I'm sorry! And you know I am, so I'll just give this long chapter as a peace offering and hope you don't kill me!
Mask of the Hidden
Maybe the Masks of their lives held them all together. Maybe letting too many people in was a bad thing? Being vulnerable was a bad thing? And maybe that was his father's drilled mantra he was thinking of right now, rather than what Sammy should and normally would be feeling.
He was lying next to his brother, after his father had worked for so long to get the wounds stitched up, thanking whatever Lord there was that Dean had stayed unconscious throughout, blacking out after a particularly bad turn once John had begun to clean the wounds with holy water, well aware that the undead creature could leave unseen marks if not treated properly.
Now, Sam hadn't been able to sleep, and after his father had disposed of the bloody sheets, and laid Dean back down to rest, Sam had quickly gone to his brother's side, at first planning only to sit near him, and fall asleep when things were better, but sleep had begun to overtake him, and in truth, he had tried to simply rest his head down, but his body was growing and the bed was lower than it should be while the chair was taller. Gravity was against him, and his back ached in that position so carefully, not jolting his brother once, he slowly crept next to Dean, the bed barely sinking as he lowered his body down into the pillows, taking solace in the faint breaths his brother took in the silence of the room.
He didn't see his father watching in the doorway as he felt the tug of sleep too strong to fight, and simply obeyed. He didn't see his father lean against the doorway, and had no idea how long John simply stood there watching over his boys throughout the night.
Was it so wrong, that John found comfort in what he saw? Granted he was pushing away the fact that his son was injured, lying so still to avoid jostling his injuries, and choosing to focus more on the fact that though Sammy had no doubt fallen asleep some time ago, Dean still had his arm around the boy's shoulder, refusing to sleep himself. His hand absently stroking the locks of his brother's hair that were getting longer and longer day by day.
Was it wrong that he stood in the doorway and told himself not to go in? Was it wrong that he preferred to watch from a distance as though it would protect his son's more if he were distanced from them.
Was it wrong that even now, his mind strayed to what he could only see as the inevitable, their deaths. Though he would adamantly insist that he go first, he knew that meant leaving his son's alone. But they had each other, wasn't that enough? Who did John have? No that wasn't fair, because he knew that when push comes to shove, even Sammy-who at times wanted nothing to do with his father, would be willing to comfort if the need arose.
Who did Dean have? Sammy was straying further from him, and Dean's constant attempts to protect the younger boy from the cruelties of the world and let him have some kind of normalcy was only setting them both up for a fall. One that would leave many bruises. Many, many bruises.
Was this life so wrong?
Yes, yes, god yes. It was all wrong, and it wouldn't be right until he found vengeance, until all of them got their revenge. And even then, things would never be right. John looked to the edge of the tunnel and saw the lights of the flames of the demon he hunted. But once it was extinguished, the light would be gone. And there would be no other lights to starve away the darkness. So why then did he bother?
The same reason he left Mike's that night, or rather, morning, dawn. The same reason he'd had enough of the glances and the sympathy soon turning into strong advice telling him to get his act together, if not for himself, then for his son's.
But that never helped. So instead he crept into his son's room, having already packed the car with necessities and small items that would keep his boys happy. He picked Dean up carefully, and shushing him quietly as the boy stirred, and then quieted at his father's gentle command to go back to sleep. He was placed in the car, a belt secured around him, and John quickly dashed back into the house, hating having to leave his son even for a second, in what was most likely the safest street in Kansas.
But no neighbourhood watch had saved Mary that night...
He had held the sleeping bundle of his youngest son so carefully, as he put him into the baby seat he and Mary had bought together, and he had recalled his own happiness at finally fitting the thing into the front seat. God it had taken forever, but Dean and Mary had kept him company, his wife joking at how simple it must be, and Dean throwing his ball carefully within the confines of the garden and within sight of his parents. Sam had been sleeping then too, sitting in his own bassinet that lay perched on the wall beside Mary...
That's when he had grabbed the camera and taken one of the last pictures he bothered to save, and scrawled on the back was; The Winchesters. John, Mary, Dean and little Sammy. The picture now kept carefully inside of his precious journal among the precarious newspaper clippings, and heart-wrenching diary entries he had added though the haze of alcohol made it hard to focus in the dim light of his room.
Another entry would be added tonight, speaking of his son's, their strengths, their weaknesses, his hopes for them, his dreams, like so many of the other entries he would sit, and try to write optimism and pray that hope came out in the scripture but like every other entry it would only serve as a harsh reminder that he had failed, and be nothing more than a lousy father, who had put them in danger more times than he could count.
God he wanted them to remain close. Together. Through thick and thin. But tonight, tonight had rattled them all. Dean assumed his father couldn't see through the mask of an independent hunter, but he had, he had seen through as though it were completely transparent and beneath was nothing more than a devoted brother, a loyal son, trying to keep everyone happy, like always.
Sammy had come to him first, had mentioned a term paper or essay of some sorts but he already knew the question waiting to be asked, and he knew what the answer would always be. The hunt was more important, and the boy had to understand that. But he had gotten to his older brother, the simple use of those puppy dog eyes that left John always harbouring a softer side for his youngest, would get their way once again.
This wasn't something they would look back on fondly, nor was it something they could correct. Dean hadn't had anyone to watch his back, and he had suffered so Sam could get some work done. He had gone through the pain, taking it in his stride, despite the agony no doubt still raging through him, just so he wouldn't have to deal with the bitter little brother Sam became when he didn't get his way. Dean had been played, but there was no point in discussing it. Sam had already shown a great talent in holding onto guilt, and maybe this time, he deserved it. He had been more than selfish, and he had placed his brother's life in jeopardy.
But you always do that.
A cruel voice sang in his head, that he completely agreed with but disregarded for the time being. Dean would be harsher next time, though it would be a while until Sam dared refuse a hunt, now that Dean would be out of commission for at least a week. The boy had a knack for bouncing back quickly, but that did nothing to quell John Winchester's own doubts.
John looked up, having stared at his white knuckles as his thoughts strayed to memories long buried. He saw his oldest son's eyes starting to droop and resisted the urge to kiss him goodnight. The boy, man, was nineteen, and John knew the affection, that would be shrugged away as sappy by his son, would only scare him. Things had to be serious if a cold-hearted-bastard like himself suddenly decided to kiss his son goodnight, right?
Right.
So he stayed, counting under his breath as the seconds dragged by and watched as Dean found it harder to stay awake. His eyes closed completely for a second, and then opened once more. Dean looked around, scanned the room quickly, before yawning and leaning back, further into his brother's now slack embrace. He let Sam be, with his arm tossed over his older brother's chest, and he lay his own head down next to the younger Winchester's head, avoiding pulling at stray hairs that would no doubt wake him up.
He smacked his lips together, ridding his mouth of any excess spit, bile, or blood as his eyes drooped once more, and stayed closed in sleep, finally.
The light that streamed through the small crack in the curtains was laden with dust as the sun rose outside in the early hours of the morning, and on the bed, Sam slowly stirred beneath the weight of his brother, who though still rested fairly upright, his back leant against the headboard, Dean's subconscious allowing his brother to sleep unhindered no doubt, which looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he assumed the pain-killers his brother had downed were working their magic in keeping Dean far from the waking world while his body tried to recover.
Sam shifted ever so slightly, and cringed, stopping suddenly when the movement in position made Dean's arm fall from his shoulders and land on his brother's own stomach, but still, he did not wake. Sam let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and slowly pried himself off of the bed as quietly as possible, and crept out of the room after ensuring the blanket was secure around his brother's form. His brother needed rest, and he would be sure to get it, if he was left alone.
Everyone is unique but at the same time, most people do in fact fit into some kind of stereotype or quota. One of which, is the big brother. Now, most big anything's, be it brothers, sisters, or giants (though more often that not they all seem to coincide) are easily frustrated. Because for there to be a big brother, there is a definite indication of another presence, that being something-small. And when anything small is around, patience is often forgotten and Sam was sure his older brother fit into that category perfectly.
They all wore masks from time to time, but never the mask of a brother, and never the mask of a father or a son, because they were the only things that were constant, the things that were not hidden, or faked. They were real; they reminded them of who they were, of who their family was. Of whom the Winchesters would always be.
John saw his son's mask pain, and sadness, but never the love for each other even when hidden beneath a burning hatred that would die out in time. Dean saw his little brother pretend all the time, put on the mask that he didn't mind hunting before showing his true colors in loathing the job. Sam's brother was older, and his brother was the older brother, the protector, the hunter, he was everything. But then he would turn around and surprise him, and remind him that yes, everyone is unique, and he really didn't need to give the snowflake speech to anyone, because they were more unique than most, even amongst the falling snow, the glistening of the flakes still stand out, especially when they fall and land on the dark coats before melting into nothing.
They were falling, and they were all very different, but they wouldn't melt, not just yet, the freeze was far from over, and that much, Sam knew for sure. Intuition is a funny thing, and sometimes it would do well to listen to it. Either way, regret is pointless, denial is too. Acceptance however, in removing the mask, was pretty damn important in the Winchester household. Oh yes, and it always would be so long as chick flick moments were heavily frowned upon, and the demon that ruined their lives still roamed free.
Days passed, almost a week and finally Dean's body began to heal quite well. The blood had begun clotting some time ago, and the skin was slowly re-grafting itself to replace that which was lost. He had woken up fully and been completely coherent two days after the incident, and the pain, thanks to many pain killers and borrowed antibiotics and medicine, had receded somewhat too, but Dean was far from fully healed. John had assumed Dean knew that much, but one day as he walked into the boy's room he saw how he had underestimated the determination Dean held to be back on his feet prematurely. The simple lie of, "I'm fine, Dad." Making many an appearance throughout.
He saw his son trying to gain his breath on the floor, a fresh coat of sweat lining his forehead and he ran forward, grabbing the boy's shoulders when he tried to get up.
"Dean? What are you doing?"
"What's it look like?" Dean retorted, angry at his own weakness and inability to breathe and taking it out on his father, who was quick to remind him that that kind of attitude would not be tolerated. "Sorry." Dean muttered, still trying to suck in as much air as possible and wincing at the pain in his chest that still lingered despite any time that had passed.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?" John asked, incredulous that his son was doing sit ups when only a week ago, he had almost bled to death. Dean gritted his teeth, pushing against the older man, and together, managing to get Dean sitting on his bed. More deep breaths were gulped like a man nearly drowned, and John gave his son the moments he needed to regain the deprived air.
"Dean," His father started, and the boy was so tempted to mimic the tone, with his father's name, but knew better. Far better. So he sat waiting for whatever lecture he was about to receive.
"Look, I know it's hard, but you have to pace yourself."
And Dean looked up at his father, half surprised at the gentle words spoken. Half saddened that it was the truth hidden in the tone. Dean wasn't one for patience when it came to himself. Hunting? Oh yes. He could stake out a house all night should he be with his father, and together they would sit, tense, ready for battle, but around Sam...Around Sam he was a child, he acted his age, younger sometimes, and he didn't hold back any boredom he felt. He was cautious, always on edge, but after a while of nothing, that led to a familiar whine from the back of his throat, turning into a grunt of annoyance.
He didn't want to feel like this, and he hated the notion that he, the great Dean Winchester, soldier, brother, and hunter extraordinaire might be useless. This wasn't his first injury, but so far, it seemed, it was his worst, most grievous one. His father had been truly afraid when drenched with the coppery smelling blood of his eldest child, whom he would always see as his little boy. Though Sammy was his littlest. He tried to comfort Dean as best he could, but he knew the boy was eager to rejoin the battle. The hunt. Everyday life for the Winchesters, and training was one of them. Indeed, he had seen the forlorn expression on Dean's weary face, when John had asked Sammy to go over some of his sparring work with him. He had seen the pain, though more inside than out, flitter across there for a moment, lingering slightly, before he pretended to sleep once more.
He did that a lot nowadays, and as his father gave him one last look he groaned, conceded, and got himself back under the covers of his bed, closing his eyes, intending to feign sleep, but suddenly caught out when his father didn't leave, and instead, sat on the floor next to the bed, as though warding off an unseen evil, or maybe just keeping his own conscience at bay, Dean didn't know, but now he was forced to fake sleep so much, that that was just what he did. Fall asleep.
Moonlight slipped through half closed curtains, shabby and unkempt, but attuned to their career choice of keeping away the sun in the early hours of the morning and stopping the worst of the streetlamps at night. When he woke up in the middle of the night, for a moment, he dared wonder why. Then he heard them. Fighting. Again. He couldn't believe his own stupidity to forget what his brother and father were best at, and gritted his teeth at the pain as he lifted himself off of the bed, and went to the top of the stairs. He could barely hear the words, but the tones were loud enough, the shouts and screams. It was a wonder the whole neighbourhood didn't wake up at sound, but Dean realised they probably did.
"I am not going on another hunt, and neither is Dean!"
Now that, he heard, quite easily, and cocked his eyebrow at what was said.
Since when had Sam become his protector, or rather, his keeper? When had he told Sam he didn't want to hunt, when had he given Sam permission to speak as such to their father? Their authority figure? He racked his brain, and predictably enough came up blank, which meant he was right, but more importantly, Sam was way out of line right now.
Dean had felt weak, yes, and he wouldn't deny he had seriously considered if he was up to hunting. Not because he didn't want to, or because he was afraid, but simply because by getting injured he deemed himself an unfit hunter, though he was anything but. He told himself he had failed, and let everyone down, though in truth, he knew how wrong he was. Dean knew when his father ushered assurance to him, while John's hands were stained red from his son's crimson life-force. He had known when Sam had looked so broken at seeing his older brother like that, and now he knew Sam was trying to protect him because of that.
But the important thing to understand right now, was despite it all, they were still fighting, and he was still the damn net in that fateful game of tennis, even when he wasn't in the same room. He didn't want to be in that game, he never wanted to, not because he didn't want to stop things from going out of hand, or buffer the worst of the worst, but because the reason they fought, though many times different, always came back to Sam being rebellious in their father's eyes, and John, the ex marine unwilling to compromise.
Slowly, as they always did, the fight wore down until it became nothing more than a few sentences from John and the occasional nod from Sam, willing to admit when he was beaten, and not stupid enough, yet, to go back for more. The hatred simmered to mild annoyance, cooling every second, and when John left Sam in the living room and went upstairs to check on his oldest son, his obedient son, who listened to his orders, and had come so close to death only a few days before, he cried out when he saw that Dean was gone.
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