An Ounce Of Prevention is Worth a Pound of Cure

Author's Note:

Prompt from rhinosgirl: Wee!Chester. Dean doesn't do a chore and Sam does it instead, getting hurt in the process. John walks in on Dean trying to patch up Sam to avoid detection. I've set this a short time after Sam finds out the truth about monsters but has not yet begun to hunt.

"Bye, Dad," Sam muttered as John walked toward the door of their motel room.

"I should only be gone a couple of days," the father said and Sam tried not to roll his eyes.

A couple of days could turn into a week or two unexpectedly, leaving his sons, nine and thirteen, to take care of themselves.

"Dean, I need you to clean the guns while I'm gone, can you do that?" John asked, peering across the room at his eldest who sat watching television.

"Sure Dad," Dean answered somewhat distractedly.

John nodded, "Be good you two, don't get into trouble."

Sam watched sadly as his father walked out the door, knowing that this time, he might not return.

It had only been a couple of months since Sam had snuck a peek at John's journal and found out what his father really did (and found out what was really out there). At first John had been livid by the fact that his son had intentionally been prying in his private things but then he cooled down a bit, accepting that Sam would have to find out about monsters some time anyway. He had decided to have Sam start training, learning the basic self-defense techniques that could mean the difference between life and death in the future.

Sam hated it. He was awful at training. Dean was far better than him and Sam always ended up covered in scrapes and bruises. He hated a look in disappointment in his Dad's eyes whenever he failed to fend off Dean's attacks.

But John was gone and that meant that they could get away with slacking off a bit. Of course he'd want to see what they'd been doing while he was gone but they wouldn't have to spar for hours at a time with no breaks.

That was the only good thing about John leaving for 'business'.

Sam never felt quite safe anymore, without John around, knowing what kind of creatures roamed outside. Sure, he had Dean, but he was still a kid too. If monsters could get Mom, they could get Dad and if they got John Winchester than they would certainly be able to get Dean.

"You going to stare at the door until he comes back or do you want to watch TV?" Dean asked, bringing Sam out of his thoughts.

Sam sighed and sat down on the end of his bed, facing the old bunny-eared television.

W

Sam looked up from his homework later that evening to see Dean lying on his stomach on his bed, his attention focused on a Steven Segal movie that had just started.

"Shouldn't you clean the guns?" Sam asked his brother.

"I'll do it later," Dean answered without taking his gaze away from the TV screen, "Dad won't be back for a while so they can wait."

W

"C'mon short stuff," Dean announced, waking Sam the next morning, "School's waiting."

The nine-year old sat up and rubbed his eyes. He saw the gun duffel sitting on the floor where it had been the night before.

"Did you clean the guns?" he asked his sibling as he stretched and stood.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean answered sarcastically, pouring Lucky Charms into two bowls for breakfast, "I did it last night while you were asleep, like the shoemaker's elves."

Sam scowled at his brother, "You should do it before Dad gets back."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I will. But right now we have to get ready for school."

W

Dean still hadn't touched the guns by the time evening came.

"Dean, shouldn't you-" Sam began as the thirteen-year old climbed into bed.

"If you're so obsessed with cleaning the guns, why don't you do it?" Dean snapped, "Get off my back. I'm going to bed."

Sam stared at his sibling, taken aback by the outburst.

He hadn't meant to make Dean angry. He just didn't want his brother to get into trouble if their Dad came home and found that the one chore he'd asked Dean to do unfinished.

Dean turned off the light and Sam laid down, eyes open in the darkened motel room.

W

Sam didn't mention the guns the next morning as he and Dean got ready for school. He didn't say anything as they walked there either, or when Dean checked on him at recess, or on the way home again.

Dean made chicken noodle soup and tuna sandwiches for dinner, he did his homework (even though he complained about it) and then he settled down to watch some television before bed.

The gun duffle remained where John had left it, untouched and forgotten.

"Okay Squirt," Dean announced around eight-thirty, "Go brush your teeth."

Sam hopped down from his bed and made his way to the bathroom.

As he brushed his teeth, he listened to Dean as his brother turned off the television and walked across the room, "Hurry up in there, Sammy! Quit hogging the water!"

The nine-year old chuckled and finished his nighttime routine, stepping out of the bathroom.

He climbed into bed and closed his eyes but didn't fall asleep. Sam listened as his brother got ready for bed and waited until he heard Dean's breathing become slow and even.

Sitting up, Sam peered over at his sleeping sibling. Something Dean had said earlier had given him an idea.

Climbing out of bed, the nine-year old tiptoed across the room to where the gun duffel was. Sam unzipped the bag and smiled. He'd clean the guns while Dean was asleep, just like the elves in the story about the shoemaker.

Dragging the heavy duffel across the room to the small table near the front door, Sam took a seat, turned on the lamp sitting on the tabletop and bent down, picking up the first gun.

It was a pistol. He held it in his hand for a moment, marveling at how heavy it was. He'd seen guns on TV and in books but he'd never actually held one before. John didn't think he was ready to start training with them just yet. He wanted Sam to master hand-to-hand combat and self-defense first.

Sam saw a cloth sitting in the bag so he picked it up and began polishing the weapon.

W

BANG!

Dean startled awake at the sound of the loud sound and peered around bleary-eyed.

"Sammy? You okay?" he asked tiredly.

Had Sam run into a piece of furniture on his way to the bathroom?

No, a light was on; Sam should have been able to see where he was going.

Dean turned and saw that the bathroom door was left ajar, its interior dark.

Sam wasn't in the bathroom, so where was h-

Oh my God!

"Sammy!" Dean leaped out of bed, his blood running cold and his heart nearly stopping in his chest.

The nine-year old lay sprawled on the motel carpet, eyes closed, his head surrounded by a growing pool of blood.

Dean dropped onto his hands and knees before staggering into a standing position and rushing to his brother's side.

He caught sight of the gun duffel on the floor beside his brother and a gun laying a few inches from his sibling's hand.

"Sam? Sammy? Can you hear me?" Dean asked as he sidled up to his brother's side.

Dean's heart skipped a beat when the boy blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused and watery.

"Dee," he whimpered.

"The hell were you thinking?" Dean asked and lifted Sam's head.

He could see a gash above Sam's temple that was weeping blood freely. Looking behind him, Dean caught sight of a neat bullet hole in the plaster of the motel wall.

Dean sighed, his limbs watery with relief. A few more centimeters and Sam would have been dead.

The nine-year old began to cry, frightened and in pain.

"Okay Sammy," Dean murmured, helping his brother to sit up, "We'll get you fixed up."

Picking up his injured sibling, Dean headed into the bathroom, turned on the light and sat Sam down on the closed lid of the toilet.

He grabbed a washcloth and ran warm water over it.

"Shh," Dean murmured, "It's okay."

He wondered if Sam would need stitches. If he did, Dean hoped he'd be able to do them himself. He did not want to have to walk his brother to the hospital.

This wouldn't have happened if you'd just cleaned the guns like Dad told you to, Dean thought guiltily. His heart rate sped up; if Dad found out that Sam had been trying to clean the guns and had gotten hurt because he couldn't be bothered to do it earlier…

"Dad's gonna kill me," he muttered to himself.

Not if I patch Sammy up and make him swear not to tell Dad the truth; Dean thought. Dad doesn't have to know. We could say Sam got hurt on the playground. Yeah, that could work.

Dean wrung the cloth out and held it up to the cut on Sam's head.

"Don' Dee," Sam protested but Dean put his free hand on the back of his brother's head.

"I have to clean it, Sam," Dean told him and gently wiped at the area around the gash, trying to assess how bad it was.

"What were you doing Sam? I said I would clean the guns," Dean asked, trying not to be angry with his sibling.

"W-Was trying to s-surprise you," Sam confessed.

"You know better than to touch those guns, Sam," Dean chastised, "You're not old enough."

"Ow!" Sam cried when Dean dabbed at the cut itself, "I w-was trying to b-be careful."

Dean sighed, "I gotta put stitches in Sammy."

The nine-year old looked at his brother with round eyes.

"No Dean!" he exclaimed and struggled to get off the toilet seat.

"Sam, stop!" Dean grabbed his brother around the waist.

Both brothers stopped struggling when the door to the motel opened.

"Boys, I'm back," John called out tiredly.

Neither Sam nor Dean moved or said anything. Both boys listened as their father's footsteps came closer.

"Dean, what… why is there blood?" John's voice asked and he hurried to the bathroom.

The eldest Winchester's haggard face turned red with anger as he took in the scene before him.

"What the hell happened?!" he exclaimed.

Sam, still stunned by the accident, began to cry again and struggled in Dean's arms.

"I- I can explain, Dad," Dean grunted as he held onto his brother, "It was an accident."

"Let me go, Dean!" Sam demanded and pushed his brother's chest.

John stepped into the small bathroom and picked up his youngest, disentangling the two boys.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the gash on Sam's head and he nearly glared at Dean.

"What kind of accident?" he asked.

Dean swallowed thickly.

"Uh… I… well…" the thirteen-year old stammered, terrified.

"Dean didn't clean the guns," Sam spoke up tearfully, "So I wanted to help him and tried to clean 'em by myself."

John's mouth opened in shock.

"What have I told you about touching the weapons, Sam?"

The nine-year old sniffed and looked down, "Don't touch them."

"And where were you?" John turned his attention back to Dean.

"Sleeping, Sir," Dean muttered.

John set Sam down on the tiled floor of the bathroom, "Dean, get the First Aid kit."

The thirteen-year old jumped at the order and left the bathroom, his face flushed red with shame.

He should have known better. He should have done his job instead of slacking off. If he had, Sam wouldn't have been hurt and their Dad wouldn't be pissed at the both of them.

Dean grabbed the kit from his father's duffel and handed it to his Dad. John took the white, plastic box from his son.

"I'm not finished with you," he said before closing the bathroom door.

Dean sat down on the edge of his brother's bed- the one closest to the bathroom- and tried to imagine how he was going to be punished for nearly getting his little brother killed.

He could hear his father talking to Sam in the bathroom but his voice was muffled and Dean couldn't make out any words.

The door opened and Sam stepped into the room, face pale and tear-streaked, a white patch of gauze taped to the side of his head to cover the stitches.

John followed after his youngest, carrying the kit with him.

"Sam, go to bed," he told the nine-year old and the boy nodded, climbing onto the mattress and pulling the covers over his head.

"Dean," John said, "Come here."

The thirteen-year old jumped off his brother's bed and approached his father.

"Sit down," John gestured at the table. Dean sat at Sam's vacated seat.

"I want you to clean the guns- properly- and then you'll clean up the rest of the mess," John told him, pointing down at the bloodstained carpeting.

"Yes Sir," Dean muttered.

John took a seat across from his eldest and watched as Dean started to take apart the gun Sam had been attempting to clean.

Neither Winchester said anything for a long moment.

Dean didn't dare look up at his father, knowing he'd only be met with a disapproving glare.

"I'm not going to punish you further than this," John told him, "Do you know why?"

Dean shrugged, concentrating on carefully cleaning the inside of the gun barrel.

"Your actions nearly cost Sam his life," John continued, "I think you know just how close we came to losing him because of your negligence tonight."

"Yes Sir," Dean whispered.

"I don't see any point in making you feel worse than you already do," John said, "Next time when I tell you to do something, you'll do it right away, won't you?"

Dean nodded frantically, looking up at his father with wide eyes. He had nearly gotten his brother killed and if he had… it would have been all his fault.

"Good," John said, "When you're finished you can go to bed."

The eldest Winchester leaned back in his chair, continuing to observe his son.

On the bed across the room, Sam slept fitfully, not fully comprehending just how close he had come to death and not knowing how very lucky he really was.

Author's Note:

Thanks to WinchesterGirl2975, reannablue, mb64, Need2No, jo1966, Leahelisabeth, Jeanny, jennytork, grishma239, sammynanci, scary-blue, BranchSuper, and zekeschance for reviewing.

Thanks to everyone who alerted, followed and favourited.

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