Disclaimer : Obviously, i don't own Mr Been

A/N : A big tanks to TillyRose who did a lot more than beta this fic. You're the best (and the quickest !)

And thanks to people who reviewed and read the first chap ;-)

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Sam was waiting. He was waiting to fall asleep. Dreading the moment; scared of seeing his girlfriend's death as soon as the dreams came. So Sam stayed awake as long as he could.
On the opposite side of the room his brother would fall asleep after a few minutes of tossing and turning. Dean always slept on his stomach, one hand on the knife beneath his pillow. It was something that had continued since they were kids and Sam liked to hear his brother sleeping. His brother's slow and regular breathing always soothed the young man more than he was willing to admit. Dean's calm sleep helped him relax.

But not tonight. Sam didn't hear his brother lay down on his bed, he didn't hear him twist and turn under the blanket; he didn't hear him fall asleep. And Dean's breathing was far from calm and regular.
Almost thirty minutes later, Dean was still awake and Sam was beginning to worry. Without waiting any longer, he turned the light on and sat up in his bed. Dressed in black boxers and a t-shirt, Dean was slumped over on the stiff motel bed; bare feet touching the cold floor. His eyes were glazed and held a lost, faraway look. Sam, who was startled and unsettled at the ominous air his brother was portraying, did his best not to jump at the sight. Dean didn't react when Sam, now rather concerned, moved and sat next to him. Time passed, slowly.

"Have you ever been scared?" Dean asked finally, with a quiet voice that resounded in the silence. The first thing Sam thought of was Jessica, burning on the ceiling. He didn't answer; the question was rhetorical. Dean continued with a calm voice.

"I've never been afraid, you know? Never. I'm a good hunter. I made it through situations when other people would have died; I faced and killed monsters that would have scared the bravest men. And all that for more than ten years." Dean's face, completely blank, didn't betray any of his thoughts. Sam was listening, his head slightly turned towards his brother.

"But this one night, when he got home, I was scared." Dean's voice was no more than a whisper. He crossed his hands before him in a nervous, anguished gesture.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. He was petrified, feeling so helpless. Dean was hurting so much. Gently, as if to not startle him, Sam took his brother's hand. Dean seemed to pull out of his stupor slightly. He continued.

---------FLASH-BACK---------

"Sam, turn off the TV," Dean said as he sat at the dinner table, a pen to his hand, his nose to a book and a notebook open before him.

"Don't you have a book to read?" He usually liked to watch Mr. Bean but Sam's laughing stopped him from focusing on his homework.

"I've already read all the books." retorted his twelve year-old younger brother angrily. "You can always go work in our room!"

"There isn't a desk in the bedroom, Sam!"

The Winchester family had arrived in Seattle that November. The demonic activity was so intense that John had decided to rent a flat and stay as long as necessary. The only problem was that there were only two rooms to the whole apartment. The brothers shared the bedroom and their father slept in the lounge, so it was hard for them to have time to themselves.
Despite the close proximity to his brother and father, Sam hadn't needed to fake his joy at the prospect of staying for more than three weeks in one place. He could now make decent friends at school without the fear of loosing them when they left. Dean was also pleased. He wasn't as social as his brother, but - he wouldn't have told this to anyone, especially his family - he could finally revise for his tests without the fear of leaving before he sat them.

"Sam!" Dean barked as the younger boy burst out in a loud bout of laughter. The little guy glared at him.

"Leave me alone; it's not my fault if you're always too late with your studies." At those words, Dean could have strangled his brother. He wasn't late in his revision. It was a test that he had been revising for every day for the past month. Christmas was coming and the teachers were lashing out; tests in class, papers to hand in. Between that, baby-sitting his little brother and helping his father hunt, Dean was overworked. The teenager had had enough. He stood abruptly, turned off the TV - despite the vehement and outraged protests of Sam - went in the room and came back a few minutes later.

"Learn!" he hissed, launching a pile of magazines onto the sofa.

"Wh… What? Porn? That's all you could find?" Sam spat. "You're a real jerk, you know that?" He carelessly tossed the magazines on the floor. As Dean opened his mouth to answer back, he thought better of it. Turning the TV off wasn't his way of starting a fight with his brother. He sat back down at the table as Sam switched on the TV, less loudly this time and he tried to contain his laughter. After the movie, the younger of the two went into the bedroom to read through his homework before falling asleep. As for Dean; he kept working.

By midnight he was exhausted, but felt that he was ready for the test the following day. Clearing up his homework and the magazines, Dean headed off to bed. His father was still out. The teenager figured that the spirit his dad had been hunting since the beginning of the week was harder to destroy than expected. Dean entered the bedroom silently and smiled affectionately at the sight of his brother, sleeping on the bed with a math book on his face. He put the text book away and forced Sam's body under the blankets. His little brother hardly woke up, just enough to realise that it was his brother. Dean turned off the light and fell into bed, the musty pillow cradling his tired head as he drifted off to sleep.

He was awoken by the sound of breaking glass. His first reaction was to turn towards his brother. Sam continued to sleep, oblivious to whatever was going on in the other room. But what was going on? Dean got up; the knife, which had been under every one of his pillows since he was a teenager, sitting comfortably in his fingers. Moonlight caught on the sharp silver blade, dancing shards of light across the walls.

"Dad?" he called, entering the living room.

"Ah shit…" came his father's gruff voice. Dean sighed in relief. He placed the knife on the table and entered the kitchen.

His father was positioned with hands resting heavily on the sink. Standing totally still with his back towards his son, his breathing was shallow. Dean eyed a broken bottle on the floor. John's shoulders shuddered and he turned around, leaning against the bench. He was swaying and his eyes were red.

Dean knew immediately that he had been drinking. This wasn't unusual; it was his father's way to get away from the pain and stress of hunting. There were always going to be battles to fight, always lives at stake. Their job was often a hard one and John, despite his very strong nature needed to relax from time to time. So he went to bars; drank a few beers, talked with people who only had concern for pool or the number of beers they could drink. Dean supposed that the alcohol induced sleep helped to keep his dad's nightmares at bay. The young man understood the need to escape sometimes; he himself loved to play pool to relax, especially with older people who thought they had more experience in the game ... And were quickly proved wrong.

Tonight, it was different and Dean felt it immediately. When his father came home drunk he usually just went to bed and woke up early in the morning, ready to hunt again. But here Dean was worried. His father hadn't called to say the hunt was over and that he would go out. More so, there were traces of a bar fight evident on his face. John's lips were split and bleeding and his left eye was swollen shut. Their father never ever fought in bars; it was the most efficient way to draw attention to themselves, which the Winchesters didn't want or need. It was then that Dean noticed that his father had tried, unsuccessfully, to open another bottle of what seemed to be whisky.
And it scared him.

"Why you looking at me like that?" John asked. His voice was thick. "Be useful and help me open this young lady, would you?" he said gruffly, the bottle grasped in his blood-stained fist. Dean didn't know how to react.

After an uncertain pause, Dean spoke out hesitantly.

"Dad, you know that this 'young lady' is just gonna give you a major headache in the morning." he said, a forced smile on his lips.

"I said help me open't…" John spoke, a slur evident in his speech. He made to walk towards his son but staggered, starting to fall. In a flash, Dean was at his side, his arms under John's armpits, lowering the older man to the floor. Dean, knowing it was okay to leave his father there for a moment, went to unfold the sofa and came back to his father, squatting down to meet John's bleary gaze.

"Come on, Dad. It's time to sleep." It felt decidedly strange to say that to his father. But he had been looking out for his brother since childhood; and although it was odd to have to do the same thing for his father, he knew it had to be done. John growled, refusing the help from his eldest son. He sat on the floor; leaning against the cupboard, legs sprawled out in front of him. The bottle was still glued to his hand as he pulled his feet around in an attempt to stand up. His effort was wasted and he fell back heavily with a grunt.

"Dad..." Dean grasped his shoulder.

"Back off!" John pushed at his son. Dean didn't listen, determined to end this. He took his father by the arm, tried to make him drop the bottle. John fought back against him, his gestures becoming less controlled, more aggressive. Dean didn't see the bottle come swinging towards his temple; he only felt a shuddering pain rack his skull. And then, he didn't see anything at all.

-------------END FLASH-BACK------------

END Chapter 2
TBC

A/N : That's all for now! Hope you enjoyed this chap!