SUMMARY FOR CHAPTER ONE: Dean (10), Sammy (5); John tries to make men out of his boys even at their young age. Dean tries to protect Sammy and keep him from growing up too fast. Sammy aches for the one thing his father won't give him and his brother can't give him…love.
"Go to bed boys," John Winchester slurred, his words coming out in a growl. He staggered in the door of the cheesy motel room, having come home late and drunk again tonight. These days, it either seemed that he was gone for days if not weeks on end, out hunting the monsters that Dean tried to keep from Sammy's nightmares; or, if he was home, he was whiskey-soaked in a fifth of something strong, trying to drown out the visions of his wife, Mary, dying horribly at the hands of the yellow-eyed demon.
John had little patience for disobedience, zero tolerance for it in fact, whether he was leading a hunt or barking orders at his sons inside whatever bug-infested hovel in which they were currently squatting. Disobedience, John always told his boys, in their line of work would get you killed. But if there was anything for which John had even less patience than disobedience, it was for his children. His eldest son, ten year old Dean, looked so much like Mary that John could barely stand to look at the child much less deal with him on a day to day basis. And his youngest son, five year old Sammy, had Mary's sweet, soft ways and always just wanted his daddy to cuddle him. John was never certain which son or situation was more difficult for him to stomach.
Dean looked to his father with something akin to a mixture of sadness and pity on his face, while Sammy was, yet again, fully defiant and hating when their father came home this way. In the end, "Yessir," was all that Dean said, as he hopped up off of the ratty old sofa upon which he had been curled together with Sammy to herd the younger boy down the hall to the single washroom in their ancient motel room. Dean switched off the old black and white TV they had been watching which had such terrible reception that Dean and Sammy so often just turned down the volume and made up stories to go along with what they could see on the snowy screen.
Dean was ten years old now and had been virtually responsible for raising his baby brother, Sammy, since the night their dad had placed the infant in his arms, telling him to run out of the house that was engulfed in flames. That was the night that little Dean's life changed forever. His mother had died and their family had never recovered from her loss. Not a night had gone by since that Dean didn't still hear her wails of pain in his dreams. Although he could barely remember her face anymore, those screams would haunt him forever. "G'night, Dad," the boys called softly behind them to their father, who just took another swig of whiskey and grunted before his head hit the chipped Formica table top and his snores began. Dean knew that his father would wake in the morning to a stiff neck and a pounding headache and though part of him wished to spare his father that pain, another part of Dean knew it was nothing more than John deserved.
Dean sighed, took his little brother's hand and smiled down at Sammy who sniffled and looked forlornly at their father. Not once could Sammy ever remember the man tucking them in or kissing them goodnight. Not once could he ever remember the man reminding them to brush their teeth before bed or wishing them pleasant dreams. Sammy so much wanted John to, just once, pick him up and carry him to bed, gently tuck him in and kiss him goodnight.
But instead it was always Dean, his big brother Dean, the constant in Sammy's ever-changing world, who always made sure that Sammy's teeth were brushed, that he was clean and fed and clothed appropriately for each season. It was always Dean who tucked him in every night, into a motel double bed that they had shared for as long as Sammy could remember. Dean was mother, father and brother to little Sammy, provider and protector to the tiny boy, and even at Sammy's very young age, he loved his big brother to distraction.
Sammy dutifully minded Dean every night, more so than he ever had or would his father, and brushed his teeth alongside the elder. It wasn't a race, per se, but the boys always found themselves grinning when they finished and spit into the old, chipped bathroom sink at the same time. Dean would always take a cloth and wet a corner to wipe Sammy's mouth. He knew that Sammy was old enough to do these things for himself, but if Dean was honest, he didn't want Sammy growing up on him for a few more years. So Dean kept Sammy close each day, and babied his little brother when their father wasn't around to see, for John would never have stood for it, had he known, and would probably have punished them both.
Dean saw to it every night that Sammy's unruly mop of soft brown hair was washed, dried and brushed into submission. He also made sure that that Sammy's tawny hazel eyes were never fearful of imaginary monsters beneath their bed. Then, after bathing, Dean laid out Sammy's threadbare, almost too small, pajamas that had once belonged to Dean but were now hand-me-downs from Dean as of a couple of years ago. They walked, hand in hand, from the bathroom each night and Dean would always hold up the covers on their bed before boosting Sammy up to crawl underneath. Dean would then hoist himself up onto the old sagging bed to curl up behind Sammy, one arm thrown protectively around the younger boy's waist, gathering him close, while the other arm was curled up under the single lumpy, feather pillow that they both shared.
It was their ritual every night. And as expected, Sammy would then reach a small hand down to grasp his brother's larger one around his waist to then pull it up and clutch it close over his steadily thumping heart. There were no monsters that could harm Sammy as long as Dean was there, nothing but warmth and peacefulness, safety and security, as long as he was wrapped up in Dean's embrace. Holding onto Dean's hand, as their father's snores roared through the other room, Sammy whispered, "G'night, Dee. I love you," just as he did each and every night before sleep claimed them both.
"Night, Sammy," Dean whispered back, never able to croak the words out that seemed to choke in his throat. "Um, me too." No one would ever know how badly Dean wanted to say the words back to his little brother. God knows he loved the little boy more than life itself, would die for him without even thinking. Sammy had always been Dean's touchstone, his solace, his lifeline in a world that a child should never, ever, have to experience. Dean had seen the ugliness and evil that resided in this world. His father had made sure that Dean had seen it. And Dean had sworn to himself to protect Sammy from it all for as long as he could, to give him the childhood that Dean would never have himself.
Dean knew how desperately that Sammy needed to hear those three small words in return. He knew that Sammy's entire being hung above a precipice of aching need every night. Dean could hear it in Sammy voice as it cracked when he spoke and turned up at the end making the statement more of a question. Dean could almost hear as if Sammy was asking, 'Can I love you, Dean? Will you let me love you, Dean? Could you love me back, just a little bit, Dean?' He could feel it in the tiny tremors that raced through Sammy's bony little body pressed so close to him. And then, the little sniffles that came after Dean's cowardly reply of, 'Me too,' were the sounds that gutted Dean every single night, the sounds that told Dean that he had failed Sammy once again.
Dean would lay awake long after Sammy had given up any hope of hearing his loving sentiment returned. He would lay awake until, inevitably, Sammy rolled over and faced him, eyes closed in sleep, tears drying on tender, baby cheeks. It was those tears that Dean would kiss away every night, their taste like ashes of regret on his tongue.
Their father had taught Dean so much in just ten short years, how to steal, how to hustle pool and gamble, how to shoot guns, throw knives, how to kill without regret to protect himself and Sammy. Their father had taught Dean how to take instruction without asking questions, how to follow orders and be a good little soldier, and how to keep himself and Sammy alive and fed when John was gone for long stretches of time. Dean had learned to boost cars, shoplift, commit credit card fraud and pretty much any other illegal thing of which one could imagine. But from others in his life, Dean learned useful, less criminal activities such as the basics of first aid and cooking from Bobby and how to read and write from Pastor Jim.
But no one had ever had to teach Dean how to love Sammy. Dean had never needed an instruction manual to know that Sammy was his whole world and that without his little brother, Dean truly had nothing and no one. If only someone could have taught Dean how to let go, how say the words that Sammy so desperately needed to hear. But at only ten years old, Dean already knew the power that those words had, the power that they gave someone over you.
Dean already knew that 'I love you' carried with it the ability for someone to break your heart, shatter your world, and leave you in so many pieces like a jigsaw puzzle that had been tossed into the air to land scattered and never put together again. And that was a power that the powerless ten year old, with grass-green eyes, wheat-yellow hair, and freckles that made him look even younger than he was, could not afford to give, even to the most precious person in his young life…his Sammy.