Okay, I worked out a few things, and this is going to be more than a three-shot. Sorry about that. Trust me :) we'll get to the angst soon enough…

Hidden Headaches

When he was fifteen, Dean ran away. You couldn't even say that, he didn't even run, he simply slipped out of the motel room door into the storm, as his little brother, then eleven, screamed like a brat at his father, who at that moment, was being surprisingly unreasonable.

The fact that Dean would admit to having noticed this was quite something, especially with his track record of unfathomable loyalty toward his old man, even when in his darkest moments of fatherhood, the oldest brother of the Winchester's most recent generation could always see the good in John, always.

Or maybe, he just hoped it was still there. The man that had held him so tightly, who had cried out in support as he played T-Ball, his father. His real father, not hunter, not fighter, just dad.

Dad wouldn't be home tonight, that much Dean knew. Instead John Winchester, bitter to the end, would sit down, pissed as hell, mulling over his youngest son's harsh words, but this time he would sit, staring his oldest son down, waiting for the apology for running off like a little kid who didn't know better.

He had slipped off into the night, and he had been none the wiser, that's why he was so angry, not because he had disobeyed him to an extent by not mentioning his leave, though, Dean simply figured that seeing as he was in front of his father when he opened the door and stepped into the rain, that would be enough.

For one night, he wanted to let go, and then he'd go right back to being the perfect soldier he'd always be. But everyone's allowed a bad day. Even Dean Winchester.

He never took the back door. This particular motel was more like a run down set of apartments. They included a garage with some rooms, that John had rented, leaving him somewhere to park the car, and clean is weapons without the added risk of accidental discharge breaking what little items they owned.

Dean hated using the backdoor, because the back door, meant you had to go through the garage door, unless you were willing to jump over the hole leading to the sewers beneath, his father having complained as many times as possible, and given the same response time and time again, that they would look into it, so now he simply told the boys to be careful. To avoid the whole that was nearly impossible to simply jump over.

He hated using the backdoor, because it meant stepping into the dingy space where rain seemed attracted to, where cobwebs hung all around, and god-knows-what-indigenous-insects dropped down and landed on your shoulders, or arms, and bit down...

He hated having to go through the garage door, he hated the rusted lock, jammed, making him have to push down and turn the key simultaneously, and then kick it a good few times, before it would even begin to open, then he would have to pull and pull until it came free, and allowed him entry to the garage.

The freezing garage where his father's car was parked proudly, gleaming in the glare of the rather rubbish light bulb swinging precariously from where it hung. He hated the cold that was ever present in the night, and he hated the inky blackness that always came closer when he stepped outside. He hated it, he hated it all.

But he would never admit it, never say anything that would lead his father to believe such a thing. He wouldn't lie and profess a great love, he would simply act as though it didn't bother him, when he sometimes wondered if he hated it more than little Sammy who was getting taller by the day.

Dean never used the back door if he could help it, and right now, he hadn't needed too. His brother and father were at it once again, and Dean simply sat on his crappy little bed, with the itchy sheets, and strange smell that made him gag at night. He sat, his eyes forward, attempting to close his ears, if such a thing was possible, from the harsh words being spoken so loudly.

Though granted, if ever he looked back, he would see it as mere child's play in comparison to the college boy Sam would become in the near future.

He never liked tennis, and he certainly didn't like playing the net, looking back and forth between the players, Sam and John, Sammy and Dad. He didn't like being in the net, because he was in the middle, and he was permanently in the cross-fire, and more often than not, that damn bitch of a ball hit him smack bang in the head.

Right, left, right, and Sammy's taking the serve, his right arm raised, the racket lifted high as the ball launches into the air...

Dean looked at his brother for a moment. Almost sad, wishing he'd learn to compromise when he knew John never would. Parents didn't know how, so it was up to the children to agree, to secretly hate them, and berate them under their breath, but never to the parents face, never get caught doing it, never stop doing it, either.

He didn't even know what the fight was about, and he mused that it was most likely Sam's mood swings, and his father's short temper adding to the mix with a little "I want to be normal," and a pinch, or rather a whole-damn spoonful of "This, this hunt, is more important, Sam," tossed in that no amount of sugar could help the youngest Winchester swallow willingly.

And Dean had had enough of listening, or trying to listen. Had enough of his name being thrown around as if he wasn't even there. He'd had enough of being the stupid net, and enough of that bloody ball skimming the top of his head.

He got off of the bed, just as the argument got more heated; he grabbed his jacket from the chair near the door, and took off into the night, sighing all the while. Neither remaining Winchester noticed until John glanced down, running a hand through his hair in an exasperated fashion, and saw, to his surprise, that Dean was not looking up at him, pleading to stop the fight, instead, the bed was empty, and except for Sammy, so was the room.

"Dean?" John suddenly voiced out, finally aware of the lack of a buffer between he and Sam, and Sam returned by searching the room with his own cautious stare, checking the bathroom in vain to find it empty, devoid of life. And instead, both males looked toward the door, and knew that Dean had gone.

The two drops he allowed himself to shed, fell down his cheeks, and then refused to swipe away, letting the rain do that for him, seemed to lift the pain of his growing headache for a moment, before the harsh winds pulled him back, and the thumping of hammers against his temples began once more, rhythmically and cruelly.

He wasn't someone who cried often, in fact, he never did. His father hated tears, because every time Sammy would get upset, he would look over to Dean as though at a loss at how to comfort. So the gauntlet fell to Dean to pick up the shards of a life, broken at his feet. John cried, once a year. His crude attempt at hardening his heart only allowed him one night in November to grieve, and he spent the rest of the time brooding, meticulously researching, writing in his journal, and hunting the crap out of this weeks big-bad.

Oh, and being a father of course. Can't forget that now, can we?

No, Dean, bitterness not helping the headache, dude

He reminded himself, finally making an attempt to dry his face as the rain continued to drench his skin, leaving him frozen to the core.

He had once wondered if he should voice out his concerns over the constant drumming, turning him insane as he gritted his teeth at the pain and nausea, but he knew now why it was. He didn't sleep, not properly. Maybe in Winchester standards he did, but when compared to say, every other kid his age, no, he barely got any sleep. He didn't drink anything through the day, simply because he never felt the need, and ignored the warnings of his father about luminescent yellow pee.

So what if he hadn't drunk enough water, it wouldn't kill him.

Yet.

And meals? Well, they could hardly be called that. Take out's, or the picks from the closest vending machines or 7/11, or if he was lucky, he'd find a stray Oreo inside of his bag, left forgotten, the last in its pack, begging to be eaten. Never meals. Never home-cooked, sometimes not cooked at all. He was beginning to think he preferred going hungry.

But then his stomach would grumble loudly and he'd quickly correct himself.

He was pushing himself, running on pure adrenaline. Walking, running, hunting on les than five hours of sleep, having drunk nothing, having eaten even less. Dehydrated, hungry and exhausted.

And royally pissed off with the constant bickering, no, constant fighting, between the two people he loved more than anything.

"Ugh." He growled under his breath, as once again his foot found itself landing in a puddle, drenching his trainer, sock, and ultimately his entire foot in frozen muddy water. He shook his foot slightly, but only serving to make his foot feel even colder as the wind still blew strongly around him. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and pushed open the creaking red gate leading to the small park.

His feet shuffled against the bark lining the ground, a seemingly softer landing than tarmac or concrete, but still incredibly painful to fall on. Sammy had fell on those things once, not here, but somewhere else, further away, but with the same bark, the same gravel crap that Dean was kicking away with his feet. He ignored the wet puddle on the swing as he sat himself down on it. He was soaked to the skin as it was what did a little more matter?

At first he sat dejected, staring down at his jeans, pushing strands of hair away as it stuck down to his forehead with the rain every now and again, but soon, by the wind's bidding he began to swing backwards and forwards. His feet scraped against the whatever-the-hell-it-was things beneath his toes at first, before he relented and swung accordingly. Feet in, feet out, feet in, feet out, gliding forwards and backwards as he held on to the chains loosely, gaining height with each pendulum swing.

The difference in gravity was exhilarating, he felt free, cold, freezing, but free. His pounding headache and heavy heart forgotten as he relished the moments in which he surpassed the bars above him, and continued to go higher and higher, the chains jangling, and the swing creaking, and Dean grinning.

Feet in, feet out, feet in, feet out, feet in, feet o-

The swing came to a stop as the chains were grabbed, and Dean swung suddenly, the world lurching and the momentum carrying him into a quick spin that when ended, let him see the very angry man in front of him.

And just like that, the weight in his chest grew, and the headache returned full force along with a new batch of dizziness. Damn swing.

"What the hell are you doing?" John Winchester bellowed, infuriated by the worry he was not accustomed to when it came to his oldest son, and his now wet-dog-like appearance.

Dean didn't reply, biting back the retort in his head that simply said; Swinging.

His sarcasm had come over leaps and bounds recently, his quips coming in faster as his brain worked in over-drive, and humour as his best defence mechanism really making the effort, but he knew his father would never appreciate it, hell; Sam didn't, though Dean wasn't sure if that was simply due to his brother's lack of understanding, or maybe because he was always on the receiving end...?

His brother appreciated being listened too, and respected, and his father appreciated good skills in battle. Good fighting, good footwork, a well landed punch, or a quick and thought out lie when directed at those in want of their money. A teacher of his had once praised him for his work, surprising Mr Winchester who had grown accustomed to teacher's ranting over his son. But no, this one was different. She was young, and more willing to accept the sarcasm, and laugh at the jokes even if they undermined her own teaching material. She had soon found that by letting Dean be, even just once, he then respected you in return enough to work hard. His marks had really improved that year, and it had been one of the few times he tried to get his homework done in time.

He had been sad to leave, and truth be told, the teacher, with her brown bouncy curls framing her smiling face, had been sad too when John had taken his son's away, the hunt over, and the rest of the trimester unimportant on his to-do list. Especially when demon-hunting still came top.

The father had given notice, some two or three days, allowing suspicion to mill down and the like, and in that time, he had received a final report, listing Dean's skills, and final achievements, and his over-all grades for the year. It had been the only time where Dean had received A's because of hard-work, rather than being absent.

The glare brought him back to the present, and he wondered if he should dare glare in return, but no, that wouldn't do. So instead he picked himself up from the swing, and walked back toward the motel, his movements, his body language giving his father the distinct impression that Dean understood what he had done wrong, and was in no rebellious mood like his kid brother.

He made the slow trek back to the motel, his father hot on his heels, not chasing, simply following, attempting to calm the boiling fury to a low simmer of an over-protective man knowing full well what could grab his children if he turned his back on the shadows around them all.

The fight, the game, was over, and it had been for almost an hour, the time that Dean spent swinging, and Sam simply sat dejected on his bed, slowly falling asleep. The score didn't matter, not really, though he knew someone had scored a zero.

Love - 13

Ironic, and he wasn't thinking of the unlucky thirteen either. You score a zero and it's called love. Fighting has no winner, so you both score zero, so does that mean, in the great world of metaphors, that Sam and John loved each other more than they could even begin to convey?

Stupid game, with a stupid ball, and stupid players and stupid rackets that hit the ball too frickin' hard at the god damn net. He hated getting hit in the head by the bitch of a ball, and it was one thing when it was an accident, but he hated getting chased with the ball, getting it thrown purposely to teach him a lesson. Vigilance or some other twisted importance. He didn't care, but his father wasn't to know that, and nor was Sam.

Next time, he'd slip away again, yes, but he'd grab a few Ibuprofen too and he'd make sure he was back to the see the final hit, the ending, just so he knew what he was dealing with when he fell back into place between the two of them, his brother and father, and prepared for the worst.

Game, set and match.

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