Best Kept Hidden
Chapter Two
The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois
Sam Winchester snored, sniffed, and startled awake. Pain was the first sensation, followed by confusion. What the hell happened? Where am I? Where's Dean? Sam fumbled for the bedside clock, the numbers glowed a dull red 2:20. As the fog in his brain slowly lifted, he heard the water running... and the night's events slammed back into Sam's consciousness full force. Damn it, Sam thought, rubbing a hand over his eyes, oblivious to the bruising across his face. Damn it to hell...
He lay in the dark for a few minutes, listening to the hiss of the shower behind the closed bathroom door. No way he was buying Dean's super-hunter act. That was Dad talking, not Dean, no matter how much Dean wanted to believe it himself.
Less than an hour earlier, Sam had asked his older brother a very direct question, one that Sam knew the answer to, but couldn't bring himself to believe.
"Dean.." Sam hesitated then asked "How do you go on? How do you put it behind you?"
Dean leaned back against the bathroom door frame and crossed his arms.
"Dad told me once that the worst monster you'll ever have to face is your own conscience. And I think that's true. Keep moving, Sammy, keep going forward."
You can't live with someone 24/7 and not know exactly what they're thinking and feeling almost every minute of the day. Sam shifted in the too-small motel bed, then rolled to his side. His nose was swollen and breathing was an effort. He tucked his arm under his pillow and gazed at Dean's empty bed.
Dean, you keep me safe from the bad guys and the monsters in the closet and Dad.. you don't have to keep me safe from you, too. God, all the crap they'd been through in their lives, dealing with ghosts and demons and crazy sons of bitches... how could Dean think his little brother was so dumb ? That Dean Winchester can salt and burn with abandon, then just file it all away and not think about it? Does he have that low an opinion of me?
Because Sam knew, without a doubt, that his big strong brother, in whose hands he put his life every day without hesitation, was curled into a ball in the bathroom, throwing up and crying, thinking that the running water drowned the sound of his fear and pain. Just as he had done after almost every single hunt, since they were kids.
Exhausted, Sam drifted back to sleep.
Trade Winds Motel, Evanston Illinois: May 1990:
Sam remembered sitting at the end of the twin bed in a shabby motel room, another shabby motel room in a long string of almost indistinguishable motels. All along the end of the floral quilt , green plastic army men were lined up, fighting another in an endless series of Sammy-driven battles. The TV flickered in the background, on more for company than anything else. The floor was littered with crunched-up Lucky Charms cereal, the half-empty box sitting on the floor by his brother's discarded backpack.
Sam was tired of playing war, but there was nothing else to do and he had been alone for four hours now. When you're seven years old, boredom comes easily. He sighed and turned, leaning back against the bed and tilting his head up to watch the college football game on the wall-mounted TV. There was nothing else on; the reception was awful and only one channel came through. He couldn't reach the knob to shut it off anyway.
Car doors slammed outside the room and Sam jumped up immediately, relieved that he wasn't on his own anymore. Then he heard his father yelling. He sat back down and quickly scraped his army men into a paper bag.
"...one thing, Dean, one damned thing... and you screw it up!" the door flew open and John Winchester pushed his older son into the room. Sam shrank back against the end of the bed, trying to be as small as possible. When Dad gets mad, Sammy, just stay out of his way, okay?
John grabbed Dean by the upper arm and turned to Sam.
"Sammy, can you go outside and sit on the steps? I need to talk to your brother." At brother, John jerked Dean's arm. Sam knew Daddy meant business and scuttled to the door, giving his angry father a wide berth.
"Stay on the sidewalk, son, so I can see you."
Sammy hesitated at the door. He turned back and saw Dean's face; a red mark welted across one cheek and Daddy's fingers were digging into Dean's arm, pulling him up awkwardly.
"Just go outside,Sammy, I'll come play army men with you in a couple of minutes, okay?" Dean gave his little brother what he hoped was smile but to Sammy, Dean looked like he was going to throw up.
Sammy glanced at his father, who shooed him on, and he closed the door, the lock clicking loudly as it shut. When I get bigger, he thought, I'm not gonna let Daddy yell at Dean ever. But Sam Winchester was seven years old and he had only one defense. He turned, ran all the way to the end of the cracked cement walkway and sat down on the curb, his hands over his ears.