Livin' On A Prayer
By Wayward_Girl222
"You live for the fight when that's all that you've got.", Bon Jovi *
1993
Fifteen year old Dean Winchester slowly wakes up on this hot muggy morning in July. He's laying on the right side of a lumpy old striped mattress. His position is as always, closer to the doorway. His once-white, wife-beater tank is damply stuck to his sweaty body. The waistband of his jeans is equally just as wet. Dean hates when his father leaves them under these conditions. Dean ponders if God ever hears his or his younger brother, Sammy's silent prayers. Lately, there hadn't been much love to go around for the Winchester boys. Sure they had their Dad, who wasn't around for the most part. Mostly, though, they had each other.
He sits up, runs his fingers through his sweaty hair, then flicks the moisture off his wet hand. He tries really hard not to smell himself. It's day three of this little adventure and it ain't looking pretty.
"Disgusting."
Every morning he usually takes a shower. Then he remembers that there's no running water in this ramshackle farmhouse. At least in the seedy, cheap motel rooms they had running water, warm enough for a quick shower. Dean couldn't remember the last time that he and Sammy had a nice decent shower or clean clothes for that matter.
He stands up, happy to leave the soaked mattress behind. Barefooted, he pads over creaking floorboards to look out the cloudy single pane window. He tries to clean it with the bottom of his damp shirt to no avail. He and Sammy had tried to open it last night just to catch a breeze in the sweltering heat. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't open it. The window was hopelessly painted shut under multiple layers of chipped paint.
Sighing, he turns his head to the right and catches his reflection in a cracked oval mirror that's hanging on the wall. He gasps at the pitiful sight he sees. His hair is getting really long, scraggly, and matted down with sweat. Dean always prefers a short and neat military haircut, not whatever this is. He glances over to where his brother lies on the stained mattress they share. His brother's hair isn't any better. The irony is that Sammy doesn't even care that his hair is getting longer.
Dean looks back to see his twelve year old brother as he still lays asleep. Dean's heart breaks because he's lying on a thin, stained beat-up mattress that's seen better days. Dean doesn't care about himself, sometimes forgetting that he's a kid himself, but this is no way for a kid to be living.
He checks out an ancient plastic thermometer mounted on cardboard that's been hastily tacked by the door. It's from some long forgotten gas station. It registers a sweltering 101 degrees inside the room. He gives the decrepit room a once over. There's not much to see. The cream-colored plaster is cracking on the ceiling. There's faded wallpaper with a sad pink rose print that looks kinda peachy now. The floors need to be sanded down and restrained. Perhaps, once upon a time, it had been some little girl's room. Maybe it had been filled with white French Provincial furniture, toys and dolls. Now it just had a worn down full-size mattress and looked pitifully sad.
The old farmhouse had once been magnificent. It had three bedrooms upstairs. If this was their house, there'd have been a room for each one of them. Obviously, John would've taken the much larger master bedroom that had it's own on-suite bathroom. Dean would've taken the medium-sized bedroom and Sammy, being the runt, would've been stuck with the smallest room. The two smaller bedrooms shared a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. It would've worked out.
Dean and Sammy could have chosen any room to sleep in. Oddly, though, the brothers had chosen the smallest bedroom. Through the years they had gotten used to sharing a bedroom and even sharing a bed. To put it simply, the Winchester brothers didn't know any better. There was once a time that Dean had his own room, his own bed. Nowadays, he can hardly remember. And, really, it wasn't weird. In fact, it was helpful when nightmares came knocking at the door of their subconscious. Even in their short lives, they'd seen things that no child should ever have to deal with.
The air was thick this morning, making it hard to take a full breath.
"Ok, Sammy, time to wake up.", Dean gently kicked his brother in the leg.
Their father was gone, as usual, away on a three week hunting trip. There'd been a Rougarou sighting in the Hill Country somewhere around Kerrville. As usual, the townsfolk needed saving. Apparently, the Winchester boys could raise themselves. John wouldn't be back for weeks. They could afford to sleep in late. However, military precision had been drilled into their brains. Soldiers got up early to train. This little stint in hell didn't change that. Dean heard his brother growl.
"Too early, dude. Wanna sleep some more."
Dean chuckled. "You're such a wuss. If dad was here he'd have you running laps for insubordination."
Sammy growled even louder.
Dean paused and wondered if he was somehow defective because he didn't really miss his father. No father meant no early morning training, no insults… no beatings.
"I'm fucked up ain't I?" He speculates and whispers to himself. He definitely be a psychiatrist's wet dream. Moving on…
Since it was summertime and there was no school, John had chosen to leave them in that old abandoned farmhouse somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. It had no running water, no electricity, therefore no tv or radio. There was pretty much nothing to do. The house was practically devoid of furniture except for the ratty old mattress and a wobbly kitchen table with two mismatched chairs. The chairs looked like they were about to break at any given moment.
John had also left them with specific orders not to go outside for any reason other than to pump water from the well for drinking. They were not to be seen nor heard as not to raise suspicions with CPS. The Winchester family had a long-standing feud with Child Protective Services. No one should know they were squatting in the house. The boys knew that they had to obey this order. Both boys would never want to incur the wrath of John Winchester should that order be disobeyed. That thought in itself should have been enough to obey said order, but it wasn't. Rather, it was the thought of them getting busted and sent to a boy's home, or worse getting separated that was unimaginable to them. They would live and die for each other. It really didn't matter in the long run if they lived or died. The only thing that matters is that they would do whichever came first together. Even at an early age, they already knew that they were inseparable. They were always better together. They also knew that they wouldn't survive for too long apart.
So, they kept to themselves and stayed inside the confines of their makeshift prison. The stifling heat inside the house made for insufferable days. This experience was certainly an unbearable excuse for a summer vacation. Dean began to ponder the obligatory first day of school essay on how one spent their summer vacation. They'd have to work on an alternate story for that eventually. No one would believe the lengths they had to endure. Awesome.
And, because some rules were made to be broken, the two of them would sneak outside at nightfall and sit on the back porch waiting for a breeze to cool their hot bodies. They figured no one would spot them in the dark. Dean surmised that there wasn't really anyone around for miles.
By now, Sammy was wide awake. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his hazel eyes. Then, he smelled his armpits.
"Gross, dude!"
Sammy stuck his tongue out at his older brother. "Like you haven't smelled yourself, dude!" He yelled back.
"No, I haven't. As a matter-of-fact, I smell awesome and I'm adorable to boot."
Sammy throws one of his shoes at him. Dean ducks just in time as usual.
"Come on, Stinky. Let's go."
Sammy makes his bitchface #10, the one that says 'you ain't the boss of me.' Still, he proceeds to follow his brother downstairs in search of this morning's breakfast. Dean could already tell that they were barely gonna make it through the week with the little food left and they still had another week to go. There were no stores for miles. They'd have to stretch their rations, cut back more if they were going to make until John's return. It really wasn't that hard to do. The hot weather made you get to the point were eating practically made you sick. They both settled on sharing a package of saltines. The saltines settled their stomachs. Since they perspired so much, the salt in this case, was actually good for them.
Dean told Sammy that he was going outside to pump more drinking water from the well that was on the property. He goes to go grab his Colt and slips it into the backside of his jeans, covering it up with his untucked shirt. Then he grabs the clean pail and goes outside to fetch the water. Throughout the week, he'd picked up the habit of drinking lots of water to swell whatever food he had in his gut. This helped him consume less food so there'd be more for Sammy.
Dean always made sure he was vigilant whenever he went outside. Today was no exception as the sweat pours down his hair and onto his neck. He pulls out his bandana to wipe the stinging drops of sweat that drip into his eyes. Dean was always looking over his shoulder to make sure no one ever saw him. One could never be too careful. He begins pumping the force rod, sending the piston rod down the cylinder. After a few forced pumps, the water flows out the water outlet and into the pail.
Ten minutes later, he returns with the water sloshing from the large pail. They each dunk their red plastic Solo cups into the pail and fill them with water. Dean secretly longs for ice cubes. The water is cold, but both boys despise the mineral taste of the well water. Beggars can't be choosers, so they finish drinking.
After their meager breakfast, Dean proceeds to make himself useful. John always said that empty hands were the Devil's workshop. He begins cleaning his hand gun and his sawed-off shotgun along with some of his father's extra weaponry. Dean took pride in that sawed-off shotgun. After all, he had made it with his own two hands when he was twelve. His real pride and joy, though, is his stainless steel Colt M1911A1 firearm. His Dad gave him the second hand gun as a very, very belated birthday gift. Dean knows that it wasn't his Dad's thoughtfulness that count, rather it was just another way that he could protect his younger brother. Still, a guy could dream.
After Dean had finished cleaning the weapons and Sammy had finished reading some old comic books that he had found in one of the closets, it was already one in the afternoon. Dean had skipped lunch, but insisted on making Sammy a PB & J sandwich. Maybe they'd share a can of baked beans for dinner. John had left them with a butane burner camp stove that would let them reheat food. It's at that inopportune time that his stomach growls. Luckily, Sammy didn't hear it. Dean's afternoons were often filled with hunger pangs as his stomach folded into itself, empty and aching. If there was any extra food, Dean would make sure that Sammy would have it proclaiming that he was always too full. Today wasn't one of those days.
The boys also knew that they were headed for the hottest part of the day. They had developed a routine where they would just lie down and try to sleep it through the extremely hot Texas afternoons. The heat had a way of lulling you to a half conscious state. So, upstairs they went, back towards the small bedroom.
Dean took his gun out from the backside of his jeans and laid it on the floor alongside his Bowie knife beside the old mattress. It was so hot that he finally gave in to the heat. He removes his drenched tank and jeans leaving him only in his equally drenched boxers. Sammy looks at Dean and cocks his head. "What the hell, Dean?" Dean just shrugs. "It's way too hot and it ain't like you haven't seen me like this before so, why not." Not a second passes as his younger brother decides to do the same. Sammy began chucking off his drenched clothing, too.
Dean lays on his back, arms folded cradling his head, one ankle over the other. Sammy's laying on his right side with his left arm hugging Dean's middle like he always does. The two boys lay beside each other and wait for the hot summer heat to work it's tranquilizing magic. Dean can tell that Sammy is restless. After a paused moment of silence, Sammy works up the courage to start a conversation.
"Dean, what was it like?"
Dean looks at his brother with mild annoyance. "What was what like?"
"Home." Says Sammy.
Dean's brows furrows. "I don't fucking want to talk about it." He says gruffly.
Then Sammy gets up slightly on his right elbow facing Dean giving him his best wounded look. Ah, yes, the dreaded puppy dog eyes.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Son-of-a-bitch! Oh, geez, do we really have to go over this again?"
"Please Dean. You always tell me the basics, but you never give me any details."
Sammy was right. Usually, Dean would gloss over the story. He would give him a shortened version by pretending he didn't really remember much because he was so young. In reality, the traumatic experience had burned the memories permanently onto his psyche. He remembered everything.
"Ok, ok. I give in, but this is the one and only time that I'm going to fucking talk about this so you better pay attention!"
Sammy grins and lays back down. "I will. I promise."
Dean sighs and carefully tries his best to begin at the beginning. He tells Sammy that life hadn't always been this way. He told Sammy that the Winchester family was just like any other midwestern middle class family. That John & Mary were sweethearts and had married. That they had decided to purchase a two story house in Lawrence, Kansas and settle down. The house had a nice living room, a sunny kitchen, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms. One for their parents, one for Dean, and one for baby Sammy.
"I had a nursery?"
"Yes, Sammy. You had a nursery and it was blue and fucking perfect. Ok? You gonna let me finish or what?"
Sammy pretends to zip his lips and throw away an imaginary key. Dean continues.
"It had a nice front yard and a bigger backyard with a swing set. It even had a garage for the Impala. We had nice furniture and we had plenty of food. You already know that dad was a marine. He retired and made a decent wage as a mechanic. Good enough that Mom didn't have to work. Mom stayed home and took care of us. She always made us three square meals a day plus snacks. She made this casserole thing, called it 'Winchester Surprise.' Dad used to say it was so greasy it was like having a heart attack on a plate. Can you believe that shit?"
Dean smiles as he remembers the cheesy bologna concoction.
"On the weekends, she made the best pancakes. She also tried to make family celebrations special, especially birthdays. She'd bake cakes and cookies." He licks his chapped, dehydrated lips trying to recall more memories.
"We had plenty of toys and I always tried to share my toys with you. Actually got in trouble once 'cause I hit you in the head with my big-ass Tonka truck. Guess that's why you're a freak and kinda geeky." Sammy hits him. Dean laughs. "You were way too little to play with that truck anyways." They both giggle.
"You had a very cheerful nursery full of baby toys and all that shit that baby's need." Dean pauses for a moment to mourn the loss of all his childhood toys and possessions that had burned in the fire. Sammy never had to feel that loss. Moving on…
"Anyways, mom always bought us new clothes and shoes. She always made sure that our clothing was clean and presentable. Oh, and she always took care of us when they were sick. One time, I had like this rotten cold and she made me tomato soup with rice. It was awesome. Maybe I can make it for you whenever we get out of this shithole."
"Yeah, that sounds good. I think I'd like that." Sammy muses.
"Whenever she had free time, she'd like teach me basic stuff 'cause I wasn't in school, yet. She taught me the alphabet and my numbers and nursery rhymes. She also liked to sing a lot of songs. She had this small transistor radio by the sink. She'd turn it on whenever she washed dishes and listen to the top 40. She'd sing to both of us all the time." Dean turns his head to see if Sammy's still listening. He is. "She had this one song called 'Hey, Jude.' Guessing it was her favorite 'cause she either hummed or sang it all the time. She'd even sing it in the car. Dad wouldn't get mad. He'd just roll his eyes."
"He didn't get angry?" Sammy says astonishingly.
"Nope, not even once."
There's an awkward pause in the conversation.
Dean clears his throat. "Things were good back then… we, we were good kids back then. Not like now, obviously." He holds out his hands as he looks at the fading bruises on his arms. Just commenting on that brings a lump in his throat, just insinuating that somehow they both aren't good enough anymore.
Dean can remember a time where there were no insults, no spankings, no beatings,… no suffering of any kind. When their father would get home from work and he was always happy to be home with the family. In those days, John wasn't a drunk. Truth be told, he really didn't drink much at all.
Things weren't perfect by any means. Dean recalls various times his Mom and Dad had arguments and he remembered that one time Dad moved out of the house for a couple of days. Dean, as usual, comforted his mother through those times. He decides not to include that in today's story. No sense in letting Sammy know that their parent's marriage wasn't always peachy.
Dean could also remember a time when his Mom said that his emerald green eyes where beautiful and that his freckles were adorable. She told Dean that angels were always looking out for them. Dean had a hard time believing that one now. He remembers his Dad did loved him once upon a time. How Dad would lift him up and tousle his hair and call him a good boy. There was a brief moment when Dean's father could look at him with love and say that he was the spitting image of his beautiful mother. There was a time not so long ago that Dean Winchester's Father loved his emerald green eyes, his freckles, and his light honey brown hair. Now, his father couldn't even stand to look at him, he looked way too much like Mary Winchester. Dean quickly pushes those thoughts out of his head as he clears a wayward tear from his eye. He doesn't want to include those painful memories in this trip down memory lane.
Dean proceeds to tell Sammy about what their mother said about angels watching over them. He tells him that once upon a time, life was good. Life was very good before the tragic death of Mary Winchester. Everything after that was a never ending struggle. That damned fire destroyed their perfect fairytale. Dean finishes his story with a long yearning sigh.
There was another pause of silence. Sammy was memorizing all the details in his mind and heart.
Then Sammy dares to ask one more question.
"Dean?"
"Now, what?", Dean scowls. "Not good enough for you? Not enough details? Not long enough? Now you want me to draw you a fucking picture?" Dean says with frustration.
Sammy bites his lower lip. "No, Dean. That's not it. It's a different question."
There's another pause before Sammy asks why.
"Why?"
Dean raises himself on his elbows. "Again, why what?" Dean really didn't know where Sammy was going with this one. That didn't stop Sammy from asking.
"Why doesn't Dad like you? Why is everything always your fault when it isn't? Why do you you like take Dad's crap? Why don't you fight back?
Dean looks gobsmacked with way too many questions flung his way.
"Sometimes you're just like a robot, just another one of his good little foot soldiers like the ones from his Vietnam war stories!" Sammy huffs exasperatingly.
Dean's taken aback by all those questions at one time. "Jeez, that's more than one fucking question, Sammy!"
Dean reflects on those questions. He takes a long hard pause before he answers those questions.
"Dad gave me an order a long time ago to protect you at all costs."
Sam just stares at him. "But Dean, you were four years old!"
Dean shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Dad gave me an order and I'm fulfilling it. 'Sides, most of the times that he's angry he's really just tired or frustrated."
Dean had always tried to put his Dad on a pedestal, put him in the best of light for his younger brother to admire. He'd hoped Sammy would see John's good, if few, best qualities. But Sammy was getting older and wiser. Dean had a feeling that his explanations simply just didn't cut it anymore. Sammy saw right through them.
Sam continues to stare at him blankly.
Dean sits up and holds his hands up in frustration. "Ok. Ok, It's because he's really after you. Sometimes you just get on his last nerve and he wants to clock you. You're like two Alphas fighting over the same pack. That doesn't mean that I can just let him do anything to you!", Dean respond frantically. "I can't and I won't! You're too little to withstand what he wants to dish out. I was bigger. I am bigger. I can take it. I always have!" Dean yells, his face contorts in pain.
Sammy's speechless as he thinks about what his older brother just said.
Dean's utterly deflated as he puts his head in his hands.
"And—- and, I guess I just remind him too much of Mom. Hell, I don't know…" Dean just wants to melt into the floor and disappear.
For the first time in Sammy's life he knows what Dean means when he promised to always protect him, no matter what comes their way. Even if it was their own father, their own flesh and blood. Sammy now understands why Dean always puts himself in between him and their father. Dean is Sammy's human shield.
Sammy thought for a moment and said, "Dean, I'm twelve now. I can take it. I can take whatever Dad dishes out!"
Dean chuckles miserably. "No you can't! No you can't! Maybe if he acted like he did with me at the beginning, but not now! Now, he's more erratic, more violent, more unpredictable…!"
Sammy looks down dejectedly, picking at his cuticles.
"Look, Sammy, I've been dealing with his shit for a long time now. Let me do my job and protect you until you're eighteen. I beg you."
Dean was begging. Sammy had never seen his older brother beg for anything in his life. Dean never begged when he was hungry, tired, or lonely. He never begged his father to stop the angry tirades, the spankings, nor the wicked beatings. Sam Winchester was speechless. All he could do was nod and whisper ok, "Ok."
Dean actually looked relieved. "Just… just till I'm eighteen. Then I can get full custody of you. I've been looking into it. It's something called 'legal emancipation.' I'll probably end up quitting school in a couple of years. You know I ain't that good in school. I can get a job, gets us an apartment… maybe you can enroll in college and finally become that fancy lawyer you always wanted to be. You'll see. It'll all work out. Then the old man can go off hunting ghosts and demons and shit all he wants."
Dean wants this little trip down memory lane to end fast, thank you very much. Sometimes memories are nice but, most of the time, they're just plain brutal. Life's a bitch and the Winchester brothers are hurt and thusly jaded at a very young age.
"I gotta go to the head." And, by this he meant an old plastic bucket that they used as a toilet in the hall bathroom. Dean quickly got up and left Sammy alone with his thoughts.
By now, it was quickly getting dark. Dean made his way to the bathroom. He could hardly see five feet in front of him. Dean went about his business. Then he noticed something shiny in the moonlight under a heap of trash at the corner of the room. He went over and removed as much of the trash as he could. Under the trash heap he found a three quarter full bottle of whiskey.
"Yahtzee!"
If John had been here, he would have discovered it and kept it for himself. But, John wasn't here and he wouldn't be here for another week. Dean grabs the bottle and wipes the dust off of it. He opens the cap. It still smells good, but it also smells strong.
Dean returns to his brother, hiding the bottle behind his back. "Hey, Sammy, how about you and me go downstairs and hang out on the back porch? It's getting dark and no one will see us. Let's go! I got a surprise!,"
Sammy looks at Dean. His older brother seems happier than he's been in the past few days. So, Sammy nods his head and stands up.
Dean retrieves his gun with one hand while still hiding the bottle with his other. He races down the stairs clad only in his boxers. Sammy gets up, considers running downstairs only in his underwear and can't. He puts his jeans on and follows Dean downstairs and out the back door towards the back porch.
Dean still hides the bottle behind him. Then he pulls it out.
"Ta da!" Dean says with a smile bigger as the Lone Star State.
"What's that?"
Dean looks at the bottle in his hands proudly. "It's something we could both use right about now. Ever heard of drowning your sorrows, Sammy?"
Sammy shook his head no. "But, we're underage. Dad'll kill us!"
Dean smirks. "Dad ain't here, Sammy. And, what Dad don't know, Dad don't know. 'Sides, I was already drinking by the time I was your age."
Sammy gives him the stink eye. "Not something to be proud of, Dean."
Dean shakes his head. "Dude, you're like raining on my parade. Don't be such a downer."
Dean finally convinces Sammy that it's ok and it's not like they have that much to do tonight or for that fact, tomorrow. They can afford to get drunk. So, Dean opens the bottle and takes the first swig. Dean's had beer, wine and a bit of hard liquor before. His father had practically ordered him to start drinking beer by the age of ten. Sammy was twelve now, so there wasn't much of a big age difference. However, this whiskey is so much stronger.
The first swig was smooth, sweet, and went down like liquid fire. Dean squinted and looked at the half torn label. It said Irish whiskey of some sort. Dean notices a taste of barley in it. Not bad. He could get used to this. Little does he know the impact that first swig of strong, strong whiskey would have later in his life.
He sits on the back porch and Sammy follows. Dean hands the bottle to Sammy. Sammy takes a small sip. Dean could already tell by Sammy's reaction that it was probably too strong for the kid.
"What's a matter, kiddo? Too strong for you?"
Sammy makes his bitchface #6, the one that says something's gross.
Dean shrugs. "Oh well, more for me then." He takes another swig and lets the liquor go down nice and slow.
The two of them look up a the clear Texas night sky. You can really see the stars better out here in the middle of nowhere. The skeeters are annoying as hell tonight, biting the shit outta them, but it doesn't matter. They were together and that was that.
They were out there for hours. Neither of them talked much. Each of them individually contemplating their sorry ass lot in life and how things can change in the blink of an eye.
The long day had been hot and very humid. Then the breeze picked up a bit and soon the boys both noticed that gentle rain had begun pouring down. Dean said a silent prayer of thanks for the cool rain. Perhaps God did occasionally remember the two little boys who had suffered so much so soon—- the two boys that were, for all intents and purposes, orphans.
Dean continues drinking until the old bottle is empty. Sammy notices.
"Wanna go back inside and lie down?" Sammy asks.
Dean hiccups as he puts the bottle down. The wind knocks it over and it begins to roll off the porch. Dean puts his hand out, getting it wet with rain.
Dean squints his eyes and rubs them. "Nah. Feeels, betterr out here."
Sammy notices his older brother's slurring his words.
Soon, Dean's lying on his back gently snoring. Sammy guesses it's alright to sleep out here on the back porch tonight. It's certainly more comfortable than sleeping in the stuffy bedroom. He lays on his side and snuggles up to his brother. They're breaking the rules again, John's rules. This is just one more thing that they will never confess to. They are the keepers of brotherly secrets. Tomorrow will bring new challenges. Tonight, they're just two brothers on the brink of manhood whilst still living on a wing...
and
a
prayer.
FIN
