Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, I just wish I do!
My first Wee!chester fic, Sam is six, Dean is ten.
"Dean. Dean, wake up for me."
Dean's brow creased in confusion. He didn't want to wake up, he wanted to go back to the darkness. But something about that voice made him sit up and take notice. He was supposed to obey that voice, no matter what.
"Please, Dean. Please."
That made Dean even more confused, because that voice wasn't supposed to sound... lost. Scared. Pleading. He struggled through the darkness towards it, wincing as he was met with a dull, half-hearted pain in the back of his head. He had the vague sense that it had been there for a long time now, and that he just hadn't been aware of it. He winced again as it stabbed at him, and a low moan escaped his parted lips.
"Dean? Can you hear me, son?"
Son?
"Dad?" Dean croaked. He was horrified at the sound of his own voice: it was hoarse and weak. What had happened? With a huge effort, he pushed the darkness away and wrenched his eyes open a crack. The first thing he saw was his Dad leaning over him, one hand on his arm, the other behind him somewhere. He blinked up at his father blankly. Had he been there before? He widened his eyes a little more and tried to turn his head.
Instantly, pain screamed through his head and he gasped, tears jumping to his eyes. His Dad's eyes flashed with concern.
"Don't move, Dean, just take it slow."
"Wha 'appened?"
"Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that. You hurt your head, looks like someone hit you with a bottle or you fell through a window or something."
"Dad... hurts..."
"I know, stay still."
His Dad vanished from his line of sight, and Dean felt a rush of panic. He wanted to scream out, 'don't go!' but he managed to contain himself. His Dad always had a reason for everything, he would be back. He forced his body to stay rigidly still as he waited, listening to the faint sounds of tap water and something rattling slightly. He held his breath and then turned his head a little more. The pain clawed at him again but he did his best to ignore it.
He was lying on the sofa of their motel room. Across the room, in the armchair beside the TV, Sam was curled up in a tight ball of sleep, his little hands clenched over the flimsy covering of the chair. His brown mop of hair flopped over his forehead, catching the light slightly. Dean felt a smile spreading over his face.
"Hey, Sammy," he croaked, knowing that Sam wouldn't be able to hear him.
He slid his eyes up as his Dad reappeared, a glass of water in one hand and a white pill in the other. He knelt down beside Dean, cutting off his view of Sam.
"You'll have to sit up a bit, Dean. Can you be brave for me?"
Dean nodded, gulping at the thought. His Dad slipped a hand behind him and slowly lifted him into a sitting position. Dean's head span and black dots danced before his eyes as agony whirled his head dizzily, but he fought it off. He took the pill his father gave him and took a few sips of water to wash it down.
"Okay?" his Dad asked, laying him back down and putting the water on the floor beside the sofa. "It'll start working soon. Give it a few minutes."
Dean would have nodded, but he didn't want to risk it. Instead, he just smiled at his Dad as best he could. His Dad looked at him for a moment with a strange look in his eyes, and then bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
Come to think of it, Dean couldn't remember the last time he had seen his Dad so subdued. It was as if he had lost control of the situation a little, lost the drill-sergeant clipped edge to his voice. For the first time in a long while, he seemed soft and caring. Dean frowned, and then decided to speak up. Maybe the drugs were giving him attitude, he thought wryly.
"You okay, Dad?" he checked.
His Dad looked up, letting out a small huff. "You scared me half to death, Dean. I thought I was gonna lose you, both of you."
"I'm sorry..."
"Just tell me what happened," his Dad replied, still keeping his voice quiet and gentle.
Dean's eyes narrowed as he raked his memory for an answer. Everything seemed strangely fuzzy... he frowned. "I... Sammy wanted ice cream."
Whatever his Dad had been expecting, it certainly wasn't that. "Ice cream?"
"Yeah. And I went out to get some... and there was Tom Jones, he wanted revenge for what happened this morning in the playground..."
"You've been picking fights at school?"
"No, no," Dean replied, shaking his head. "Tom was bitching to Sammy, saying we were all pathetic and stuff. I told him to go away, and I thought he did, but then he came back..."
"And just attacked you in the middle of the street?"
Dean winced. "Uh, no. In an alleyway."
"An alley...?" Dad shook his head. "Dean, you know how dangerous it can be at night around these areas."
"I know... I'm sorry..."
John paused for a moment. "Wait. Are you saying that he did this to you?"
Dean nodded blearily. "He came up behind, hit me with... something. A wine bottle, I think. There were too many of them for me. I'm sorry, Dad."
His Dad took his hand. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Dean. I swear when I get hold of that kid..." he stopped himself, shaking his head.
Dean smiled at the thought of his Dad storming up to Tom Jones and telling him off. He felt his eyes drooping and pushed them open again.
"Sammy?" he asked, trying to find something to keep him awake. "He's not in bed yet. Did I scare him?"
"I think so, but he'll be fine. He wouldn't leave until he knew you were okay." John glanced at his youngest. "I'll put him to bed now."
Dean watched as his father stood and picked Sam up, and then vanished. He felt his eyes beginning to droop once more and fought them open, wincing as his head seared slightly. Somehow they managed to fall closed, and he let out a small sigh as his body began to relax without his permission.
"Dean?"
He hauled his eyelids up and squinted at his Dad, who had returned to him. "S'ry, Dad," he mumbled. "I'm really tired..."
"Its okay, its probably the painkillers. Not to mention the concussion. And," he added, putting on a mock-stern expression, "Its past your bedtime."
Dean grinned weakly. "Kay," he whispered. "I'll go to bed..."
He was just about to say that he wasn't sure if he could walk there when his Dad moved around the sofa and gently pulled him into his arms. Dean raised his eyebrows as his Dad carefully lifted him and began to move slowly towards his room. His father hadn't picked him up since... well, he couldn't remember the last time his father had picked him up.
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John had barely left the sofa when Dean went limp in his arms, a small whispered sigh escaping from his lips. He bent his head against Dean's hair and breathed in his scent. He smelt of Sam, and rain, and old clothes, and gunpowder and, right now, disinfectant. He smiled slightly, pulling his son closer against him, and moved on towards his room, walking as smoothly as he could so as not to jolt Dean's head.
He ducked into the room his sons shared and carefully laid Dean down on the bed, turning his head on the pillow so that he wasn't putting any weight on his wound. He collected the duvet and flicked it high in the air, letting the air rush under it before it settled on Dean's body. He had used to do that all the time when Dean was little, and Dean had clapped his hands and laughed in excitement at the sight of the material billowing above him. John hadn't done it since Mary died.
He crouched down beside Dean and touched his face lightly. Dean moaned softly and twitched his head a little. John smiled and rose to his feet, turning to look down at Sam who had somehow managed to roll clear of his blanket already. He pulled it back over him and then picked up Sam's Doggy - one of the few toys extracted from their burned home - and tucked it in beside him. He watched his boys for a few more silent moments, then turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Tom Jones, whoever that was, was going to pay dearly for this.
John glanced at the broken door, then put a chair against it and a salt line along the bottom of it. Just in case. Then, tiredness itching at his eyes, he turned and went into his room to turn in. Maybe he would take a short break from hunting for a few days. Take the boys to disneyland or something. He grinned at the thought of Dean awkwardly gawking at a man dressed up as Mickey Mouse while Sam practically flew with excitement. His older son would probably turn to him after a bit and say in a horrified whisper, "How do we kill these monsters, Dad? Rock salt or silver bullets?" John laughed softly. Dean would be fine.
He always was.
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Dean awoke not to morning sunlight but to a soft tugging on his arm. He blinked blearily up at the shadow standing over him, his head throbbing slightly as he struggled to focus. For a few moments, he had no idea what was going on, or where he was. Then, slowly, he recognized the unruly bumps on the head of the shadow that made up wild locks, the slightly awkward posture, the clutching hands.
"Sammy?" he asked hoarsely. So his voice hadn't gotten any better.
"I'm sorry Dean," Sam whispered. "I fell asleep... are you okay?"
"Yeah, bro, I'm fine."
Sam looked him over anxiously. "There's no more..." he gulped. "No more blood?"
"No," Dean replied, wondering how long Sam had been alone for with just Dean's lifeless body for company. "No more blood, Sam."
Sam nodded, and then hesitated. Knowing what he wanted, Dean managed to shift himself sideways and Sam climbed into the bed beside him, nestling into his side. Dean put his arm around his brother, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Its okay now, Sammy," he assured him softly.
"I know," Sam said quickly. "I thought you might be scared."
"Sure, whatev, wimp."
Sam sniggered and tucked his head up against Dean's chest. Dean pulled the duvet up over Sam and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to quickly dissolve into numbness again. He should have these painkillers more often - he slept a whole lot easier when he was drugged.
"Dean?" Sam whispered suddenly.
"Hmm?" Dean mumbled.
"Was... was it him?"
He didn't have to explain what he was talking about. Dean dragged himself out of sleep again, concentrating on Sam's answer. Normally, he would have lied. But the very fact that Sam had asked him outright showed that his brother was growing up now.
"Yeah, Sam," he said softly. "It was. But Dad's gonna teach him a lesson."
"Can we watch?"
Dean laughed. "Sure, why not. Night Sam."
"Night, Dean." A pause. "Love you."
"Love you too, mate."
"I'm sorry."
"Mmm."
"Night."
"Mmm."
"I'll go back to my own bed in a bit... Dean? Dean?"
Sam lifted his head. Dean's eyes were closed, his chest slowly rising and falling in a calming pattern. Sam smiled and lay down again, curling an arm around Dean's stomach so that he could know that he was there, even when he was asleep.
"Night, Dean," he whispered again.
For a few moments he just listened to Dean's slow, even breathing before he, too, drifted off into sleep.
Okay, there we go. I just felt ready for a bit of fluff after the dark alleys and angst! But Sam still hasn't got his ice cream... things could get bad...
Remember, review and I update.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.
