As the daytime is stirring
A shot rang out.
Dean looked around frantically. He couldn't see what was going on. There was nothing around him except unparalleled darkness. A void that took everything else away – it was worse than being drugged, and he had no control.
There were echoes around him now. They took over the darkness and surrounded him.
"Dean…" He heard someone croak.
Chance's last word had been his name. It was a plea, the eldest Winchester felt. He'd been begging for help, grasping out to the only life force he could find.
"Dean…" And he was dead.
"Dean." The voice was different; Dean tried to turn his head, thought maybe he had succeeded when he could finally see.
Only he couldn't really see – he was just seeing. Flashes of the past as his little brother called out to him. "Dean…help me."
He watched muddled visions and connected them subconsciously into long ago events. Their father taking his anger out on his boys. Dean coming home to the sight of his car in the driveway and an enormous ball of dread forming in the pit of his stomach.
Running upstairs as fast as the slumbering threat of John Winchester would allow. Anxious to get to his baby brother – terrified of the grievous injuries he would find once he did.
"Dean…"
He whirled around again, and Chance was getting shot. They were in the apartment hallway and Chance was in front of him, bleeding and falling. He body collapsed in such a slow motion, and Dean lurched forward, just as he had that night.
Soon the bleeding boy was in his arms. Only when he looked again, it wasn't Chance. It was Sam.
And Dean knew somehow that he had still caused it.
"Sammy…" He croaked, watching as the blood from the bullet wound spread and spread. Soon everything around him was red.
"Why didn't you save me?" The dying boy wondered aloud, sounding perplexed. As if the sun had failed to rise and he was left with only darkness. "Dean…"
He was falling now, away from his brother. Automatically he struggled against the decent, "Sam," he tried to call. He had to get back to his brother, had to help him, the boy was still crying out for him.
"Dean…"
"Dean…" The voice was fading; he struggled to grasp something, anything…
"Dean!" A great jostle landed him back in the world of the living and threw him for a loop.
Jumping back, away from the touch, his muddled brain tried to quickly take in his surroundings. He was still at work, he realized, sitting with his head in his hand at a picnic table. The man who had woken him was someone he worked with.
"Easy there, tiger," the middle-aged man was seated across from him, and was fixing his compassionate sky blue eyes steadily on the teen's. "That's why we've got the No Naps policy."
Dean tried his hardest to shake of the remnants of fear that his dream had left him with. He was still trying to piece together all the fragments of it when the man spoke again, seemingly worried at his lack of response.
"You okay?" He seemed genuinely concerned, and Dean realized he was lucky that it had been this guy who had found him asleep in the Lunch Break area. He was one of the only men with whom he worked, who he actually trusted.
"Yeah," Dean assured, settling himself back on the bench properly, forcing images of a dying Sammy away from his mind. "Just didn't get too much sleep last night."
The man eyed him disbelievingly, and Dean realized he must have seen the physical affects of the nightmare – whatever they might have been – take their toll on the eldest Winchester. He was too good of a liar to receive the dubious look for any other reason.
"Listen," the man spoke softly; glancing around them to make sure this conversation would remain private. "I like you, kid. You're not like all the other dick-wads around here-"
Dean couldn't help but snort, "Thanks,"
The man flashed him an old, tired smile. "You look like you gotta real reason for being here," he went on. "Not like most of these other thugs." Dean too glanced at their surrounding company.
Most of them looked the same, young men standing around in four or five large clusters; sporting white, wife-beater, tanks –or simply foregoing a shirt altogether - and drinking beers out of brown papers bags. Talking loudly of their unappreciative wives or the weed they scored over the weekend, or about how this situation was only temporary – soon they'd been off making real money.
Lager men, with beer bellies and collared shirts muddled amongst them too. Officials who were on the look out for troublemakers with bad attitudes. And Dean was sure that they were simply a preview of life to come for most of these guys. Dean shuddered at the thought.
"Yeah," Dean agreed somewhat sarcastically after a turning back to the man, he too was wearing a white undershirt – much like Dean himself was. "No place I'd rather be."
"Yeah, well…" the man's face got dark. "Look, I could hear you mumbling. In your sleep just now. And it don't bother me none, but if these other guys here you... moaning a guy's name in your sleep…" he trailed off sadly, but Dean was still stuck on his ongoing double take.
"Wait, what?" He demanded. "What did I…what did you hear?"
"Just the name 'Sam'." The elder man shrugged, taking a swig from a thermos of something – ice water by the looks of it. "Like I said," he sighed, wiping his mouth slightly, "Sexual preference don't matter to me, but these guys…man…I was here a couple years ago when a few of these wanna be gangsters got wind that someone on staff was, ya know, playing for the other team…" his tome was barely above a whisper and Dean didn't need the man to go on for him to get a clear summary of how this story might end.
"I'm not…Look man…I'm not…you know," he waved his hand. "I mean, it doesn't bother me either, but…I'm not."
The older man appraised him silently, and for some reason, Dean was hoping that he believed him. "You're not…?"
Dean shook his head, confirming.
The older man nodded acceptingly and the teen sighed a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was for some idiotic thugs to try to bully him out of the only paying job he could afford to have at the moment.
A few minutes of silence passed between the two, and Dean was just considering feigned the need to go to the bathroom in order to dispel the growing awkwardness between them, when the man spoke again. "You a father?" He asked evenly.
Having not expected the question, Dean answered accordingly with, "Huh?"
"I don't wanna pry…" his voice implied something else all together, and Dean paid him rapt attention. "But you sounded damn scared in that dream a yours. And I know what it's like to be a dad. I do. And it can be shit-face scary sometimes."
Dean looked at this man steadily, really studying for the first time. Middle-aged, sporting a five o'clock shadow and a face that portrayed an impressing amount of patience and understanding.
Now that he thought about it, Dean could easily picture this guy in some overgrown backyard, playing with his kids, teaching them this and that. This man, Dean realized suddenly, wasn't a father. He was a dad.
"No," Dean forced out, a little overwhelmed by the image presented to him in his mind's eye. "I'm not a father. Not really. Sammy's my little brother."
The man nodded his understanding, "You boys are close, I take it?"
Sharing information with strangers was defiantly against Dean Winchester's personal rules of conduct; but still, for various reasons, he trusted this man. And it had been so long since he'd had a real conversation with anyone other than his little brother. And while he loved the kid – would choose him over anything or anyone else, always – it still felt nice to talk to someone new. Someone a bit wiser than him, even.
"Yeah," the teen agreed easily. "We're close. Our mom died when Sam was a baby and our dad…well, he wasn't all there after that."
The man nodded again, "You older?"
"Yeah," he shared, "By four years."
"Makes sense then," he decided, "Why you're so scared for him. You raised him, didn't you?"
"I did what I had to do," Dean agreed, having never thought to put it in those words before. He chuckled suddenly, "Man, if I did raise him, I'm sure as hell not done yet."
The man's brow wrinkled suddenly, "How old are you, kid?"
"Eighteen," Dean answered; glad he didn't have to lie about being an adult anymore.
A low whistle admitted from the guy's throat as he shook his head back and forth slowly, "Man, you're taking care of a…what? Fourteen year old?"
Dean smirked slightly. "Yup." Then he shook his head slightly, still smiling. "As much as anyone can 'take care' of Sam. He's sorta independent."
"I can believe that," the man chuckled, and opened his mouth to say more, but was promptly cut off by the ringing of a bell behind them. The one their company used to inform its employees it was time to get back to work.
Dean stood automatically, finding that he was genuinely disappointed. He had been enjoying his chat with this older man. This dad. And was sad to see it end. He could see too, in the elder's eyes, that the feeling was mutual.
When both were standing, on either ends of the picnic table, the older of the two reached across it and stuck out his hand. "Name's Chuck, by the way." He said with a grin. "I don't think we've officially met."
The teen took his hand with a chuckle of his own. "Dean," he replied, gripping and shaking firmly. "Good to meet you."
It wasn't just that Sam Winchester was bored, because honestly; boredom he could deal with. Boredom could be fended off with a few well placed, utterly useless, yet entertaining events. Boredom could be destroyed - or at least promptly ignored - with aid of a good book or even a catnap.
Boredom Sam Winchester could deal with.
This, he couldn't.
This...utter and complete lack of anything to do. It wasn't boredom, it couldn't be. It went so very beyond boredom that he didn't even think the two were in the same hemisphere, or time zone. He doubted they had any knowledge that the other existed.
He had to think of a name for this thing, this...isolation. Although that seemed too strong. Separation, maybe. From the outside world. From school, which, for normal people, had started up again only days ago. He was even separated from his brother most of the time.
Dean came home from work around five-thirty everyday, and he was always exhausted. Always fell right to sleep after only a few hours, and Sam was left with more pent up energy than he knew what to do with.
Which was how he justified his daily trips out of the apartment to himself.
Because he'd told Dean when they first moved in here that, unless it was a dire circumstance, he would stay in the apartment as much as he could. At least while school was in session, because a kid who was so obviously under eighteen walking around town during school hours would draw attention.
And they couldn't afford attention.
Sam was strolling through a city park just then, enjoying the refreshing scent of pine trees and fresh air, and the sight of a pond several feet away made him smile; flocked by mothers toting small children, all feeding the ducks and giggling innocently. Sam was reminded of the childhood he didn't have.
He felt guilty for lying to Dean - or rather, omitting a certain truth. It was because of his brother that he'd had anything resembling a normal life at all thus far. Dean had risked life and limb to provide for him, he'd gotten them out of Kansas.
He owed his big brother a lot, and he knew he was betraying him by wandering around the city everyday. Yet the mere thought of returning to that apartment made him shudder, so he continued to walk the paved path of the small park, shouldering his guilt, because that was all he could do.
Several hours later, Dean banged his way through the front the door of the apartment. No matter how many times he opened the damn thing, he always managed to make it connect loudly with the dresser behind it.
He cringed deeply when he saw Sam - who was sprawled out on the futon, reading - jump at the sound. He forgot sometimes, how jumpy his little brother could be. Especially when he was occupied and not expecting loud noises.
Just another emotional scar caused by John Winchester - it fit in snugly with all the other emotional and physical damage the brother's had collected over the years.
Dean decided not to comment on the reaction. There was nothing he could do for Sam now, and dwelling on it surly wasn't healthy. As it was, the younger teen was already turning to face him, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Hey honey, I'm home." Dean joked, wasting not time in kicking off his work boots and drooping them in a corner.
"Dean?" Sam asked, not waiting for an answer, but sitting up, cross-legged on the pulled out bed-type thing. "Do understand the mysteries of man?"
Dean looked at his brother for a few solid seconds, not moving and utterly confused. "Is this a trick question?"
Sam shook his head, picking up the book he was reading and flashing it in Dean's direction. "Man and Meaning." He read off the cover, shrugging, "So what?"
"It's a philosophy book," the fourteen-year-old stated plainly, putting it down and studying Dean steadily. "What possessed you to get a book on modern philosophy?"
Dean shrugged, walking in the direction of the small bathroom, yet continuing the conversation easily, which was one of the only pluses of having an apartment the size of a rather large walk-in closet.
"I knew you'd get a kick out of it," he said loudly, taking his work clothes off and changing into something comfortable. "You're almost done with it, so I think its safe to say that I was right,"
"I've been skipping around," Sam responded, explaining the spot in the book he'd been holding in place when he showed it to Dean. "And what makes you think I'd even understand it. It's a college level text."
"That fact that you say shit like 'college level text'." Dean responded, smirking at himself in the dirty bathroom mirror and wishing he could have seen Sam's facial response to that. He heard the younger boy mumble something under his breath, but didn't ask for clarification. "You get it though, don't you?"
"Some of it," Sam said, and when Dean reappeared from the bathroom and shot him an easy to read, disbelieving expression, he conceded, "Alright, most of it. It's actually pretty interesting."
Dean clucked his tongue, mock disapprovingly, "It's official. My brother's a geek." He snickered at Sam's one-finger salute and turned back towards the kitchen area, rummaging through the cabinets. "Seriously though," he called, "What's that book got to say about the mystery of man?"
Sam called back, sounding frighteningly professional, "Confrontation with a man's being can cause dizziness, but philosophy is not a hospital."
Dean stuck his head through the area above the kitchen counter and stared straight at his brother, who was looking back at him with a smug expression. "Tell me you're quoting." He pleaded.
Sam didn't answer for a few seconds, and when he finally did, it was with a smile. "Merleau-Ponty," he admitted. "Raises a good point though, doesn't it?"
"Only to you, dude," Dean chuckled, admiring his brother's intelligence, but fully comprehending what was so profound about the statement. Sounded like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to him. "Hey, do we have anything to eat tonight?"
Sam shut his book and looked back at Dean - who swore he could see something odd flicker in hid brother's gaze, but it was gone a moment later, and the elder figured he was simply seeing things.
"Ahh..." Sam thought about it. "Left over pizza in the microwave," he finally answered.
"Sweet," Dean declared, finding said food within seconds. A stack of take-out pizza was piled together on an overflowing paper plate. Dean took the whole thing out, taking a bite out of one immediately and plopping a few more back in the microwave. "You want some?"
"I already ate," Sam answered, and Dean started the nuking device, turning once again towards his brother, who had reopened his book.
"Dude," the elder appraised him, pulling the cold pizza from his mouth and swallowing. "You look scrawnier than usual. You sure you're eatin' alright?"
"Yeah," Sam said at once, and something about the quickness of the response made the elder weary. "I mean," he shrugged. "We don't have a lot of options, but I get my solid three meals a day."
Dean was doubtful that the word 'solid' could accurately describe his brother's food choices. Sam had always had an odd sense of what a real meal should actually contain. For example; to Sammy, a piece of toast, half a bowl of soup and a bag of Doritos made an acceptable breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Dean was sure this default mindset had everything to do with the way the they'd grown up and their lack of real meals as children; but it worried him that Sam still thought these sort of patterns were normal. He'd tried his hardest for years to help Sam grow out of these mindsets, and he often worried that he hadn't fully succeeded.
Not sure how to voice these concerns however, all he did was nod and accept that Sam wasn't lying to him. Since there was no way he could monitor his brother at all times, he tossed a simple, "Yeah, okay," at him, and made a mental note to try to get Sam to eat more when he was around.
When his pizza was done, he joined Sam on the futon, fumbling around for the remote that'd come with the tiny TV they'd splurged on after Dean's first payday. It sat, cramped on the top of the dresser, but most of the pictures that came in for the non-cable channels were pretty clear, thanks to a Drug Store antenna they'd picked up as well.
"Do you mind?" Sam asked, sounding annoyed, when Dean had settled in on a football game and turned up the volume. "I'm trying to read."
"What was that?" The incredibly mature teen put one hand to his ear while pushing the up volume button on the remote with the other, "I couldn't hear you, the TV's too loud."
Sam scowled and punched his brother in the shoulder as hard as he could manage. Which stung a little, Dean admitted, but couldn't actually bother him. As he now had -thanks to his new job - more layers of muscle than he ever had before.
He didn't even try to get into a wrestling match with his scrawny kid brother, knowing he would dominate within seconds. Not to mention that their living environment really didn't offer any room for such a squabble, plus he still had reheated pizza on his lap.
So he simply shoved Sam slightly, grinning widely as the younger boy rolled his eyes, but didn't protest. He stretched out on his side of the futon after a few seconds of adjustment, resting the closed book on his lap and turning towards the television.
"So, who's winning?"
End Chapter.
A/N: So, whaddya think? Worth the wait? I'd love to hear what you have to say. I have some serious ideas about where I'm taking this and how I want to end it, and reviews help motivate me to actually get there!
PS - The philosophy book I refrence is a real work by James E. Royce. I don't own it. I mean, I do -In the same sence that I'm gonna own Supernatural when it comes out on DVD. But I'm definatly not makinga prophit off of it. Or our boys, for that matter, which is a cryin' shame if you ask me, 'cause I'd love to own them:)
