Okay, I lied. Turns out I'm really impatient, so I'm just gonna go ahead and post all six parts at once. (I'd still like feedback on each part if anyone's willing to give it).
The remainder of the school week goes by in an ultimately boring fashion. John decides to leave Dean at home, making sure someone keeps an eye on the house and is there when Sammy gets home from school. Dean falls into an unremarkable routine. Wake up at six, get Sammy on the bus before going back to sleep until ten. Wake up again, find something to do until Sammy gets home. Ultimately, unremarkable.
By the time the weekend comes, Dean's actually looking forward to going back to school, even if it's only to have something to do, because God knows he isn't looking forward to seeing the people. Well, maybe Becky.
Friday afternoon, Dean waits for Sam at the bus stop, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Even though he's hasn't had to go to school since Tuesday, the weekend excitement is contagious. For most kids it's two days of sleeping in, no homework, and no worries aside from finding a way to keep yourself entertained. For the Winchesters, it's a little different.
While no school and no homework definitely top the lists of reasons Dean loves the weekends, they are nowhere near the only two things on said list. Weekends usually are spent helping their dad or working on their training, learning the skills necessary to keep each other alive while on a job.
Dean looks forward to the training. Ever since Sam turned seven and their father deemed him big enough to learn hand-to-hand fighting techniques, he and Dean have been partnered up—it's almost like being given permission to rough house.
Then there's the target practice, knife handling, and sword fighting. Well, it's more like a machete, but Dean feels like a freaking Jedi when he swings the thing at the empty cans his dad tosses at him. Dean appreciates the fact that John hasn't said anything about him or Sammy making light saber sounds when wielding the machetes.
While Dean isn't entirely certain what his Dad has planned for the weekend, if he'll even be home at all, he feels a small sense of excitement begin to build when the school bus pulls in front of the trailer park's entrance.
Sam's the first off the bus, and he quickly sets the pace for the walk back to their borrowed home. While Sam might not be too thrilled about the reasons behind their usual weekend activities, he still appreciates the opportunity to escape the monotony of being stuck in a motel room or, in the present case, a barely furnished trailer. At least motel's come with cable.
Sam prefers training when it's only he and his brother. His dad sets expectations, and with expectations comes the potential for failure. While Dean works hard to make sure that Sam understands what they're supposed to be learning, there isn't as much pressure. Mostly because Sam knows Dean will be patient until he gets it right.
Dean opens the windows once they're inside. The rain finally stopped and there's a nice breeze that puts the small box fans cooling their trailer to shame. He's careful not to break the salt lines as he moves the makeshift curtains out of the way.
Sam pulls the card-table to the wall and pushes the two chairs towards the kitchen counter, opening up a space big enough for he and his brother to wrestle. "Can you even do this? What about your bruises?" Sam asks, remembering the dark, shoe shaped marks covering his brother's side.
"I'm fine. You're not backing out of this Sammy," Dean tells him as he takes off his socks and shoes, stretching his back before turning to face his brother. Sam's small for his age, always has been. Even though he still has his baby fat, he's in pretty good shape for a fourth grader.
Dean, however, is about five and a half feet tall, well almost. If he stretches his back and elongates his neck, he registers about five foot four inches, but his dad says he's still got some growing to do. He's lost all his baby fat, lean muscle taking its place along his lanky frame.
As Sam sits down to remove his own shoes, Dean remembers to take into account the size difference between him and his brother. He wants Sam to learn to fight, he just doesn't want it to happen by him getting hurt.
"Hurry up, dude. We're wasting daylight here."
"No we're not. We've got all night and you know it." Sam grins up at his brother as he hurriedly stands to his feet despite his assurance that there's no need to rush. He's excited and he's ready to start. Stepping a few feet from his brother, Sam bends his knees and takes up a fighting stance.
Dean keeps his own stance relaxed, watching his brother for any sign that he's about to attack. "Alright, remember what dad said. The best attack is a sudden one, but it still needs to be thought out." Dean watches as Sam's eyes take in their cleared away surroundings. He can almost hear the gears grinding in his brother's head, constantly thinking.
Dean's a little embarrassed when his brother manages to get the first move in. One minute Sammy's eyes are looking at the front door and the next he's flying at Dean, his small arms wrapping around his brother's legs and bringing him down. All embarrassment is forgotten when pride takes over. Sam had learned that move from watching Dean take down their dad in a separate training session.
Sam smiles as he climbs on his brother, attempting to pin the larger boy down. Dean just smiles back as he brings his leg up and pushes his brother off him, switching positions and pinning Sammy's shoulders to the ground.
"Come on, Sammy. You can do better then that." Dean regrets saying it the moment he sees that playful smirk morph into one of pure mischief. Sam lifts one of his hands and starts to tickle his brother's stomach.
Dean jumps up, eager to get away from the unwelcome assault. "NO TICKLING! You know the rules."
"That's one of your rules. It doesn't count," Sam defends as he raises his head and props himself up on one elbow.
"Does, too." Dean's never liked being tickled. He hates the feeling and he's never been able to make his brother understand that just because he's laughing doesn't mean he's having fun. Sam, on the other hand, spent ages four through six trying to provoke tickling matches.
"Nuh-uh," Sam retorts, pulling from his ever-growing comeback arsenal.
"Uh-huh."
"Nuh-uh."
"Uh-huh."
"Nuh-uh."
"Dude!" Dean points a finger at Sam. "Quick freakin' 'nuh-uh-ing' my 'uh-huh's."
Sam rolls his eyes as he stands and adjusts his shirt. "Still doesn't count."
It's Dean's turn to morph his smile as he takes a tentative step towards the little boy looking at him defiantly. "Is that so?"
"Yep," Sam answers confidently. It's the answer Dean's looking for, the one he had expected as he takes another small step forward.
"So it's not against the rules because I said it was?" Another step closer.
"That's right." Sam puts his guard up as he notices the ever-closing distance between him and Dean.
"Sooo…" Dean drags the word out slowly, almost as though he's trying to think of what he wants to say next. "That means…that I shouldn't get in trouble then."
Sam doesn't have time to react as Dean throws his arm out, capturing Sam around the shoulders as he brings his other arm up and begins tickling Sam's ribcage. The laugh that erupts from Sam is one of pure joy. It's one of those that only kids can do, loud and high, almost like a bell.
Dean doesn't let up when he hears Sam struggling to breath between choking laughs. It isn't until Sam starts to beg, warning Dean that he's about to loose control of his bladder that Dean lets him go, watching as Sam runs breathlessly to the bathroom.
Two minutes later, Sam's back in the game, content to follow the no tickling rule as he and Dean continue to spar until their stomachs start to growl. Dean boils a box of spaghetti noodles and melts a stick of butter over them, seasoning them with garlic and pepper. Sam doesn't complain and manages to put away two plate-fulls, butter grease shining on his chin.
Stomachs full, the boys entertain themselves playing card games until almost midnight. When it becomes apparent that John isn't going to come home anytime soon, Dean makes sure all the windows are locked and the salt lines set before climbing into bed, pushing aside his brother's prone form in order to have any room.
Saturday morning starts early. John wakes Dean up before the alarm clock rings, letting him know he wants to hit the road before six. Dean just growls into his pillow, before pushing his brother's arm out of his personal space.
Dean doesn't bother trying to wake Sam up until after he's had first go at the bathroom. Dean's been sharing a single bathroom with his dad and brother for as long as he can remember, and he's fully aware of the benefits of getting first dibs. Usually, he can pull the 'I'm the oldest' card and beat his brother, but Sam's a quick learner and has a tendency to use his small size and extra energy to move fast.
"Come on, Sammy. Up and at 'em." Dean can see the change in Sam's breathing, alerting him that his brother's awake. However, Dean is less than pleased when Sam continues to keep his eyes closed, feigning sleep.
Grabbing a pillow, Dean raises it above his head before saying in a falsely sweet voice, "Sammy, I know you can hear me. It's time to wake up." When Sam doesn't move a muscle, Dean brings the pillow down hard on his brother's chest, getting the reaction he wants.
"Stop it, jerk." Sam's voice is tired and muffled from the mattress as he rolls onto his stomach, attempting to burrow deeper into the bed. Dean pulls the blankets back, earning another muffled comment that doesn't leave Dean feeling the brotherly love.
Sam finally starts to wake up when Dean grabs him by the ankle and starts to pull him off the bed, destroying the salt line he had made the night before as he drags a furious nine year old towards the bedroom door.
"Boys!" John's rough voice causes Sam to stop squirming and Dean to drop his brother's leg.
"Sorry," Dean yells towards the door before turning back to his brother who's busying himself with shaking salt from his sleep shirt. "Hurry up, squirt. We gotta move."
"Where we goin'?" Sam asks as he roughly pushes past Dean, making sure to ram is shoulder into Dean's side.
"Don't know yet. Dad said to get dressed." Dean stops long enough to make sure his brother's getting ready before he starts getting dressed himself.
Twenty minutes later, Sam and Dean are both dressed and in the car. It doesn't take long for Dean to realize that they're heading back to Goodsprings, back to the town that first caught their dad's attention over two months ago.
The usual course of action includes John finding a case that peaks his interest, and if that case happens to be in a town with a public school, John and the boys load up and enroll. Before Sam discovered that monsters are real, Dean usually stayed at home, studying his father's notes or practicing throwing knifes while making sure his kid brother didn't stick something sharp in a light socket.
After Sam learned the big secret, the usual after school routine shifted to include Dean helping him improve his aim and teaching him the proper way to pronounce the Latin scripts their dad had given them to study.
Once the original job's finished, John looks for jobs within driving distance, sometimes leaving home for days at a time in order to get to where he needs to be. He doesn't like leaving the boys behind, but it's the only way to keep the truant officers off his back—a lesson he learned when Dean was in first grade.
As soon as it becomes obvious that there isn't anymore jobs within a three state area, John usually tries to work a few odd jobs for a while in order to earn cash, attempting to give the boys a few more weeks, if not months in one school.
That's the usual drill, the one that they've followed since John learned the truth about how Mary died. Now, as they drive past the large wooden sign, welcoming drivers to Goodsprings, a small town with a big spirit, Dean tries not to laugh at the truth of the sign's words-well if it is a spirit.
Goodsprings is the first town they've left without finishing the job first, and Dean feels guilty. He had been stupid and weak when he accepted the neighborhood's up and coming dealer's offer. Two little pink pills. Dean didn't know what they were, didn't even ask. He just let the guy dump them in his palm and started to walk back to the motel.
He thought about throwing them away. It's not that he was completely anti-drug, he just wasn't comfortable taking something if he didn't know what it would do to him. Marijuana was one thing, but little pink pills with a weird symbol etched on the front was a little out of his league.
He was in the process of talking himself out of it when he found himself downwind from the burger place on the corner. They cook their meat over an open flame and near lunchtime, the whole neighborhood smells like a Bar-B-Q.
The fact that they had been low on funds and paying rent with their last credit card meant that Dean hadn't eaten a burger in almost two months.
When Dean felt the stabs of hunger accompanying a watering mouth, he didn't even think twice about popping the pills in his mouth, dry swallowing them as he took the long way around in order to avoid walking by the diner and the reminder of how sucky things were at the moment. Next thing he had been aware of was Sam shaking his shoulder begging him to wake up.
Entering town, they drive past the same diner and all the guilt Dean was feeling is pushed aside as that sense of embarrassment that usually accompanies failure settles its way into Dean's chest. As their dad pulls the car into an available parking spot along the street, Dean notices a small memorial near one of the telephone polls.
Candles, homemade posters, and stuffed animals mark the spot where at least two people died according to the pictures settled between the candles. When Dean turns to look at his father, he sees for the first time that John's wearing a button up shirt and tie beneath his jean jacket.
John climbs out of the car and tosses his jacket into the back seat before asking Sam to hand him the suit jacket that Dean hadn't noticed before.
"There was another accident. I'm going to talk to one of the survivors, you two stay in town and stay out of trouble."
"Yes, sir." Dean and Sam answer in sync, having fallen into that pattern almost immediately after Sam learned to talk.
Dean tries his best to hide his surprise when his dad climbs back in and tosses a twenty on the dash. He had been under the impression that they were completely broke. "Get you and your brother something to eat, see if you can ask the people inside if they saw anything." John gestures to the small memorial, easily seen from the diner's large, glass windows.
"Yes, sir." Dean grabs the money and exits the car, letting his dad drive off before following his brother onto the sidewalk towards the diner and the promise of red meat.
They get a booth near the window, the memorial within sight as they wait for the waitress to come to their table. Dean finally feels his luck starting to change when Rosaline, who has to be close to sixty walks up to their table. He's come to learn that if he tries hard, he can pull off that poor, lost, little boy look that older women just eat up. His brother doesn't even have to try. Sam's big eyes and baby fat cheeks combined with his small stature and shaggy hair scream take care of me to almost every woman they come across over the age of twenty-five.
Dean sees Rosaline try to school her features when she gets a look at the lingering bruises focused around his nose and beneath his eyes. They've faded, leaving behind tinges of blue, green, and yellow. She doesn't bother pulling out her notepad as she approaches the table, placing a coloring sheet and crayons in front of Sam.
Dean forces himself not to laugh and silently compliments his brother on not rolling his eyes. Sam hasn't colored since first grade, but he knows when to play along, nine-year-old pride be damned.
John's used the boys 'cuteness' to his benefit on more than one occasion, getting them to loosen up possible witnesses or even going so far as to have Dean question other kids on a playground. Sam may hate it, but he'd rather talk to people than spend all night in a cemetery holding a flashlight while his dad and brother dig a grave.
Two weeks to the day after convincing Dean to admit the truth of what their father did, Sam found himself in a cemetery witnessing his very first salt and burn. There was no more waiting in a salt-encircled car. Sam's part of the team, helping out where he can, learning to do what he can't.
So as Rosaline smiles her maternal smile, and rests a well-manicured hand on one hip, Sam does what he can and gladly takes the crayon, putting forth an effort to show as much enthusiasm as a five year old as he begins tracing the outline of Donald Duck.
"Hey, sweethearts. What can I get you to drink?"
Sam looks to Dean and asks, "Chocolate milk?"
"Do you have chocolate milk?" Dean asks Rosaline, making sure to keep his voice soft and not give off the vibe of a 'punk in training', a description once used by a science teacher after Dean failed to show the appropriate amount of regret for coming to class fifteen minutes late.
"We sure do. Would you like a glass too?"
"No ma'am. Do you have root beer?" He smiles and tries to imitate the look of hopefulness his brother had given when asking for chocolate milk.
"One root beer and chocolate milk coming up." She leaves the table, grabbing a stack of dirty plates from the booth behind them before heading to the kitchen.
"What can we get?" Sam asks as he begins reading the menu. "Are we gonna have to share?"
"Nope. If we stick to burgers, I think we'll be good." Dean begins looking through the prices, totaling the cost in his head as he tries to think of a way to ask Rosaline about the latest car accident.
"Are your parents going to be joining you?" Rosaline sets the drinks down in front of the boys, reaching into her apron for the pad and pen.
"No ma'am, it's just us." Dean smiles again, keeping the tone light and respectful. Rosaline looks like the kind of woman that won't put up with anything less. She looks them over again, almost as though she's double-checking her original assessment that the boys are harmless.
She seems convinced after watching Sam take a large sip from his glass, sighing and smacking his lips while he smiles from behind a chocolate mustache. Dean orders two cheeseburgers, despite the early hour and makes sure to say 'thank you' when she leaves.
"You didn't ask her about the accident," Sam points out as he opens his straw and proceeds to sip at the remainder of his milk.
"All in due time, little brother." Dean knows that Waitress Rosaline isn't likely to give any gory details to a couple of kids. As much as Dean hates to admit it, he is only thirteen, and most people still see him as a kid, despite the experiences he's already lived through. Right now, his and Sam's job is to find out who knows something, if anything. Their dad can get the juicy details.
"Chicken, cheeseburgers, and chocolate milk all in the same week," Sam sucks up the last bit of milk from his straw, producing a gurgling sound that grates on Dean's nerves. Seeing his brother's content, Dean decides not to address the annoying gurgling.
"If you look at it that way, then yeah, this week rocked." Dean can't help thinking of the fact that he got in a fight, suspected of dealing drugs, and suspended from school. Those things tend to conflict with chicken and chocolate milk. "Next week's gonna suck though. I've got detention everyday."
"That's what you get for fighting." Dean doesn't like the know-it-all tone Sam uses.
"They started it." That's the truth, Dean hadn't gone looking for a fight. Hell, he even tried to walk away before causing any trouble, but he couldn't very well let the guy get away with busting his nose.
"Miss Margie says those boys that beat you up are thugs." Sam tilts his glass in an attempt to get gravity to do his bidding and bring the last bit of chocolate syrup to him.
"Okay, one," Dean holds up a finger, preparing to count off the reasons he doesn't like his brother's last statement. "They didn't beat me up. They started the fight, but they didn't beat me up. I totally kicked their asses. And two, why the hell are you gossiping with the bus driver about my business?"
"You talk with her all the time!" Sam says indignantly, using his finger to get to the stubborn syrup stuck to the bottom of the glass. "Besides, it wasn't just her. The whole bus was talking 'bout your fight."
Great, Dean thinks to himself. The last thing he wanted was to be the topic on everyone's mind. He likes the idea of going to school and not sticking out. It usually only leads to trouble. Case in point: his upcoming week of detention.
Dean notices Rosaline walking out of the kitchen with another glass of chocolate milk. Making a point to look as though he had been straining to see the memorial out the window, he waits until she's within hearing distance before turning to Sam and saying, "I don't know. I think it's like a memorial or something."
Sam looks up and is only confused for a few seconds. As soon as Rosaline sits his new glass of milk down, he catches up to his brother's plan, asking in a secretive whisper, "Do you think someone died there?"
"Are you boys talking about that?" Rosaline picks up Sam's empty glass and points out the window towards the collection of candles and cards.
"Yes, ma'am. What is it?" Dean holds his breath, hoping she'll answer his brother's question. Sam's looking up at her, eyes big and curious, and Dean knows Sammy's got it in the bag.
"Your brother was right, dear." She smiles that maternal smile and softens her eyes, and Dean recognizes that look. It's the one grown-ups use when they're about to tell kids something sad that they think they won't be able to truly handle or understand. "It is a memorial. There was an accident there yesterday. Saw the whole thing myself."
"What caused it?" Dean steps in, feeling as though his brother's done more than enough.
"No idea. That's the thing. Driver must not have been paying attention is all I can figure. One minute, she's driving by and the next she's on the sidewalk, wrapped around the telephone pole. Two of the people died, a third's in the hospital."
Okay, so maybe Dean was wrong. Rosaline was more than willing to give a couple of kids the juicy details. At least to him anyway, because when she speaks, she looks at him, almost as though if by not looking at Sam, he won't be able to hear her. As she leans forward to continue in a hushed tone, Dean leans forward, too, more than happy to hear what she has to say.
"You didn't hear this from me, but I heard that the poor girl might have done it on purpose."
"Wrecked the car?" Dean asks in the same hushed tone she had used. Rosaline raises her eyebrows and nods her head yes.
"It's a shame really. They were so young. You boys take that as a lesson. The road's a dangerous place. Don't go fooling around while driving, it'll get someone killed."
Rosaline smiles that grown-up smile again, and moves to check on another table.
"Do you think she's right? Do you think the driver lady did it on purpose? Can a ghost make you do that?" Dean just shakes his head at Sam's long list of questions. How's he supposed to know? Their dad hasn't exactly offered up a lot of information about this case, which in truth doesn't surprise Dean. He's come to learn that John likes to keep details to himself, only choosing to share when he knows it all. Need to know. Just because Dean wants to know doesn't mean that he needs to know—at least that's how John Winchester sees it. But Dean trusts him.
"We'll tell dad and see what he says." The conversation officially comes to an end when Rosaline comes out with two cheeseburgers and a free plate of fries. "On the house," she tells them, earning two identical heartfelt 'thank yous' and big smiles.
When Rosaline lays the check on the table, Dean notices that, not only did she give them free fries, but she also didn't charge them for their drinks. Dean leaves the whole twenty on the table, covering their two burgers and a rather nice tip. It only seems fair.
"Where do you think Dad is?" Sam's looking up and down the street as though he expects to see the Impala rounding the corner any second.
"He'll probably be awhile, Sammy. Come on," Dean grabs his brother around the elbow and pushes him towards the other side of the street. They walk the short distance to the memorial in order to get an up close look at the cards and pictures.
Dean stares at the smiling girl looking up at him from the metal frame. She looks familiar, but Dean can't place her. He bends down, studying the dark brown eyes and light hair. Suddenly, recognition hits, bringing worry with it. It's the moody cashier from the grocery store in New Hope. Only here, she's smiling and looking a lot less angry.
"Dean, you okay?" Sam bends down next to his brother, looking back and forth between Dean's frown and the neon orange poster reading "We Love You" in glittered lettering.
"I've met her before."
Dean and Sam spend the next hour walking around town, sticking to the main street so they can wait for their father while also taking great care not to get any closer than three blocks from Anderson Street-the favorite hangout for the dealer who sold Dean the meds to help John after cracking his collarbone, and the same one who gave Dean the little pink pills.
"Are you sure it's the same girl?" Sam asks for the fifth time since Dean had identified the cashier in the photo. When Dean responds with an annoyed growl and an exasperated glare, Sam holds up his hands in defense. "I'm just sayin', you said she looked different. It could be a different girl."
"It's the same one, Sam." Dean had already pointed out that in all likelihood, it's just a coincidence. Both towns are small and only an hour apart. The odds of Dean having run into at least one of the many victims weren't that bad. "Just drop it 'til Dad gets here."
Sensing his brother's draining patience, Sam bites his bottom lip to keep from asking where Dean thinks Dad is or when he's supposed to meet them. He's already asked once and Dean didn't know then, either.
Dean walks a little ways down from the restaurant, looking for a dry patch of sidewalk. There's an awning next to an empty storefront, and Dean takes advantage of it, plopping down right on the ground, using the building to lean back and rest his head. Sam sits down next to him, stretching his legs out in front as he bangs the toes of his shoes together.
They sit in silence, watching as cars continue to go by, each keeping an eye out for the one their waiting on. It's not raining, but the slight overcast and light breeze make it a little chilly, and Dean wishes he had brought his other jacket. He closes his eyes and crosses his arms in order to block them from the cold.
He didn't mean to fall asleep. One minute, he's looking down the street for their dad, and the next he feels Sam jumping up, wiping away dirt from the seat of his pants. Dean follows his brother's gaze, seeing the outline of the Impala pull into the same parking space it had earlier when dropping them off. John waves from the driver's seat, ushering them to hurry up.
Dean hears it before he sees it. The unmistakable sound of a tire speeding over a bump, the bottom of a car scraping against the sidewalk as it jumps the curb. As Dean turns, he sees the driver staring straight ahead, smile in place as he continues to accelerate towards the empty storefront and the two boys standing in front.
Dean doesn't even think, his body just acts. Dean reaches out and grabs his brother's arm, swinging Sam around and pulling his body towards him as he tries to push them both out of the way. Dean falls back, his brother landing on top of him as they land in the street, water splashing around them from a shallow puddle.
Dean doesn't hear the screams or the sounds of falling glass as the car barrels through the storefront's large, glass windows. He doesn't hear the sound of feet running towards him or his father yelling his name. All he hears is his brother's harsh breathing and something akin to an attempt to muffle a sob. He tries to look at Sammy's face, but the little boy has it buried in Dean's chest.
Before Dean has a chance to react, his father is by his side, carefully lifting Sam and studying his face.
"Sammy, what's wrong? Where are you hurt?"
Dean lifts his head, ignoring the throbbing pain at the base of his skull. "He's hurt?" He had tried to stop it, tried to get Sam out of the way before anything happened to him, he had even tried to buffer his fall.
There's no muffling the cry of pain when John reaches for the arm Sam is cradling against his chest. Keeping his eyes focused on his youngest's arm in order to determine whether or not it's broken, John calls out to his oldest, wanting to make sure he's okay.
"Dean, you good?"
"Yes, sir." John just nods his head, knowing he'll have to double-check Dean's assessment—the boy's always had a crude understanding of 'fine' when it comes to personal injuries.
"I think it's broken, Sam." John let's Sam take back his arm, holding it close to his side. Dean stays on the ground, too shocked at what just happened, what almost happened to bother standing up. The increased heart rate and pounding in his head aren't much of an encouragement.
Dean still has his eyes focused on his brother when their dad turns his attention to him. John starts running his hand over Dean's head, wincing in sympathy when he feels the large bump already forming at the back.
The sounds of approaching sirens register in Dean's mind, forcing his sense of awareness outside of the two people huddled beside him. For the first time, Dean notices the large crowd of people gathered around the car, several onlookers just standing there, staring, not even bothering to offer to help, not that they want it, but Dean's almost certain it's polite to at least offer.
Turning to look at the seriously pissed off face his father's making, Dean doesn't blame the onlookers for keeping their distance. "Quit moving, Dean. Just lay down until the damn medics look at you." It's an order, and despite the harsh tone, Dean can tell the anger isn't directed at him. Judging by the way his father keeps glancing towards the tail lights of the car sticking out of the broken store, Dean assumes all of John Winchester's anger is focused on whomever was driving that car.
"Is Sam okay?" Dean asks, already having heard is father's assessment, but needing to ask anyway.
"Yeah, I think you broke his arm pulling him down." John's trying to look at Dean's eyes, gauge how hard his son hit his head when he sees the sudden shift from worry to complete devastation in the green depths. "Son?"
"I broke his arm?" Dean looks at his father, hoping he heard him wrong. John realizes his mistake about three seconds too late. He isn't blaming Dean, just merely pointing out the facts. But he should have known better than to word it that way.
"It wasn't your fault. It happened when we fell." Sam tries to keep his voice from shaking. He's never broken a bone before and it hurts worse than his father and brother let on. He had been busy focusing on his breathing, trying so hard not to throw up the burger he had eaten an hour earlier that he was only half listening to his father and brother.
However, the sound of his brother's horrified whisper quickly pulls him from the pain radiating through his forearm.
Dean turns disbelieving eyes towards his brother. Sam's not sobbing like most nine year olds would after breaking an arm, but Dean can still see evidence of tears streaking down his brother's face. He broke his brother's arm.
"Sam, I broke your freakin' arm," Dean yells angrily, hating that his brother's missing the point.
"To stop us getting squished by a freakin' car." Sam raises his voice, unintentionally mirroring his brother's anger. They always do that. Things start out slow, and the moment emotions get high, anger takes over. It's a Winchester thing. It has to be, because Sam's never seen anyone else outside of television shows use screaming as a mechanism to deal with sadness the way his brother and dad do.
"Hey!" John adds his gruff voice to the mix, stopping the boys from the inevitable ping-pong match of who's right and who's wrong. It's a sign of how well disciplined the boys are when neither one says anything else until the paramedics start asking them questions.
Dean doesn't answer the nice lady's questions until he's certain that her partner's taking care of Sam. Only after he's satisfied does he tell her his name, how many fingers she's holding up, and that on a scale of one to ten, his head's pounding out a solid seven.
John doesn't ride in the ambulance with them, but follows behind in the Impala with a promise to talk to the officers after he makes certain his boys are okay. He had been sitting in the car, witness to the whole thing and he still doesn't know what happened. One minute the station wagon's driving towards him and the next it's steering up onto the sidewalk, taking a shortcut to his kids. His kids.
There's a lot of dangerous things out there, a lot of ways for his boys to get hurt. He should know, he exposes them to it all the time. But of all the things his boys have to worry about, standing on a fucking sidewalk shouldn't be one of them.
He's immediately brought back to a large open room, metal sinks lining the walls. Sam's sitting Indian style on one of the few exam tables, his arm being cleaned by a small nurse who only looks a few years older than Dean. John can already see the hand shaped bruising on his son's arm, and is thankful for once that they had witnesses to this injury. The last thing he needs is to worry about a visit from Child's Services.
"Hey, kiddo. How you doin'?" When Sam turns to look at his dad, John can tell they had given him something for the pain.
"I'm getting a cast." Most fourth grade boys would probably be excited by that, but John detects a sense of fear in those few words.
"That's pretty standard when you break your arm, Bud." John frowns when Sam starts shaking his head. "Sam, you don't really have a choice."
"Dean'll get me back." The too-young nurse looks up questioningly, wondering if Sam's reasoning for not wanting a cast makes any more sense to John than it does her. John dips his head, trying not to let his son see him laugh.
The first time John brought Dean on a hunt, the boy had tripped down the stairs trying to outrun a spirit's attempts to use his head for target practice. He ended up having his ankle wrapped in a cast. Nice and white and ready for six year old Sammy's Crayola non-washable markers.
Dean had woken from his painkiller-induced nap to find various Disney princesses roughly drawn with all the technique a first grader could muster. Sam's only saving grace was that John had intervened and taken Dean's crutches, giving his youngest a much-needed head start.
He isn't going to admit it out loud, but Sam kind of deserves whatever payback Dean can create, and Dean's not that bad an artist.
Sam looks distraught, more on the verge of tears at the prospect of his brother extracting revenge for a three-year-old crime than he is over actually breaking his arm. "He's gonna draw all over it. And it'll look stupid." The too-young nurse smiles as she starts to catch on.
"We can cover it in a black wrap if you want." Sam seems to relax after he thinks it over, seeming to accept the nurse's offer to solve his dilemma.
An older man in scrubs comes in and explains the details of the break, mostly just confirming what John already knew. "A spiral fracture, most likely caused when your other son pulled him out of the way." John knows better than to share the confirmation with Dean.
Leaving Sam with the young hospital employees in order to have his cast put on, John begins his search for his other child, the one he's seriously hoping has nothing more than an impressive goose-egg to show for his most recent near-death experience.
Dean's propped up on a gurney, a blue ice pack held against the back of his head and a serious scowl marring his face. Apparently, thirteen year olds do not appreciate being grouped in with the little kids.
Evidence of a brightly colored, cartoon covered hospital gown is lying on the floor next to the gurney. The nurse outside had been kind enough to explain that Dean had to change into the gown so the doctors could perform an MRI. She also mentioned that Dean had been less than happy about the attire and insisted on changing back into his wet, dirty clothes as soon as the MRI was finished.
"He's very…opinionated…about things, isn't he?" The nurse had said before pointing to the curtained area hiding his son. John had to agree. Less than an hour with his son and the woman's already got him pegged.
"Sam's fine, before you even ask." John doesn't waste any time letting Dean know about his brother. They both know it would be the first words out of Dean's mouth. John's simply saving him the trouble.
"I still broke his arm." Dean leans his head against the pillows, letting them hold the ice pack for him as he drops his arms across his stomach.
"You saved his life. End of story, because I'd much rather have a busted up kid over a dead one." John remembers the complete feeling of helplessness at seeing that car change directions and head for his boys. He doesn't want to feel that again.
Dean shifts uncomfortably, focusing all his attention on a mystery stain on the leg of his jeans. John watches his son for a moment before asking, "You remember when Sam drew all over your first cast?"
First, Dean's face shows confusion, then anger as he remembers. He starts to smile when realization kicks in. Payback.
John once again tries not to laugh when he sees his son smile, knowing that there will only be disappointment when Dean sees the black cast his brother's currently having put on.
"Dad!" John jumps at Dean's sudden exclamation. Dean sits up, letting the ice pack fall behind him as he reaches a hand towards his father's arm. "I almost forgot."
Dean tells his father about Waitress Rosaline's account of the accident and her theory that the driver had done it on purpose, as well as the fact that Dean had met the driver before. John takes it all in, listening quietly, somewhat surprised that his two sons had managed to find out more than he had. All he had managed to find out were the victims' names and cause of deaths.
The doctor comes soon afterwards, explaining that Dean will be fine. Nothing more than a serious headache waiting for him. Having gotten his sons out of the way, John heads out to find out about the man who had nearly killed them. Needing to know what the doctors and police know—or what they think they know. No self respecting doctor his going to say, "Gee, I think the man might have been possessed."
No, they'll blame it on a seizure or an allergic reaction. Something logical in the normal world. Forty-five minutes later, John walks back into Dean's curtained room to find Sam sitting on the foot of the bed, smiling smugly as he proudly displays his black encased cast. Dean just stares at his brother, obviously disappointed at the turn of events.
"You boys ready to go?" The hurried scuffling to get off the gurney is all the answer John needs.
