Because it's never an enjoyable experience. To the best of my knowladge all of the facts here are true :) But I did get the off the internet ...
TeenChester Dean's 17 and Sam's 12/13
Make no profit, have no ownerage.
7. Shot
Growing up Sam and Dean had probably attended close to two hundred schools, under as many aliases and across some thirty-seven states.
In the beginning, when friendships were shallow and easily exchanged, it had been exciting; life on the road. Better than your run-of-the-mill living. Who didn't want to see the world up close? But when even mere acquaintances came to require ever greater pains of time and effort to forge, the practice in itself soon became tedious. Then, they came to resent that, which each time attained they were forced subsequently to leave behind; fading spectres in the rear-view. Until after a while, it all became redundant; the people, the places, ceased to matter altogether, insignificant scenes and walk-on-parts in life's monotonous performance.
But even then, there were rare occasions which broke the mould; beacons of colour in a mutable surround; moments that made them feel alive. Bennett High – Iowa – stood out to Dean particularly for two reasons: Haley Silverman, and because it marked the first occasion that he truly realized the reciprocal extent of brotherhood.
Sam toyed distractedly with the already feathered edges of the single sheet he bore like his own condemnation papers, as he and Dean walked across the parking lot towards the Impala. John was knee deep in some archival research that day, necessitating no means of transportation as the library existed a mere stones throw from there motel. Sam had been delighted.
"Do they hurt?" He asked in a would be off-handed tone, taking care to avoid Dean's eye.
"Of course they don't hurt," was Dean's curt return. His throat had turned abruptly dry and his palms similarly damp; this was not a conversation he was interested in pursuing.
Feeling all the awkwardness of the moment, he licked his lips, just to be doing something. They still tasted like strawberry chap stick … now that was something he was interested in pursuing.
He had dated pretty girls before, but Haley Silverman was … wow, she was something else. And yes, they were real.
"Are they dangerous?" It was said with betraying timidity and still determined avoidance, as if sensing Dean's sudden ill humour and trying not to provoke it, though being unable to suppress his queries.
"For God's sake, Sammy! No. Look, whatever horror stories you've heard are all just a load of baloney. It's just kids mucking around trying to frighten you when there's no need to be. We used to do it all the time," Dean barked. He felt irritable and tense, and had the balmy mid-march weather abruptly become stifling or was that just him? He prised the light cotton shirt free from where it had stuck to his clammy skin. Really not interested in pursuing this topic.
Sam's voice was small, and he gazed up at his brother with wide-eyed trepidation;
"There are horror stories?"
Well done, Dean. Well done, he commended himself sarcastically. If there was ever a moment more suited to the action of face-palming, he was yet to encounter it.
Forgoing his own turbulent feelings, in order to absolve Sam's, he took his little brother by the shoulders and resolved the height difference.
"Sammy," he spoke with a calmness that he didn't feel, because there was a part of him, completely Sam-orientated, which worked independently of his state, to offer exactly what his little brother needed. So innate was it that he thought, even stricken dumb, that integral part would forge words from inability, if it was words Sammy needed to hear. "It's just a shot. Thirty seconds, tops, and it'll be over, I promise. It doesn't hurt and it isn't dangerous. There's nothing to be scared of. You don't even have to look."
Dean felt himself blanch but persevered through the weakness with stoicism. No, looking was not an action which should suffer wide encouragement. However, Sam appeared consoled.
"So … you're not scared?" It was said without presumption; a genuine plea for resolve. His brothers word like his bible. If Dean said something was okay, then it was.
"Pfft, 'course I'm not scared," Dean scoffed, jawing Sam playfully, "Your big bro ain't scared of nothing." And then lowering his voice, until only Sam could hear; "did you not see me take that rawhead in Michigan. I like mine extra freaking crispy!"
"Right," Sam rolled his eyes.
He had also been there the night their father had been hauled in for questioning in connection to a rash of brutal murders, and with blood quite literally on his hands.
Dean had insecurities buried deep, and the prospect of losing their father, his role-model and hero, in any sense of the word, scared him more than the elder brother would ever freely admit, and Sam knew it.
His brother was not unconquerable, not indestructible, and one day, Dean would come to realize the truth: that sometimes, it was okay to admit you were afraid. Because fear drove courage, and the two were counter-dependant; meaningless without the other.
Whether Sam persisted with his tirade of questions, Dean knew not, for as soon as the engine growled into life, his attention was determinedly averted towards the road, and the soothing tones of Metalica.
So preoccupied was he that when, in the compact space, Sam became increasingly aware of how the sickly-sweet scent of excessive perfume clung tenaciously to his brothers clothes, which he clarified was; 'really weird,' Dean did not even have the articulate rapidity to boast that he and Haley had made Seven Minutes in Heaven look like the feast of seventy-two virgins. And therefore, could not watch with relish as Sam's ears turned accordingly red.
It strained the credulity of ridiculousness to its absolute extremity, and furthermore, waxed pathetic. Dean Winchester wasn't fazed by many things, and compared to all that he had encountered over the course of seventeen years, this tiny thing shouldn't even rate. At least flying was a legitimate fear; planes crashed, often.
Give him horrific injuries; five inch open-fractures; loss of appendage; decapitation; and the convoluted process of a persons entrails transforming into their extrails, and he would neither batter an eyelid nor lose a meal over it. Give him terrifying supernatural encounters; the hot, pungent breath of a werewolf at your jugular; the twisted mind games of a skin walker, forcing you to question even the identity of your family; the arresting stare of a vampire, marking you careless to your own demise, and every time he could still send those sonovabitches screaming back to the bowls of hell, no hesitation.
But so much as mention a hypodermic, and he went to pieces of the spot. He had seen things people couldn't even dream up in their wildest nightmares, and yet the mere thought of that tiny metal cylinder slipping beneath each subsequent layer of skin, as easily as a maggot through the supple flesh of carrion, injecting its toxin into his bloodstream, had him running for the hills.
It would have been laughable, had it happened to anyone besides himself. As it was, however, it was a massive pain in the ass. No-body knew, and he was determined to keep it that way.
How unlucky for him then, that they had rolled into town a week before vaccinations, and John's current case would last just long enough to ensure they would receive them. Someone up there had a sadistic sense of humour.
He could sympathise with Sammy's anxiety. The last time the kid had been taken for a shot was by their mother when he was three months old. He had cried afterwards for two hours straight, inconsolable even to Mary's loving attentions.
In most things it was the fear of the unknown which was the worst. In this, not so much. Dean knew the procedure exactly, and it didn't make him any more willing. In fact, it made him less.
Any thought of concealing the information (and there were still three 'misplaced' report cards idling in the cutlery draws of various motels along the high-way of their life) were prematurely dashed when Sam bolted from the car, permission slip in hand, to assail their father with the same barrage of questions to which Dean had supplied unsatisfactory answers.
Shivering slightly, Dean extricated his own purposely crumpled sheet with little care. Because nothing invited confidence and reassurance like the necessity to gain parental consent to plunge a syringe into their child's arm.
The night passed simultaneously begrudgingly and rapidly; hastening towards an approaching unpleasantry with reluctance, until morning found Sam and Dean treading the pedestrian path to school. And if Dean thought the crisp air would afford him some semblance of inner calm, he was sorely mistaken … of course he was, he grumbled internally; any morning which began with the absence of his (John's) baby, was at a deficit before it began.
"Did you know; immunisation prevents an estimated 2.5 million deaths each year?"
"No," Dean answered flatly, hoping that his obvious disinterest would dissuade Sam from the subject matter that was making his skin crawl.
It didn't.
That was the sixth stomach churning titbit Sam had offered forth that morning. It figured. With everything else that intimidated him, he dived eagerly into the pursuit of research, until that one thing became so familiar that its threatening persona was made negligible, or else the blow was cushioned by fact. So why not – to Dean's quiet dismay – this too.
One day, his brother would take the world by storm, but right now he was taking only Dean's every ounce of self-control, to not throttle him for his intellect and obliviousness.
"Any vaccination typically takes between ten and fifteen years of research, development and testing before being approved and made available to the public at large."
"Wonderful," Dean grouched turned as they onto the main street which the school occupied. It was the 'testing' phase which sat particularly uncomfortably with him, and quite abruptly, he regretted not skipping breakfast.
"Yeah, it is," Sam agreed enthusiastically, clearly delighted with the practice of regurgitating his facts to a participatory audience, even one as unwilling as Dean.
"Vaccines introduce a disabled antigen into the body so that the immune system can produce antibodies against it, thereby creating immunity. So it's actually a misconception that you can contract the disease from having the shot … However, every one in one million people suffer an allergic reaction." Sam shrugged, as if the information was of little concern to him.
Wait … what? Dean drew up short, just inside the gates, forcing his impatient peers to filter around him, as perspiration gathered upon his palms and forehead, and the world seemed to oscillate momentarily. Oh that was just brilliant. Exactly what he wanted to hear. He tried to swallow and found his throat obstructed.
"No vaccine is ever 100% effective either. Most routine ones generally result in immunity for around 85-95% of – Dean? Are you okay?"
Five paces ahead, Sam had realized Dean's absence, and now doubled back concerned.
"Dean?" he pressed a little more firmly, in a tone reminiscent of John himself, which he knew Dean would respond to instinctively. The older startled slightly, as if brought from an unpleasant reverie into a worse reality
"What? Fine. Shoe lace was undone," he rushed out with distracted impatience, gazing at his heavy boots as if they had suddenly assumed the properties of the worlds most enthralling enigma.
"You look kind of sick," Sam insisted anxiously, startled by the violent green hue which coloured his brothers clammy skin. "Do you want me to call dad to pick you up?" He fumbled with the second hand mobile for a moment, as if for emphasis.
"No. I'm okay, Sammy, really." He tried to smile, but the gesture betrayed intention and was more akin to a grimace. "Shouldn't have had that burger last night, I guess."
"We had Chinese …"
"Yeah," Dean agreed distractedly, looking beyond Sam at something which must have existed for his eyes only. "Remember what I told you: nothing to worry about, you'll be fine. See you after school." He went to offer Sam's shoulder a bracing slap, but overshot the action completely, and continued walking without even appearing to notice.
Sam watched him go with exasperation, shaking his head. And Dean said he was stubborn.
Worry was the one emotion Dean indulged in indiscriminately, until his nerves were so tightly stretched that, standing lined up in full view of the surgery, waiting for the inevitable panic, he felt like he was going to pass out. He was a hunter for god's sake. This shouldn't be happening.
Right then, he thought the embarrassment might be worth it; anything to get him the hell out. Out of that room and out of getting this pointless vaccination, which wasn't even '100% effective' anyway.
"Dean Winchester."
His usual confident swagger was demoted to a rubber-legged stumble. Should impending doom sound so sugar glazed?
He took his seat beside a woman who must have been around since the dinosaurs roamed free and supported a pair of plum framed glasses; glasses! Because there was no better way to put one at ease about having a hypodermic plunged into their subcutaneous skin, than by having a bespectacled biddy, who didn't even look like she had the strength, never mind the accuracy, to push a piece of cotton through the eye of a needle, administer it. Kill me now, Dean begged desperately, spare me the indignity.
He missed her kindly smile, and shunned her attempts at idle conversation. All he could think was; you're about to shove a three inch needle into my arm with possibly disastrous results, stop trying to distract me!
But something was wrong. It was taking too long. And … wait. Was the world supposed to spin like that? He felt concurrently light-headed and heavy limbed, as if he were being acted up by two contesting forces; a puppet to their will. Lights without source formed and reformed iridescent patterns before his eyes, until becoming consumed entirely by an encroaching darkness, which he was helpless to. It forced him into submission and he remembered no more.
"You fainted?" Sam repeated again with disbelief, while John glanced surreptitiously into the rear-view, guarding his amusement.
"Shut up, Sam. I didn't faint. I just had a bad reaction to the shot," Dean griped sourly, sinking further into the supple leather folds of the Impala's back seat, and closing his eyes. His ears were still ringing from the unfortunate swooning spell, and he was feeling pretty crappy besides. Oh the embarrassment. As it turned out, it wasn't worth it, he had been given the shot anyway.
"Riiiight," Sam nodded. Dean scowled at his heavy sarcasm.
He had come around in the nurses office, with a cold compress laid across his forehead, knowing immediately what must have happened. The overbearing, white-washed walls and chocking scent of excessive disinfectant had been like epitaphs of shame to further ridicule him.
He had suffered through her ministrations with ill humour, shunning her considerate consolation that he wasn't the first and certainly wouldn't be the last. His pride was wounded enough without her patronization. When he thought his opinion of her could sink no lower, she informed him that his father had been called. He knew just how much John would relish being called away from a job for something a minor as his son fainting.
Maybe, just this once, it was a blessing in disguise that they were skipping out of town in a few days.
John chuckled from the front. These moments with his sons were rare, and usually came only after painful reminders of just how much family meant.
"Ease up on your brother, Sammy. He's nursing a pretty bruised ego." Dean just scowled in response. Wasn't he the invalid here? Where was all the compassion?
Arriving back at their motel, Dean slipped immediately between the folds of his duvet, both because he would avoid the unsympathetic and certainly insensitive glances of his family – which were no more than he himself would have offered forth had the situations been reversed – and because he really did feel lousy. Stupid shot.
He was afforded an hours peace maybe, before the edge of his mattress dipped with a familiar weight.
"Go away," he grumbled into the swaths of his pillow. But Sam, undaunted by his brother sour mood, did not comply.
"Did you know the fear of injections is called; Trypanophobia?"
"Sammy, please!" Dean begged. He really couldn't take any more trivia.
"Hear me out," Sam insisted fervently, "and that 10% of the US population alone have it."
That got Dean's attention, and sensing the change in his demeanour, Sam continued quickly.
"Fears are irrational, that's why they're fears, and yeah, maybe to other people who don't share the same irrationality, they seem stupid. To you, maybe their fears seem stupid. But no matter what people think of you, or even what you might think about yourself, there's always going to be thousands, maybe even millions of people world-wide who can empathise. And if you consider that, suddenly your fear doesn't seem so stupid, does it? Did you know that one in seven people are also afraid of clowns? It's called Coulrophobia." Sam's tone brightened perceptibly at this fact, and Dean felt him shrug.
"You're my big brother, and I'll always look up to you, but even you should know; it's okay to be afraid sometimes and admit that you are afraid. Because fear keeps us human, and without it, how are you supposed to measure bravery? You think dad doesn't get scared sometimes?"
His heart swimming with pride, Dean turned to regard him.
"Thanks, Sammy," he said, the words full of sentiment. The younger grinned.
In all the years Dean had been watching out for him, it seemed he had failed to notice just how quickly Sammy was growing up, it had been happening right before his eyes, and yet he hadn't seen it. And now his little brother astounded him; slipping momentarily and for the first time into the over-large shoes of big brother, left vacated in a moment of self-doubt. Dean had always had his back, but it was only then when he fully comprehended; Sam had his in return.
Thank you for reading :)
- One Wish Magic.