Title: What you don't know can hurt you
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Minor for 2.03 Bloodlust
Word count: 4525
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, not being paid.
A/N: Huge thank you to starrylizard for betaing and giving me the title, and lunardreamed and freelance for betaing.
Summary: The aftermath of a hunt leaves Sam questioning how his life has changed and whether he wants the life that his brother and dad are living. Dean 16, Sam 12. Sam POV.
It was the silence that woke Sam. He fuzzily looked at his watch – 9:50 pm – and rubbed his eyes. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he couldn't have been sleeping for long.
He was used to jubilant talking after a hunt (mainly from Dean) and a play-by-play analysis (also mainly from Dean) and a discussion of how things could be improved (mainly his dad), and he could sleep through it. He had slept through it a number of times, not waking until they got back to the motel. But something was wrong if both Dean and his dad were quiet.
Usually it meant a hunt had gone bad and, eventually, they'd start talking on the drive back to wherever they were staying. Usually it meant that Dean hadn't done something right or something unexpected had happened and both of them were fuming about it. Sam was fairly certain that it was worse than that this time.
His dad hadn't even started the car yet, was just staring stiff and silent off into the dark, his face filled with more shadows than those cast by the low light. Dean was facing the passenger side window, curled away from their father, away from Sam. John's jaw clenched once spasmodically and he reined his gaze in.
"Dean," John started, his voice even rougher than normal. Dean shrunk away, retreating further to the window. John sat for a few seconds, looking at Dean. What Sam could see of his expression was so unlike anything he had ever seen on his dad's face before that he almost couldn't name it. John finally started the engine and the radio blared on; he quickly stabbed it off.
John turned on the headlights and started the car forward, down the path that led back to the road. Trees blocked out the moonlight and loomed tall in the Impala's lights, guarding the car or warning it – Sam wasn't sure which. It was thinking that was guaranteed to have Dean rolling his eyes at him, if he knew.
"Dad," Sam ventured. "What happened?"
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," John replied, his voice terse. He kept his eyes on the road, not looking at Dean or in the mirror back at Sam.
Sam relaxed against his seat and looked out the side windows at the trees. He was sick of not being told anything, sick of being kept out of his brother and father's world. He didn't really want to hunt, but he didn't want to be purposefully excluded from it either. Dean was looking after Sam by himself at Sam's age, and Sam got stuck sleeping in the car because his dad didn't trust him at home by himself. It wasn't fair.
John made him train and he was just as good a shot as Dean, spoke Latin much more easily than Dean did, and yet he wasn't allowed on any hunts. He was almost completely left out of the discussion of them, too, at least until afterwards. Their dad never took much notice of what either boy had to add, anyway. What was the point of the training if he wasn't going to use it? He might as well just study for school.
The really frustrating thing was the fact that, up until a few months before, Dean had agreed with him.
Dean had enjoyed the hunt, but he'd talk about what else he'd do with his life: go to college, become a rock singer, a mad scientist, become a cop or an electrician, a mechanic. And between one hunt and the next he'd changed. He trained harder, talked less, and declared that he'd rather be doing nothing else with his life. He'd ask their dad question after question about the hunt, rather than protest – even to Sam – about the fact that a hunt stopped him studying for a test which meant that he'd get a C+ instead of a B+ in the subject he loved the most.
He hadn't even protested when they moved and he hadn't made it to first base with Jenny Mullen – not that Sam ever thought he would. She'd just been stringing Dean along; she thought he was a freak, according to her younger sister. Other than hunting, she was all that Dean had talked about and Dean had just accepted that he had to leave her behind.
It felt like there was a huge chasm between them now, like Dean was a grown up and Sam was still a child, and it hurt. Sam missed it being him and Dean against the world – or their dad, as the case may be. But Sam didn't want to be like them.
The car slid slightly on the gravel as they turned out onto the main road. It was nice to be back on a sealed road – gravel or dirt always made him feel sick, particularly if he was in the back seat. The trees weren't as dense around the road, allowing some of the moonlight to filter though and there was also the occasional street lamp.
Sam used the light to gather information. One flash of a street lamp – both his father's hands were black, dried blood, probably; another and he saw that Dean's face shimmered as the light passed, before leaving him in shadow again.
The realisation hit him like a freight train and his heart shuddered in his chest. Dean didn't…
Sam had only seen Dean like this once, four years before, when his friend, Matt someone, was hit by a car riding his bike to school. Their dad had picked Sam up from school and told him that Dean needed lots of hugs. He may not want them, but he needed them. Sam had almost burst into tears himself when he'd seen Dean curled up on his bed, his face wet and shoulders shaking silently. But he'd been strong and crawled onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Dean and told him it'd be okay. And it was, eventually. It had taken weeks of Dean not being Dean, their dad actually being around and more hugs than his dad had given in a long time.
Sam had only seen Dean cry that once. Sure, he'd been quiet and moody and angry at them both a lot, but he'd only cried that once and it was like he'd cried all the tears he'd ever had.
If his dad would let him talk and if he didn't think it would come out flippant and push Dean further into himself, Sam would ask, "Who died?" Because that was the only explanation for why Dean was curled up in the front seat crying.
Sam turned back to the side window and swallowed the spit that had built up in his mouth. Dean would need him to be strong, to be there for him, to hug him to the end of days, if necessary. He and Dad, they'd get Dean through it. They'd sit and watch bad movies and Dad would watch it with them and attempt to cook one of his masterpieces that almost always turned out surprisingly good, especially considering the ingredients and cooking facilities they usually had.
And by the end of the night Dean would be leaning silently against their dad and letting Sam cuddle up to him without a protest. They'd go to sleep and Dean would wake up from a nightmare, but it would be okay, because their dad was there. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to chase the dreams away until you could sleep again. The nightmares that mattered, that was. Monsters that their dad was almost completely certain didn't exist didn't garner much sympathy, even if they were purported to live in your closet.
They'd finally reached more signs of civilisation – more regular street lamps, the occasional house, fences flashing past as they sped through. One place still had Christmas lights, probably up all year. Sam couldn't imagine why you'd want to do that. It took away what made them special, what made Christmas magical.
Once they reached the real outskirts of the town, John slowed down. Small towns were notorious for their speed traps and getting pulled over on a night when something seemed to have gone horribly wrong and their dad still had blood on his hands was probably a very bad idea. Sam wouldn't be surprised if they didn't just hit the motel to wash off the worst of the blood and grab their stuff and run. It was looking like it was going to be one of those all too frequent nights.
They pulled into the motel a few minutes later and stopped in front of their room. John sat for a minute before looking in the rear-view mirror.
"Sam, help me get our stuff."
Sam glanced at Dean, but he hadn't moved. He couldn't have too much blood or guts or whatever on him, if their dad wasn't making him get out and wash-up before they left.
"Sam, now," John barked quietly and Sam reluctantly got out of the car. The lighting gave him a better view of Dean's face and Sam turned away, not able to stand it. He wasn't sure whether this was something that hugs could fix, not this time.
He trailed after his dad into the room. He could hear the tap running in the bathroom.
"Get your brother's stuff packed and grab anything either of you might want with you in the car. I want to be across a couple of state lines before the morning."
"Yes, sir," Sam responded loudly as he moved to grab their duffels. Usually their dad was content with getting the next state over if a hunt had gone bad. A couple of states between it and him meant that things couldn't have been worse and John was worried that they might be linked to it and end up with the cops on their tail. These were the hunts that Sam dreaded, when Dean was involved. He didn't usually have to worry about either of them getting hurt because their dad was always much more careful when Dean was there and had always taken him on the 'easier' hunts. If their dad was alone, then both boys worried about him coming home injured or with the cops on his tail.
Sam worried about both his and Dean's lives being over before they'd really begun. John and Dean could get caught for breaking and entering, grave desecration or even murder, and not all jails were easy to escape from. Without their dad, unless Sam and Dean were able to take off, they'd probably be split up and put in foster care. And if Dean ended up with a record it'd screw up any chance he had in the future of doing whatever he wanted.
Sam packed quickly and efficiently. They never unpacked too much anyway, when they were staying in a motel room. If they were in a crappy little apartment then they could unpack and sprawl out a bit, because it implied semi-permanence. Sam left some of the snack foods and drinks out. They'd probably need something in the car, seeing as it would probably be a long trip. If nothing else, their dad would probably need something.
Sam didn't even baulk at packing Dean's used socks, rescued from the sink, and underwear as he normally did. He just grabbed some of Dean's clean clothes to wrap them in, so he didn't have to risk contaminating himself. Dean could stink up a pair of socks like nobody's business. They were toxic if you got too close.
John came out of the bathroom with a red scrubbed face and hands and stripped off his outer shirt, exchanging it for a bloodless one, before stuffing it into his own bag, bloody side folded in.
"Dad, what…" Sam tried again, trailing off when his dad stopped with his back to him, his body tense.
"Not now, Sam," John said, his voice weary, before going back to stuffing his clothes in his bag.
"But," Sam started, needing to know what happened, what had affected Dean so badly.
"Sam, leave it," John barked and Sam jumped, guiltily hurrying to pack the last of Dean's things into his duffel.
It seemed that the older Sam got, the shorter John's fuse was. On the whole, it seemed to be with Sam; he didn't yell at Dean anywhere near as much, which was incredibly unfair. Dean was their dad's favourite, and that wasn't right. It wasn't Sam's fault that he'd rather read a book then go out for target practice or that he was still too young, according to his father, to hunt.
Finished, his dad zipped his bag up and turned to Sam, who stuffed the last item in Dean's. John grabbed the bag off him, leaving Sam to carry his own and the snacks.
"Pee and put the keys in the box," John said. Sam nodded and took the keys that were handed to him. They always paid a day in advance, so they wouldn't be stiffing the owner by cutting out suddenly.
Sam did his business and shut the door to the room, balancing his bag on his shoulder. He hurried over to the box for keys; there was a clang as each key hit the bottom of the box. He returned to the car and slung his bag into the trunk, before climbing in behind Dean again with his stash of food and drinks. He carefully avoided looking at Dean as he got in the car; he didn't think he'd be able to sit through the drive and not say anything, ask anything, if he saw Dean's face again. He always had questions, always wanted to know why, but it appeared that tonight wasn't the night for it.
"Get some sleep," John said, before he started the car and pulled out of the motel.
Sam settled back against the seat and squirmed around until he was comfortable. He let the sound of the engine block out all his thoughts and his worries about Dean and drifted off.
The car door shutting woke him. He looked sleepily around and saw his dad walking down the sidewalk. They were stopped in some empty street beside Ronnie's Metal Works. Sam looked at his watch. It had only been twenty minutes since they'd left the motel, so he had no idea why his dad had stopped.
He leaned forward. "Dean?" he asked quietly. He waited for a reply and when there was none settled back down in his seat and looked out the window. It had started to rain, big spots landing on the glass. Sam watched the progress of some of the spots, small spots growing larger as they merged with others until they were a stream flowing down, destroying everything in their path. Nothing stood a chance under their onslaught.
The door opened again, letting in the sound of the rain, before being quickly closed.
"Dad?" Sam said hesitantly.
"Just needed to make a phone call." He turned to face Dean. "Dean, it's done. He'll be okay."
Dean nodded slightly but otherwise didn't move. John rubbed his neck tiredly and started the car, quickly moving off into the night again. Sam let his mind drift.
He woke up abruptly, unsure of where he was or what had woken him.
"You awake?" he heard his dad ask from outside his window.
Sam yawned his answer as John disappeared from his view and looked out the window to see, surprisingly, yet another motel. He checked his watch: one thirty am; they'd made good time if their dad was happy with how far away they were now. Although, it was also possible that he was just too tired to drive any more.
Sam grabbed the bag of food and opened his door to find that Dean was already out of the car and pulling things from the trunk. He tried to grab his bag off Dean, but Dean pulled it out of the way and circled around him and into the motel room. John gave Sam his own bag and shut the trunk.
"I'll be back in the morning." John got back in the car leaving Sam dumbstruck. The engine turned over and the car took off, its tail lights shining dimly.
"Son of a…" Sam left the thought unfinished. Getting angry wouldn't do anything right now and wouldn't help Dean. He hefted John's bag up and joined his brother in the motel room. "Dad's left," he said as he dumped John's duffel on the queen sized bed. He looked up and around the room when he got no response. His and Dean's bags were on the two other single beds and Dean was nowhere in sight.
"Dean?"
Looking back around the room, Sam noticed that the bathroom door was shut. Dean probably needed a pee or a shower. Couldn't be a shower, though, all the towels were still piled on their individual beds and he hadn't kicked his boots off. So peeing or crapping. Not crapping; he'd know if that was happening. And there were no pee sounds either.
"Dean, you okay in there?"
When he again received no response, Sam walked over and tried the door. It was locked. On the whole, that was a big no-no in the Winchester household. Privacy wasn't something they very often had as they sometimes needed to leave in a hurry and didn't have the time to waste on just one person using the bathroom. And sometimes you just had to go, and you weren't going to let the fact that someone was in the shower stop you. Of course, they'd be ready to kill you when you flushed the toilet, but that was at least one fun result of close quarter living.
That wasn't to say that none of them locked the door. They all did on occasion, Dean a lot more frequently now that he was older. But somehow Sam didn't think that Dean would be in there jerking off.
Unfortunately Sam and Dean didn't have a set of their own lock picks yet and Dad's would still be in the car, so he couldn't even try to break in, and Dad would kill him if he drew attention to them by forcing the door.
Sam knocked. "Dean?" he called again. He put his ear against the door; he could hear what might be heavy breathing. Crying, hyperventilating, whacking off – probably all valid interpretations.
"Go away, Sammy." Dean's voice was raw and tired.
Sam rested his forehead against the door. "Dean, please, I need to check you over; make sure you didn't get hurt."
He waited for a reply, counting his breaths, suddenly angry. If nothing else, the counting stopped him from screaming at Dean, their dad and the world in general. He didn't want to annoy the neighbours or for anybody to get nosy.
Why couldn't Dad and Dean be a whole lot less stubborn? Was it genetic? Was he predisposed to become a stubborn-assed idiot with a martyr complex, denying everything normal in life, living like gypsy white trash? Why was it their job to deal with everything nasty and supernatural in the world?
He suddenly realised that he needed to pee, and that was another reason to be annoyed at the person who had locked himself in the bathroom. When Sam reached thirty Dean replied, his voice shakier then before. "I'm fine. Just…just go to bed, or something."
Of course there was the little problem of the fact that Sam's bladder suddenly felt like it had turned into an alien and was going to burst out of his body if he didn't do something about it. Even if that wasn't the case, he still wouldn't have been able to go to sleep. Their dad had trained them from an early age to go to the toilet before they went to bed, presumably to reduce bed-wetting. The problem was that it now meant that if Sam went to bed without peeing, even if he'd peed an hour before, he couldn't go to sleep. The only solution was to go and dunk the duckie. And wasn't that terminology a humiliating reminder every time Dean used it.
So, the idea just made him want to pee all the more.
"Dean, I need to pee. Seriously, I need to go. Unlock the door or I'll use your duffel bag."
Of course, there could be one minor problem. Sam heard a snort.
"Don't believe you."
And there the problem was.
"Fine," he snapped, "see if I care that your walkman gets wet."
"You mess with my walkman and I'll wring your neck, Sammy. Don't believe I won't."
At least Dean sounded more like Dean and less like someone who was falling apart. It was a patented Dean Winchester move: deflect, make the person laugh or angry and move on. It was good to know that Dean wasn't the only one who had the knack.
"You won't let me in there; I'll just have to go and pee outside." Sam stood for a few seconds and when the door didn't magically open he left the motel room, resisting the urge to slam the door out of respect for the neighbours.
The air was cold and he shivered slightly as he made his way around the side of the building to a group of trees. While the front of the motel was lit up, the garden area was in the dark. He crunched carefully over the leaves, scanning all directions, his hand hovering over the gun he'd grabbed. When he was satisfied that he wouldn't be seen from the motel he stopped and did his business. Once he'd finished he picked his way carefully back to the motel and cautiously pushed the door open, his gun out. The key hadn't been on any of the beds – it was probably in Dean's pocket – so he'd had no choice but to leave the door unlocked. The room appeared just as it had when he'd left five minutes before. Sam shut the door behind him and put the gun down on his bed.
"Dean, a tree monster just tried to eat me," he called. Dad would have killed Dean for not coming out of the bathroom to check out who'd walked in the door, so Sam let Dean know it was him. He sighed when there was no response other than the almost sobs.
If Dean was going to suffer in silence and be uncomfortable in the bathroom, Sam was going to suffer in silence on the floor next to the bathroom door. With a pillow, blanket, snack food and half a dozen of Dean's thicker comic books. And the gun in reach, of course. Then, if Dean wanted to talk or whatever, he was there. Besides, someone needed to be on guard in case the tree monsters decided to crash their room. Sam swallowed his own sobs, rubbed his eyes tiredly and opened up Wonder Woman.
He only realised that he'd fallen asleep when bright sunlight flooded his face. He opened his eyes with a start, grabbed the gun off the floor and pointed it at the window. His butt was asleep, his face was sticky from a wet drool patch on the pillow and his fingers were leaving greasy yellow marks on the gun.
There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door to the motel room opening, and his dad called his and Dean's names. The car pulling up outside must have been what had woken him.
"Dean, Sam?" his father asked again as he walked around the bed. Sam looked up at him. John was moving steadily and while Sam could smell cigarettes, he didn't smell barrels of alcohol. John's eyes darted around the room and then finally settled on the bathroom door and Sam on the floor.
"Dean's been in the bathroom all night." Sam had meant it to come out matter-of-factly, but somehow censure had crept into his tone.
"Well, he better get out of there, we have another hunt."
Sam stared at him incredulously, his anger building. He'd never felt this angry towards his father before, but the fact that he'd slept on the floor while Dean had cried in the bathroom and their father went out and did god knows what when their should have been TV watching, cooking and even hugging pushed all his buttons.
"Do you even care that your son has just spent the entire night crying in the bathroom? Or are you so caught up in the hunt that you don't even think about the fact that we're not your little soldiers." Sam let his voice drip with disdain and stared steadily at John. He thought he detected a slight flinch, but it was hard to tell: Winchesters didn't flinch.
"Dean doesn't need this right now." John's voice was still calm but Sam saw the set of his jaw that indicated annoyance and impatience.
"You obviously don't care about what he needs, so why should I?" Sam's stomach jumped and his heart started beating faster. "But you're right, he doesn't need this right now, he needs a supportive family. I was here, where were you?"
"You do not talk to me that way," John said through clenched teeth. He took a step forward. "You hear me – you never talk to me that way again. I'm doing what's best for you and Dean."
Sam laughed. "What's best? Are you serious?"
He heard the door open beside him, saw Dean standing in the doorway, his eyes rimmed with red.
"Let it go, Sam. Dad's right," Dean said steadily.
Sam pushed himself up off the floor and shook his head. "He's not right, why can't you see that? He's changing you, making you something you're not," Sam said desperately, pleading with Dean for him to see. "You're just a kid. Mom wouldn't-"
Dean pushed him against the wall, applying enough pressure to keep him there. "I said leave it, Sam." Dean shook his head. "And don't bring Mom into it. We're doing this for her, for other families out there, so they don't have to lose anyone. This is important, Sam, don't ever forget that."
Dean released him and walked slowly over to his bed. Sam looked at John, trying to hold off tears. Weirdly, John looked like he was doing the same.
"What's the hunt?" Dean asked.
It wasn't until John started to explain about their next hunt that Sam really realised that he wasn't eight anymore and that maybe more than his age had changed. He wanted to go back, but that wasn't possible. Things could never be the same and that scared the hell out of him. He didn't like who his dad was and he didn't like who Dean was becoming, and it seemed like he didn't really have a say about either.
But there was no way in hell he was ever going to be like them. He wasn't. He was going to have a normal life.