to post it (CUZ YOLO!1!11!). Do tell me how it is? I'll love you forever~.

I'm sorry for any typos. I edited it, like, three times now, but I'm sure some got away (and I don't want to reread it 'cause then I'll lose my courage and won't be able to post it).

Yup. I own Supernatural. How'd you know?

When Sammy'd Been Little

8:20. Sam was twenty minutes late.

Dean decided it was time to go searching for him. He bolted off the cheap, creaky bed and grabbed his jacket, reaching into his duffle bag––stocked and ready for any monster emergency, first-aid included––to fish for his flashlight before deciding to take the whole damned bag with him. He didn't know what'd taken Sammy; he needed to be prepared for anything. His keys lay next to his gun on the old, shabby desk, and he grabbed both before flinging the door open and walking to his car, eyes hard and steps heavy, hurried.

The duffel bag was thrown into the back, the car purring to life as he ignited it and backed out of the parking lot. He'd wanted to stock up the trunk like Dad's truck, but he'd been forbidden from doing so.

'Too risky,' Dad'd said. ' 'Sides, I'll take care of this bitch; there aren't any signs of any supernatural activity 'round this town––it's only in the forest. It's too risky to keep guns and knives in the back of a schoolboy's trunk, 'specially since you take the car to school."

Well, I guess this schoolboy's gotta go an' find his little bro without proper equipment, he thought, lips thinned as he drove to Sammy's friend's house. Sam'd told him that was where they were doing some crap science project, and he needed to ask how long ago Sammy'd left the house. With any luck, he'd still be there, just running a little––a lot––late.

Sammy's never late. He'd never forget. 'Sides, when are you ever lucky? You attract bad luck like honey attracts flies, his conscious whispered to him.

Dammit, he shouldn't've let Sammy go today. He should've said no, refused those big, pleading eyes of his, should've told him to get back earlier. Why'd he think he could let Sam––fourteen-year-old Sammy––roam around after sundown? He was fucking useless. Useless. What kind of moron let his kid brother walk home alone at nighttime, even if it was only ten minutes away?

9062. That was the address. Dean slowed down, eyes scanning the house addresses in the dark, grateful the one labelled '9062' had its lights lit, making it easier to spot. Stopping the car and clambering out, he hurried to the front door, heart pounding. His knuckles rapped against the wooden door and he waited for the door to be answered, shifting from foot to foot, crossing and uncrossing his arms.

The door was flung open and a blonde kid stared up at him, looking around thirteen or fourteen, baby-fat still on his face.

"Trevor, right?" Dean said in way of greeting.

"Um, yeah. You're...you're Dean, right? Sam's brother?" At Dean's nod, he blinked his dark brown eyes, eyebrows furrowed. "No offense, but what're you doin' here? It's kinda...late, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, where's Sammy?" Dean said, not giving a damn about what the kid was saying.

"...Sammy?"

Was this kid being stupid on purpose? "Sammy. Sam. 'Bout ye high, brown eyes, brown, floppy hair, your friend? Sound familiar?"

"I know who Sam is," he said in the petulant whine only fourteen-year-olds could pull off. "Why're you looking for––"

"Trevor, who's at the door?"

Great. Now June fucking Cleaver was here, too. Dean faced the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, slim woman that had made her way behind Trevor.

"Oh! Well, hello there. Who are you, young man?" she asked with a bright smile on her face.

Dean forced a smile onto his face. "Dean Daniels, ma'am. I'm here to pick up Samm––Sam."

"Oh! Samuel Daniels, you mean? Are you his brother?"

"Yes, ma'am." Goddammit, if this woman didn't spit out whether Sammy was here or not, he would not be responsible for his actions.

"Well, you must be very proud of him––he's a nice boy, a very good student, polite." Winking, she added, "Here's hoping he rubs off on Trevor!"

Dean laughed along with her, thinking, Shut the fuck up and tell me where Sammy is, dammit.

"So, where is he?" he asked as soon as she was done laughing.

"Oh, he isn't here," she said, smile on her face.

Then why the fuck didn't you say something, bitch? "Oh. When'd he leave?"

"Oh, no, dear, he didn't come here today. Why? Did he tell you he would be here?"

Dean froze. "He...never came?" Sammy'd…Sammy'd lied to him?

The hell?

"Dear, are you all right? Was Samuel supposed to be here?"

Dean shook his head, giving her a reassuring smile. "No, maybe I got it wrong." That little bitch. He'd lied to him? When he'd find Sammy, he was gonna make sure that little shit never even thought of deceiving him; he was gonna make sure that the brat got a new definition of 'punishment.'

"Are you sure? You're sure you don't need any help?"

He ran a hand through his hair, nodding. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sure. He's probably at the library, nose buried in a book. He said somethin' 'bout science research, so I guess I thought he'd be here." He'd been lied to. Sammy'd lied to him. Sam'd lied to his dad, Sam'd lied to his friends, Sam'd lied to his teachers, but Sam'd never lied to him. At least, never about something like this.

"Oh, I see," the lady said, and then frowned at him. "You should be more attentive, young man. Samuel's only fourteen. This is safe town, but you shouldn't let your brother wander all alone. Keep a better eye on him!"

"You're right," he said through gritted teeth. It wasn't his fault Sammy'd lied to him! And who was this lady, anyway, to tell him how to look after his ownbrother? Just who the hell did she think she was?

But it was his fault that Sammy'd gotten away with the lie, wasn't it? He should've known. He should've been better.

"As long as you understand," the lady said, giving him a crisp nod. Dean tried not to glare in return. Her face softened. "Do ask for help if you need any, all right? Don't hesitate."

"I won't," he lied, eyes flicking toward Trevor, who was averting his eyes. Dean zeroed in on him, an eagle spotting its prey.

The brat was hiding something. "You know something, Trevor?" he asked, glaring, voice hard.

Trevor looked at him and then at the ground, hands fidgeting with the end of his T-shirt. "No."

"Trevor," he warned. "Tell me."

"N-nothing," he squeaked.

"If you're lying to me…" He let Trevor finish the sentence on his own.

"I would thank you not to speak to my son in that manner!" the lady huffed, glaring at him.

Dean switched his glare to her, about to make a scathing retort when he thought better of it. Adults responded better to a polite, nice attitude; he needed the lady's son, and to do that, he had to go through the mother.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He hoped to God that she didn't catch the sarcasm that had bled into his reply. "Trevor, can ya please tell me where Sammy is?"

"Uh, I...I…"

"Trevor," the lady said, hands on her hips as she gave her son a disappointed look. "Are you hiding something?"

The kid gulped. "I––Sam made me promise not to tell."

"Trevor!" the lady gasped. "You're lying to me? Tell this nice young man what he wants to know."

"Ya shouldn't lie to your mom, kid," Dean said.

"Oh, like you've never lied to your mom," he snapped.

"I haven't," he said in a flat tone.

The kid snorted. "Yeah, sure."

He wondered whether he should tell that the reason he'd never lied to his mom was because there was nothing left of her besides a pile of ashes, but figured he didn't want to face the pitying, uncomfortable looks that accompanied when he told others of the fact.

"Trevor, enough," the lady said. "Tell me right this instance. You understand me? Right. This. Instance."

He shifted his gaze back to the ground, shoulders slouching, and mumbled something inaudible.

"Kid, speak up," Dean barked.

Trevor looked up at him, eyes narrowed and lips pushed into a pout. "He's on a date, all right? With Mandy Mitchell."

"A...date? A date. A stupid date?" Dean ran a hand through his hair, scowling. "Idiot. That bitch."

"Dean!" the lady gasped. "Do not use such strong language!"

"Sorry," he said, his mind elsewhere. "Where'd he go for this…date o' his?" Goddammit, that's what Sammy'd lied to him about? A fucking date? The hell? Where was the logic in that?

"He said that they'd go to the Smoothy shop and then to her house after that."

"To her house?"

"Well...Sam says that it isn't a date––him and Mandy are 'just friends' and are 'just getting together to do that English project'––but, I mean, why'd you go to a smoothy shop if it wasn't a date, y'know?"

"Where's this girl live?"

"Down on corner of Mill and Berry Lane."

Mill and Berry lane, where all the well-to-dos lived, all of those that were too good to interact with the rest of the masses. "Of course she does," Dean muttered to himself. She was Sammy's choice, after all––something was wrong with that kid. "Right. Thanks," Dean said, nodding to the lady, who beamed back. "See ya."

"Goodbye, Dean!"

He made his way to the car, lips thinned. He'd found out that Sammy'd lied to him––for a girl––but he still didn't know whether or not Sammy was safe.

"Stupid son of a bitch," he growled under his breath as he got into his car. He stared at the steering wheel, teeth gritted together and eyes glaring a hole into the leather, before letting out a sigh, his forehead touching the wheel.

Why'd...Why'd Sammy lie to him? To him? He tried to stay out of Sammy's hair, he tried to keep to himself as much as possible, but Sam telling him where he was going––was that too much to ask? Was it too much to ask to be able to do his job properly?

Or was he making too big a deal outta this? Sammy'd lied to him––that was what teenagers did, right?

But Sammy ain't just any teenager, he thought. Sammy lied ta you 'cause he doesn't trust you.

He backed up out of the driveway, right hand clutching the wheel. It seemed like his own brother didn't want him around these days, unless, of course, something was needed––like clothes, or a ride, or food. Just like Dad.

Dean swallowed past a lump in his throat, horrified to find his eyes burning, blinking to keep the tears at bay. So what if Sammy'd lied to him? So what if Sammy didn't seem to trust Dean anymore? So what if Sammy was finally growing tired of his older brother?

Where was that damned house, anyway?

He found it five minutes later, a pretty-ass house with a pretty-ass yard and a pretty-ass fence. Just Sammy's taste.

He stopped the Impala and got out, making sure he had his gun––just in case––before walking up the pathway, trying to smooth out the scowl presented on his face.

The fancy doorbell had just been pressed when the door was pulled open, a young girl looking up at him with wide eyes and a gap-toothed smile, short and skinny with shoulder-length hair.

"Hi," she said. "Who're you? I haven't seen you before. Are you Mandy's friend? Ooh, are you here to deliver the food we ordered?" She poked her head out, trying to look around him. "Where is it? Where is it?"

Dean blinked. Who the hell was this kid? He hadn't known little kids would be involved. "Uh…" How did you tell a little kid to fuck off?

She pouted. "You don't have the food, do you?"

"Lizzie! How many times must I tell you––do not open the door!" A bent old woman reached forward a skeletal hand and pushed the girl back before looking up at Dean, eyes narrowed. She was leathery, frail, as if a breeze would blow her over, a wisp of white hair on her head, sun-spots freckling her skin, lips pressed into a grim line that seemed permanent. The perfect image for the stereotypical No-Nonsense Granny. "Yes? What do you––"

"He doesn't have the food we ordered, granny!" the girl interrupted.

"And why would he?" she snapped before looking back at Dean. "What do you want, boy?"

Dean cleared his throat before answering, "I'm here to pick up Sam. Sam Daniels?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, adding more wrinkles to her lined face. "And why are you here? Why not his father? Who are you, anyway?"

"His older brother, and my dad's out on business."

"Leaving you two and your mother all alone?" She sniffed. "Humph."

Dean gritted his teeth. Don't strangle the old crone, don't strangle the old crone, don't strangle the old crone. "Yes. Poor her. Now, is Sammy here?"

"Oh, yes––upstairs, in my granddaughter's room. Can you believe the audacity?"

"They were kissing," the little girl said in a conspiratorial whisper before asking, "Have you ever kissed a girl? Why do people do it? It's gross, innit? Why do––"

"That boy kissed my innocent little granddaughter? Corrupted her, that's what he did! Why, you young people have no shame these days. No shame. Do parents not teach their kids to behave? I remember, back in my day––"

"––and then, I put my lips to Bluie's, but that didn't feel good––kinda furry, really, and gross––"

"––Why, nowadays, boys and girls go about kissing in public! The audacity of it all. I would never––"

Dean had had enough. "Shut up!" And then, when he saw the stunned silence, he added in a gruff voice, "Please." He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry for tellin' you ta shut up, but, please, can I get Sammy an' go? I don't think ya want me 'round for longer'n necessary."

Crazy Cat Lady sniffed, eyebrows arched and lips thinning. "Fine," she said, voice a barbed wire. "Stay here. I'll get him."

She left, leaving Dean and the girl––Lizzie, the crone'd call her––alone. She stared up at him through wide, green eyes, and Dean tried his best to avoid her gaze. How long did it take to call Sammy down?

"You shouldn't tell people to shut up, you know. Granny says that it's rude."

He gave her a wary once-over. "Uh-huh."

"It's not polite," she pressed on. "Only guys with no eqitet say unpolite things."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "I think ya mean etiquette."

"Yeah. Eqitet. Tha's what I just said," she said, as if Dean were rather slow. He was about to reply with a, "Sure," when she changed the subject. "Are you a suspicious stranger?" She said the word 'suspicious' like sus-pish-us, sounding out each syllable. "Granny says I shouldn't talk to suspicious stranger. But you're not a stranger stranger, are you? Mandy likes your brother, right? So you're not a real stranger." She stopped her prattle, eyes widening. "You're not suspicious, are ya? Ooh, Granny'll be so mad at me!" She glared at him. "You're getting me in trouble."

Dean's other eyebrow rose to met the first, lips twitching into an involuntary grin. She was such a little chatterbox. "I'm not suspicious." Well, not too suspicious. "Your granny might think so, but I wouldn't hurt you." He paused, thinking. "You're name's Lizzy, right?"

"E-liz-a-beth, thank you very much," she said in reply, arms crossed. "Tha's my right an' proper name."

"Well, E-liz-a-beth, how old are ya?" Why the hell was he even asking her? He didn't have time for this!

"Six," she announced, chest thrust out in pride, shoulders back. "Now, tell me, why do people kiss?"

" 'Cause it's fun," Dean said with a small smirk.

She screwed her face up. "How's it fun?"

"You'll understand when you're older," Dean said, shrugging.

"I am old enough ta––ta understand!" she protested, stamping her foot. "Why does every one always say that?"

Dean grinned, holding out his arms in a placating gesture, remembering how annoyed he used to be when he'd get such a response. "Okay, okay, you're old enough to understand."

She gave a haughty nod. "Tha's what I've been tryin' ta tell everyone."

Dean was about to reply when he saw Sammy arrive behind Lizzie, eyes downcast, feet shuffling forward, shoulders slouched. The smile slipped off his face, replaced with a menacing glare. Sam peeked up at Dean through his bangs, about to say something, but Dean beat him to the punch.

"Car," he barked. "Now."

Sam shrunk into himself, walking past Lizzie and Dean, teeth biting down on his lip.

Dean nodded at the old crone and said to Lizzie, "See ya."

He turned around, walking off to where Sammy was waiting in front of the Impala, but only got halfway before he heard a loud shout of, "Wait!"

He stopped and looked back to find Lizzie hurrying to him.

"You still haven't told me how it's fun," Lizzie accused.

Dean's eyebrows raised. She was still worrying about that? He had better things to do.

"Don't talk to that heathen, Lizzie!" the crone snapped. "Lizzie!"

"Well?" Lizzie prompted, ignoring the crone's shrill cries.

Should he answer, or should he not? He looked into her face, saw the determined set of the jaws and the curious sparkle in her eyes, and felt his resolve to get to the car and get back to the motel waver, thinking, Why the hell not? Ain't like Sammy and I are gonna have a pleasant conversation. "Well, uh, ya know how ya like to play with toys and braid your hair and stuff right now? Well, when ya get older, you'll like to kiss other guys instead. Ya thinks it's gross right now, but you'll love it when you're older. Got ta do with science, I think," he added. That's what he'd heard, at least. Hormones and shit like that.

She wrinkled her nose. "You like kissin' instead of toys when you're older? Tha's so stupid. I don't wanna get older, then."

Dean shrugged. "Everybody's gotta grow up. Change." Even little brothers.

"Well, that's stupid, too," she proclaimed.

Dean's smile was a sadder than he'd ever admit. "Yup. It is. But that's life, kid."

She blinked up at him, cocking her head to the side, ignoring her Granny's shrill threats of punishment. "You're a gross boy and have a weird name, Dean Daniels, but I like you."

Dean blinked, and then grinned. "And I like you, E-liz-a-beth." He glanced at where the old lady was making her way out and gestured toward her. "Now, ya might wanna listen to your granny 'fore she decides ta skin ya."

"What does 'skin ya' mean?" she asked.

"Never mind that. Go. Shoo! Ya don't wanna make her angrier than she already is."

She opened her mouth as if to protest, but Dean added another forceful, "Go," and she scampered off toward her Granny, yelling out, "Bye!" as she dodged her grandma and ran into the house.

Dean shook his head, lips curled up in amusement. He had meant what he'd said––he did like her, the little tramp, for whatever reason. Which was weird, considering he hated most little kids and kept as far away as possible from them, little snot-nosed brats that they were.

But he'd like this one. In fact, she'd reminded him of someone. He just didn't remember who…

Ignoring the insults and glares being thrown his way courtesy of the uptight granny, he made his way to the Impala. When he saw Sammy in the back seat, who averted his eyes when Dean looked at him, his temporary good mood evaporated. He wrenched the car door open and stepped in, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

He backed out of the drive way and shifted the gears with a violent jostle, punching the gas pedal and tearing down the road, hands clutching the wheel as he forced himself to take deep breaths, calm down, glancing at Sammy's slumped form through the rearview mirror and thinking, Good, you little bitch. Be ashamed. Be regretful.

They drove in tense silence to the motel, the time seeming to stretch on. He turned into the parking lot and parked the Impala, turning the engine off and waiting for a moment before saying in a cold, cutting voice, "So. How'd the project at Trevor's go? Got a lot done?"

He relished in the way Sam flinched, shrinking even further into himself.

"Finish that really hard homework o' yours, huh? Did that extra credit you were hopin' ta do?" he continued.

"Dean, I can explain, I swear," Sam said in a rush, looking at him through the rearview mirror, eyes wide and pleading, face panic-stricken.

"Oh? Can you?" Dean sneered before turning around his seat to look at Sammy dead on. "You lied to me, Sam, and broke curfew. What's there to explain?"

"I...I didn't––I didn't mean to! Honest! I just lost track o' time, is all!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he finished in a small voice, unleashing the patented Sam-Winchester-puppy-eyes.

But it wasn't going to work on Dean. Not today. "This ain't about you bein' late, Sammy!" When Sam gave him a look, he rectified, "Okay, fine, it's a bit about you bein' late. But the fact is, you lied to me. Ya couldn't tell me that ya had a date with a girl? Why? You've already had a date before, too! Why couldn't you just tell me?"

"I just...I'm sorry, all right? Dean, I am."

"What if you'd been hurt? What if something'd happened to you? I'd waste time runnin' 'round town tryin' ta locate you!" Why couldn't ya just tell me, Sammy? Why?

"But nothing bad actually happened, Dean! I'm fine!"

"But I didn't know that!" he roared. "Goddammit, Sammy, you could've been hurt or kidnapped or killed, and I didn't know where you were!"

"I could've been, but I'm not!" he shouted back. "Dean, stop overreacting! I just didn't want you to know about a friend and I didn't want you to meet a girl I like and, I dunno, seduce her or scare her! What's wrong with that? It's not as I went off hunting demons! And why do you even need to know about every single friend of mine, huh? I can protect myself! Dad's already said that there isn't supernatural activity 'round here!"

Dean gaped at Sam. Is that what his brother thought of him? After everything he'd done for the kid, Sammy thought he'd steal his girl? If Dean hadn't been so hurt at Sam's lack of trust, he'd have burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. "Sammy'd, I'd never do that to a girl you liked."

"Yeah, well, how'd I know that?" he snapped.

"Oh, jee, I don't know...how 'bout you try trusting your fucking brother?"

"That's easy for you to say," he muttered, scowling.

"An' what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Sammy said.

"No, you were gonna say somethin', but ya didn't. What is it?"

"Nothing! It's nothing, all right?"

"Sammy, tell me," Dean commanded.

"Dammit, Dean, mind your own business!" he snapped. "You don't need to know everything. You're not my dad!"

The comment went straight to his heart and embedded itself there, but Dean didn't let that show. "I know I ain't, Samuel, but when he ain't around, I'm in charge." His tone was harsher than it needed to be, but he didn't care.

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want you around, either!" Sam shouted, eyes widening when he realized what'd come out of his mouth. In a hurried, apologetic tone, he pleaded, "Wait, no, Dean, I didn't mean that. I didn't mean––I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

But the damage had already been done. Dean's biggest fear had been confirmed. He sat still, ignoring Sam's attempts at explaining. Everything around him faded into the background, surreal and unimportant.

Sammy didn't want him around.

The burning sensation in his eyes was back. He unfroze himself, saying in a scathing voice, "I think what you mean is clear enough," before getting out of the Impala and storming into the motel room, blocking out Sammy's yells of, "Dean! Dean, God, I'm sorry!"

Sammy didn't want him around.

-oOo-

Dean had made mac and cheese tonight––Sammy's favorite. He'd set the it out on the table before he'd thought that something was wrong, before he'd set out looking for Sam, and that was the first thing that greeted him when he thundered into the room.

The mac and cheese was cold. Lumpy. Dean stormed past it, jaw gritted and eyes blinking rapidly, reminding himself that, no, he could not cry, he was not some goddamn emotional chick, he was a Winchester, and Winchesters were tough, and he could handle this. He was okay. It was okay. Sammy didn't want him around? Well too bad, 'cause he had to be here. Those were his orders, and he wasn't going to disobey.

Protect Sammy. That was his one job. Protecting Sammy didn't guarantee Sammy wanting him around, but he didn't care. He got a beer out of the fridge, popping the lid and gulping it down. It tasted like piss, but at least it was something.

He didn't fucking care.

Sam slinked in a few minutes later, after Dean had drank his beer and opened another one. He didn't make eye contact, shuffling toward the bathroom, changing his clothes, brushing his teeth, climbing into bed. He didn't eat his dinner.

Dean didn't ask him to.

He didn't get ready for bed. Something told him he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. He sat down onto the couch, turning the TV on and lowering the volume, flipping through channels and watching none of them.

So what if Sammy didn't want him around? So what? Sam was an annoying pain in the ass––did he think that Dean wanted to be his goddamn babysitter? No, sir. He wanted out, too, but he had orders, and he wasn't going to disobey, and he didn't care, he didn't care.

He took another gulp, heart still pounding in his chest, face screwed into a scowl.

Only later, when Sam'd fallen asleep and he'd worked his way through his third bottle, did the little girl and who she reminded him of pop back into his mind.

She'd reminded him of Sammy, when Sammy'd been little.

Ugh, Sammy, you can be such a little bitch sometimes I swear. Should I add a sequel, in which I explain why Sam's been lyin' to big-brother Dean? Or should I just crawl back under my rock and never write again?

...The latter, you say? Very well.

Farewell, dear readers of mine!

(and please, please review. I'd really appreciate any and all feedback. Thanks!)

EDIT: Because every single person that has reviewed has asked this of me, there will be a sequel. I'm not sure when I'll upload it, but it shall be coming, hopefully sooner than later.