Dean Age 19; Sam Age 15
Dean opened the door of ye' ol' horse themed motel and got an eye full of Sammy's hand slipping under and up the shirt of a red-head. His first thought was, 'Way to go bro'!' but the second, stronger thought was, 'This make out session isn't making it past its current base. Not today.'
"Ahem."
Sam jumped, and his hands flew off the girl. "Dean."
"You've got 20 minutes, Sam. And your bat better not be swinging any further than half-way to second plate. You hear me?"
Sam turned the rosy-red of a strawberry, and Dean considered that conformation enough that his orders would be followed. Heck, Sam would probably be lucky to get a peck on the cheek.
Dean made his way to the nearest stop-n-grab and purchased a particular box for his boy. Twenty minutes later he re-entered the motel room that now contained only Sammy.
"Dean, why'd you have to say that!?"
"Because you weren't ready."
"I'm 15, not 12, Dean."
"Yeah, and 12 isn't too far off from the age you were when Dad tossed you a box of condoms and threatened to beat your ass if you turned him into a grand-dad." Dean pulled his purchase from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Sam. "Those things expire, you know."
Sam was red again, and whined, "Dean, we were just making out. We weren't going that far."
"But in the not-too-distant future you might, and I thought you could do with a bit more of a talk about things than you got the first time around. So, sit your ass down, and let's talk."
"I don't want to talk about sex, Dean."
"Too bad, because this is happening. Now sit."
Dean Age 18; Sam Age 14
Dean's hand tightened around the pack of cigarettes he'd just confiscated from his brother. He couldn't blame the kid for seeking some substance relief from the stress of their lives. Hell, he'd done it. A lot of teens did.
But understanding and allowing were two different things and there was no way he was going to allow Sammy to break laws, other than for a hunt, or start in on a habit that was going to destroy his lungs. Plus, there were rules to the stages of growing up, and one of them clearly stated that if you get caught smoking underage you get your ass kicked. End of story.
"You're grounded, Sammy. No library. No novels. No TV. No soccer practices. No geek clubs. You exit school and come to wherever I am, be it here or at work, and you sit there bored, staring at the walls for the next week."
"You can't do that!"
"It's that, or I pull you over my knee for one hell of an ass whipping. But I seem to recall you pitching a fit last time, claiming you were too old to get your rump roasted."
Sam didn't have a response to that. Not a verbal one anyway. He threw his bookbag at the wall. It thudded to the floor. Then he flopped down on the bed furthest from the door and pouted.
Dean Age 17, April of 11th grade; Sam Age 12 (almost 13)
Dean blinked his eyes blurrily at the blackboard. Last night's hunt, a frick'in gorgon, had had him collapsing into bed a little after 3a.m., but that didn't stop the morning alarm from blaring at 6:45. Dad had the luxury of sleeping in before taking off to run some errand in Oklahoma. Dean had school.
And a giant list of other things. He tried to pay attention to the teacher going on about Jupiter's moons, he really did. But the list kept taking precedence in his head. The laundry needed washing if they didn't want to stink to high heaven. Training Sammy on stealth, because coming into his height was making him a stumbling klutz. Last night's gore needed to be cleaned off the weapons. Grocery shopping needed to be done. Restaurants weren't in the finances, and they were down to the heels of the last loaf of bread, not due to funds, but due to the current pattern of school, hunt, sleep, repeat, not leaving time for household chores.
Dad going out of town was kind of a blessing. It meant a week of no hunting. Hunting was satisfying, but there was just too much else to do. Homework, girlfriends, gambling or playing pool to fund their lifestyle, attending Sammy's science fair so he could feel like someone in this family gave a crap about him, beyond keeping monsters from killing him. The list went on.
Not for the first time, Dean contemplated dropping out of high school. Dad would be pissed, but one ass lickin' wasn't really that high of a price to pay. The bell rang and Dean was out the door.
The current bungalow was within walking distance of the school. Sam had afterschool stuff, so Dean focused on the list of chores that had been nagging his brain all day.
Dean moved his duffle to the bed nearest the door. Another benefit of John taking off was that the brothers didn't have to share a bed. Dean shucked the pillowcases from the motel's beds and stuffed them with his and Sam's dirty laundry.
He pocketed the three $20s and skimmed the note John had left stating he'd be back in 10 days and would call daily.
Dean got the laundry tumbling at the nearest laundry mat then made his way through the aisles of the local Piggly Wiggly, shopping for discounts. Keep it cheap and leave funds to spare. You never knew if Dad would actually be back within the time he said and some of it might be needed for a buy-in at a pool or poker table.
Which in this case, would also require hitchhiking to a neighboring town. Dean's fake I.D. wouldn't work to get him into the local bar; he'd made time with the owner's daughter so they knew his real age.
Dean scowled at the squares of Ramen, the boxes of elbow noodles, the loaf of bread, and jars of peanut butter and jelly in his cart. God, he was sick of this crap. But food was food, and this food was cheap and didn't require refrigeration, which was important because the hole-in-the-wall of the week was too cheap to support a mini-fridge in the room. The Winchester had their own hotplate and a couple pans that traveled with them to cook on though, so warm food, be it crap food, was still on the menu. Dean added some cans of corn and green beans, a bag of chips, and a bunch of bananas (the cheapest fruit) to the cart and wheeled it to the cashier's line.
Dean transferred the laundry to the dryer then called Kelly, his current flirtation, and setup a rendezvous for Saturday night. Vague thoughts of homework flitted through his mind, but for the life of him, he hadn't a clue what any of the teachers had assigned, even if he had been inclined to do it.
It was nagging at him that there was something he was forgetting to do, but forgotten things are forgotten and you can't force 'em to come back. So Dean went on with the tasks he did remember.
He folded the laundry and took it back to the motel. Dean put his own clothes back in his duffle. He put Sam's in the dresser drawers. He knew Sam liked to pretend these by-the-week rooms were their actual home. When Dad was around, John insisted clothes stay in your bag so if they had to leave in a rush nothing got left behind. Sam had ignored that rule now and then, and his ass had paid for it when a new wardrobe was needed. But Dad wasn't going to be around, so Dean decided to indulge the squirt. Sam needed the security of home, even if it was fake security.
Next, Dean got to the task of cleaning weapons and wondering where the hell Sammy was. As the minutes ticked by, the pondering morphed into contemplating what punishment he was going to have to enforce for Sam missing the deadline to get 'home'.
The sky got darker and Dean got more and more pissed. He'd just shoved his gun down the back of his jeans and put on a jacket to cover it, so he could go out looking for his boy, when a key turned in the lock and a tear-stained faced Sam walked through the door.
Sam gave him such a look of disappointment that Dean felt his heart crack. The science fair, he'd missed Sammy showing off his project…the sugary remains of a boiled can of Coke vs. one of Diet Coke.
"Why weren't you there?! Hunt stuff, right? It's always hunt stuff."
"Sam, I'm sorry."
"If you cared, you'd've been there."
"Sam, I do care. I meant to…"
"Yeah, you meant to, but I'm just not worth remembering enough to actually follow through."
If there had been a separate bedroom with a door, Sam would've gone into it and slammed the door. The best he could do to substitute was flop face down on the bed and bury his head in the pillow to muffle the next round of tears.
Dean sat on the edge of Sam's bed and rested his hand on his shoulder. Dad had given him this child to raise when Dean was only 4. John had been an empty shell for a long time, and when he came out of it he'd been more of a drill sergeant than a father. It was Dean's job to be the parent, not just in making sure a warm dinner hits the table as often as possible, but in making sure his boy felt emotionally safe and cared for. Today, he'd earned a D- on the parenting report card.
And it occurred to Dean, that getting an A, or at least a B, on the being-a-good-parent report card was so much more important that getting one in math or science.
School and him were parting ways. Tomorrow, he'd get the paperwork to dropout, forge John's signature on it, and then go looking for a job. Preferably as a part-time mechanic, or doing yard work in the local neighborhoods, so he could work days, make enough for decent food, and be home in time to look after Sammy.
Dad would be pissed, but it was worth the price.
Dean Age 15; Sam Age 11
The air smelled of freshly mown grass. The sky was blue and the sun was hot. The 5 rows in the small stands were packed with the parents of the Blue Jay's soccer team and their adversary the Delmont Lions. Sam dribbled the soccer ball between his feet. That wasn't the term for it, but it was the equivalent to basketball's dribbling and Dean couldn't think of the soccer term for it. Sam controlled the ball down the field, keeping it just out of reach of the feet of the Lions. Then wham! One good hard kick and it was flying for the net.
Dean yelled at the top of his lungs, "Woohoo! That's my boy!" He clapped and grinned and looked around at the other parents to see if they'd seen how remarkable his boy was.
Dean Age 12; Sam Age 8; Maryland, near D.C.
Dean waited at the corner to pick up Sammy from the school's bus stop. Sam practically plowed into him when he raced off the bus, then immediately started babbling and shoving a paper in Dean's face.
"Look Dean, the school's going to take us to the Smithsonian Museums and they're all free, like the library, because they're paid for with taxes. They have all kinds of cool stuff! The original American flag, Fonzie's jacket, fossils of dinosaurs, the Wright Brother's airplane. Dean, I've got to go! Can I go Dean? Can I?" Then it was like all joy got sucked out of the world. "Dad's going to say no, isn't he?"
Dean thought, 'Buildings full of old junk, all with a high potential of being haunted. Dad was definitely going to say no.' But it was Dean's week to play dad while their father was away, and Dean felt like saying yes. There was no way he was going to let Sammy miss out on seeing the Fonze's jacket. Hell, he was jealous of the kid. "I'll take care of it."
Sam looked at Dean with wonder in his eyes. "You will?"
"I've got this, Sammy."
That night, after putting Sam to bed, Dean carefully forged John's signature. It wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last, but it was the first time he'd done it without direct permission from his father.
It felt good to be able to give his geeky brother this and he smiled as he tucked the form into Sammy's backpack.
Dean Age 9; Sam Age 5
"Shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!" Dean skidded to the ground next to his screaming-crying brother. Why the fuck had he jumped off that roof?
It was 2 days after Halloween, meaning John was off on a bender someplace, mourning the anniversary of his wife's death.
The boys were taking advantage of his absence to be boys. They'd put on their Halloween costumes…Dean-Superman, Sammy-Batman… and had been playing make believe.
It'd been fun to just be kids, running around, pretending to save the world as masked heroes.
Dean had allowed himself to forget that he was supposed to be in charge and that his brother tended to copy everything he did. He really hadn't thought the 5-year-old would have the confidence to throw himself from the garage roof. Dean had done some big-brother ragging. "You know what Superman can do that Batman can't?"
"Batman can do anything!" Sammy insisted.
"He can't fly. Those wings are completely fake. Only superheroes with powers, like Superman can fly."
"You're wrong!" Sam shouted.
"Big brothers are always right, Sammy." Dean stated as he shimmied up the ladder, then posed, hands on hips, Superman style, on the roof of the garage. His brother followed him up the ladder.
"See," Sam said, "Superman can't fly. You didn't fly up here. You climbed."
"So did you, squirt. And Superman can to fly! Watch this!" John had taught Dean proper falling from height techniques, like: don't put your hands out, curl into a ball, roll to your back and tuck your head. Plus, Dean aimed for the pile of leaves they'd raked earlier. The leaves puffed up into the air when he landed. His rump had fallen through the leaves and landed a bit hard on the ground, but Dean came out of his 'flight' with no noticeable battle wounds.
Then he heard what sounded like the crack of a tree branch and his brother's scream.
"Shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!" Dean skidded to the ground next to his screaming-crying brother and gathered Sam up into his arms. "You're okay. Are you okay?" God, there was no way his brother was okay. His arm now had an extra bend in it.
The kid switch clicked off and the parent one switched on for Dean. He had to fix this. Now. Dad had taught him some basic field medicine, but broken arms required doctors.
"Stay here Sam. Just stay here."
Sam cried and clung to Dean's shirt with the hand that could still grip. "Don't go. Don't go, Dean."
"Only for a minute, Sam. I'll be right back. I promise." Dean had to peel Sam's fingers open to unlatch them from his flannel. Sam's tears increased and Dean's heart broke, knowing Sammy felt abandoned and alone, sitting amongst the red and yellow leaves.
Dean rushed back with his bike. He kicked the kick stand out so it was standing up, then went to lift his brother. Sam was a sobbing mess and doing nothing to support his own body. All Dean wanted to do was hold and comfort his brother. But hugs weren't going to fix this problem and he couldn't hold his brother and ride. He had to snap Sammy out of this mode. So he turned on the dad voice, "Look at me Samuel." Sam's eyes drifted up to his older brother. "Feet on the ground." Sam obeyed. Dean reached up and wiped his own tears away. "We need to get you to the doctor." Sam sniffed and nodded. "You are going to sit on the handlebars, and I am going to take you there."
"Dean, I can't. I only have one hand to hold on with."
"Then that hand had better hold tight, you hear me?" Dean looked at him firmly, waiting for the nod of acceptance.
Sammy acquiesced. It wasn't what he wanted, but he understood that when Dean was in in charge mode he was to obey and it was easier to obey Dean than Dad because Dean's rules always made sense.
With Dean's help, Sam got situated on the handlebars and Dean rode them to the hospital.
While the doctor looked after Sammy, Dean did what he could to mitigate any official authority issues that might bloom from this incident.
"We need to contact your parents."
"That's not possible, ma'am."
The lady, Jennifer, by her nametag, raised a brow at that statement, "Dean, I know you probably don't want your parents to know that your brother broke his arm, but this isn't a broken cookie jar. You won't be able to hide it."
"It isn't that, ma'am. It just isn't possible to get ahold of them right now. I swear, I'll follow any instructions the doctor leaves for taking care of Sammy, and I'll have Dad stop by so you can run his insurance and credit card. But it just isn't possible to get ahold of him right now." When she still looked like she was waiting for an explanation, Dean gave her the one he always gave Sammy, "Dad's a door-to-door salesmen, and he's out working right now, so there isn't a way to get ahold of him."
"And your Mom?"
"She," Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard, "died, five years ago today, ma'am."
Jennifer wanted to take pity on them, and just let the brothers leave once the younger one was patched up, but she had a duty and she couldn't let pleading eyes stop her from doing what was right. "Your babysitter?"
"We didn't have one today, ma'am. We were supposed to stay in the house, watch TV."
"But jumping off roofs sounded like more fun."
Jennifer watched forlornment, grief, regret and other emotions wash over the 9-year-old's face. "At the time, ma'am."
"What time do you expect your father to get home, Dean?"
"I'm not sure, ma'am."
Jennifer was starting to get irritated with the being ma'amed with ever sentence, it wasn't how she'd been raised, but it was obviously the way the boy had been taught to respond when in trouble so she made no comment on it. She tapped a pen against the clipboard she'd been gathering information on. Coming to a decision, she stopped tapping and explained what was going to happen next. "I'm going to send someone to leave a note for your father. You and your brother are going to stay here. If your father makes it here before the end of my shift, at 8:00p.m. then the two of you can leave with him. If he isn't here by that time I'm calling Child Protective Services."
She could see the terror in Dean's eyes now and worried that Mr. Winchester was going to arrive well after the allotted time. And she worried that she had made a mistake in not calling Child Protective Services immediately. Both boys had separately confirmed the tale of the broken arm being due to leaping from a roof while pretending to be superheroes and their responses had seemed truthful. Not to mention that they were both still wearing their costumes. So Jennifer wasn't worried about the broken arm being due to abuse, but she was now very worried about how often the two boys may lack adult supervision.
An angry and worried John Winchester arrived at 7:43. He ignored the hospital staff and beelined it for his two boys in the hospital waiting room. He immediately picked up Sammy and put him on his hip, like he'd carried the boys when they were toddlers. Sam tucked his head on his Dad's shoulder and his thumb in his mouth, likewise regressing in age to match his father's treatment of him.
John next looked at his older son, "Report."
Dean snapped his legs together and dropped his arms to his sides, shoulders back, head forward, "We were playing Batman and Superman," as if the capes hanging off both his boys' shoulders wasn't evidence of that enough, "I teased Sammy about Superman being the better hero because he could fly. I tried to prove it by jumping off the roof into the leaves. I used the techniques you taught me on how best to fall. I didn't think Sammy would have the confidence to copy me. He tried to catch himself with his arms and broke one, sir."
"Damn right you didn't think. But we'll see to making you remember when we get home."
"Yes, sir."
Jennifer watched the little family drama finish out its course. She still had an itch in her neck that told her she should've involved CPS, but she'd made a promise to Dean and Mr. Winchester had arrived before 8:00. She took down his insurance information and the cash the man insisted was equivalent to their co-pay and allowed the family to leave.
Dean slept on his stomach that night, the throbbing a reminder that he had responsibilities. He had to protect Sammy. Real superheroes were people like his Dad, who saved lives. Not dumbass kids wearing costumes to leap off roofs.
He'd spent the hours at the hospital watching out the window, pleading for the Impala to roar into the parking lot.
The spanking had re-enforced what he'd been thinking since Sammy's arm had gotten broke, he couldn't be a kid, not when there wasn't an adult around to take on the parent role. He'd seriously screwed up today.
Dean squeezed his eyes as tears started to well up. It was 5 years to the day and the exact hour his Mom had died. The tears got joined with hiccupped breathing. Dean felt the bed dip and his father's hand start to rub his shoulders and back. Dean slid out from under the covers and crawled into a ball on his Dad's lap. John held and rocked and soothed.
"I miss Mom."
"Me too. Me too."
Author's Question: Which scene hit the strongest for you?