Juvenile
By Javawolf
Disclaimer: Don't sue me, Supernatural is not mine. (Are these really necessary?)
Author's Note: My first Supernatural fic. I fear I may have the characters a bit OOC. (Cringe) Even so, any feedback is greatly appreciated. Drop a line.
Sammy hates me.
That's all there is to it, he just hates me. I hit him and he won't fight back. I taunt him and he just smirks at me. In our fucked up family that's weird.
He says he doesn't like fighting.
"It's stupid, and it doesn't help anything," he says, like he knows what he's talking about. We save people's lives by fighting! I mean... If we stopped fighting we'd lose. That's what Dad says.
I've been fighting darkness my whole life, and I don't think I've won yet, but hell if I'm gonna lose. I live for fighting, but I still can't remember a time when I wasn't afraid of the dark... And I'm almost seventeen.
"None of this stuff was real before we started looking for it." Sammy told me one night. We were just lying on our backs in the grass, looking up at the sky one summer evening. I was eleven. It was really cloudy and Sammy was scared, I remember. But I just scooted over to him and told him to shut up, and he laughed.
Sammy never laughs anymore, and he won't fight. And now I'm scared. I don't wanna lose him, too.
"Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Now, Dean! Go!"
Am I in trouble? Oh, don't go too fast... Gotta... Get down the... stairs. Sammy's heavy. My arms hurt... I didn't do anything, what am I in trouble for? Slow...ly... Uh-oh... Daddy musta found the syrup bottle...
"Don't cry Sammy." Almost at the bottom...
Daddy's yelling up there... Maybe I should go back.
"Sammy, shut-up. Stop crying, you dumb baby." Dumb baby... Dumb baby... My arms hurt. I didn't drink the syrup, Sammy did. If Sammy drank the syrup, I'm not in trouble anymore. You're heavy, Sammy.
What's that smell? Smells like Daddy's pancakes, we're getting pancakes! I didn't drink the syrup, Sammy did. It's hot.
Down the steps. I'm tired... Heavy baby. But not dumb.
"You're not dumb, Sammy." Heavy though, stop crying. Outside. So much colder. Stop crying.
"Shh... It's okay, Sammy."
Ahh, no! The house... My toys...
Daddy!
MOMMY!
Dean woke suddenly, leaping into an upright, martial arts position. For a moment he sat in the darkness of his room, posed and ready for the attack that never came. His breath came in ragged gasps and his hands were curled so tightly into fists that they trembled.
Minutes passed, and he didn't move. It was only when he started to feel a chill that he dared to relax back into bed. Very quickly he realized why he felt that sudden chill.
"Oh..." He groaned loudly and swore at himself. He'd soiled his bed sheets. Again. "For the love o'..." He trailed off, peeling the wet sheets from his bed and carrying them into the laundry room where he left them for the morning.
This was the third time in as many months that Dean had wet the bed. He never told anyone. What would Dad say?
"You're seventeen years old, you should at least have some fucking bladder control! Be a man! Fight your fears!"
Fight...
I can't be afraid of the dark. Sooner or later it'll take me.
Don't be afraid of the dark.
As Dean shuffled into the bathroom and stripped his dirty clothes his own words echoed in his mind. He wanted to be a man. He wanted to be a fighter, a warrior... a hero. But he was afraid, and he knew he could never stop being afraid. Terrified of his own shadow; of the shadows he was forced to live in.
He turned the shower on as hot as it would go, praying that the sound of water running in the old pipes wouldn't wake his father. Hesitantly he stepped into the shower, and stood absolutely still, allowing the piping hot water to beat down on his head, cascading over him like an angry waterfall.
It was times like these when he was able to reflect. He didn't like it. Any other time the chaos of his life distracted him from the little things; school, girls, etc. In truth Dean knew he'd rather fight the forces of darkness than face the reality of adolescence. Admitting that there was life beyond the war only succeeded in making the war seem more menacing; more real. And so on a daily basis, Dean forced himself to believe that he didn't live in the real world.
He lived in a nightmare.
And even though he knew he shouldn't; even though he didn't want to, Dean found hope in waking. One day, this life would all just be a dream.
With extreme reluctance Dean turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain. He wrapped himself in a towel and stepped in front of the mirror. Slouching over the sink, he studied his reflection. Glaring back at him was a mask he'd spent ten years perfecting, crafted entirely of endurance and indifference. He ran a hand through his hair to muss it to his liking, and then, satisfied with the result, he stalked silently toward his bedroom.
As he passed his father's bedroom Dean heard the familiar sound of muffled sobs, likely caused by the same nightmare that haunted his own dreams. He hesitated by the door, reaching to grab the handle and enter. But before he even touched it the door swung open and the dark figure of John Winchester loomed over him. Dean cowered under his father, his hands instantly groping at his sliding towel. He silently cursed himself for being so naked in front of his father, but straitened his posture none-the-less, standing tall before him with the abiding mask of a soldier.
"Dean?" John stated groggily, rubbing sleep out of his blood-shot eyes. "What are you doing up?" He glanced back into his room, peering through the darkness to see the time that flashed across the face of his bedside alarm clock. "It's four in the morning. Are you okay?"
For a split second Dean was at a complete loss for words. The concern he thought he heard caused him to think for a moment that he was still dreaming. He quickly recovered however, giving John a blank look.
"I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd take a shower to relax." At his father's look of disbelief Dean added, "I'm fine. Really." John sighed. After studying his son for another short minute he stepped in the hallway and closed his door softly behind him.
"Come on." He said softly, wrapping his arms around his eldest son and leading him down the hall. Dean was reluctant, but walked with him slowly, still holding his towel loosely around his waist. John took off the robe he wore over his sweats and set it on Dean's shoulders as they entered the kitchen. He continued toward the fridge, while Dean, surprised at the gesture, shrugged the robe on and tied it securely around his middle.
"Well, Dean," John yawned. "I not even going to try to go back to sleep tonight–you?"
Dean shook his head. This didn't make any sense. What kind of game was his father playing? What benefit came from this training? Where was the lesson in all of this? Dean watched attentively, prepared for anything, as his father set a bag of ham and a jar of mayonnaise on the counter.
"You want a sandwich?" John asked, reaching above the fridge to grab the bread. "I think I might make some coffee, too. What do you think?" He set the bread down next to the ham. Dean stared at him, but John simply met his eyes with a weak smile.
"Come on, Dean." He said. "How often do I get to talk to my little boy?"
It was at that moment that Dean lost hold of the mask, and it fell from his face leaving behind it a flickering smile.
"Sandwich and coffee. Sounds good." And with that Dean walked over to the counter and sat up on a stool next to his father.
tbc. Sorry so short, bare with me.