He had always been responsible for his little brother since a young age. So much responsibility on a child, a child often left alone in a motel room, or when he was younger, with Bobby. Ten years of looking after his little brother and he was ready to give in, give up. Even though his brother was basically able to look after himself at the age of ten and wanted to but still Dean felt responsible for him. He owed it to Sammy, to his father, to his mother.
Dean had known nothing but hunting for a good part of his life and that’s what hurt the most. He had no friends, and any he did have he left behind because they always left, they never came back. His father and him, they didn’t talk much, weren’t really that close. Sure, Sammy and him were close, they were brothers they had to be but there were some things you didn’t talk to a ten year old about, there are something’s you didn’t talk to anyone about. This left Dean with no one to talk to , to confide him and he knew that bottling it up wasn’t a good thing but what else could he do? He was going to crack and soon. Hell, Dean didn’t scare easy but knowing this scared the shit out of him.
At fourteen one of his happiest memories, one of his only happiest memories was o none particular hunt. John had haled their asses to Phoenix city and left them in a motel while he hunted. But something came to the motel, looking for them. So Dean lifted his dad’s Remington 1100 and shot it with a shit load of rock salt. John had returned home and the first thing he told Dean was, “Great job son” with that ‘I’m proud of you’ smile across his face. Dean kept this memory close to his heart because he had a feeling he would never hear those words cross his fathers lips again.
Dean sat on the couch of a dingy motel room. He listened to the sound of his and his brothers breathing on the bed behind him. Shadows danced on the already dark walls. He was thinking, pondering over everything, weighing up options and theories. Sammy got up and padded across the floor to the bathroom. In that single moment Dean hated his little brother, he hated him purely for the fact that his thought was broken. He cursed himself under his breath for even daring for that small second to hate Sam.
“Night.” Sam whispered sleepily crawling back into bed.
He dropped off with out even noticing Dean hadn’t replied. Dean always replied.
It was all Dean could do not to cry, not to breakdown. He didn’t because he knew he shouldn’t, he thought it was selfish and unfair of him. Big boys didn’t cry, Dean was a big boy, he wasn’t supposed to cry or show emotion. Not even when the pain in his throat hurt so much he couldn’t breath or if his eyes where so full of tears that he couldn’t see. No he couldn’t cry, he mustn’t.
But there’s some thing about Dean you must understand.
The child used to be bold, adrenaline driven, ate like a horse and swore like a sailor. Now he only spoke when spoken to, gave an opinion when asked and ate when reminded. He hadn’t been talking; only simple one or two word answers and he had gotten thinner, much thinner. He kept busy most of the time, polishing knives or cleaning guns, over and over until he caught himself and figured out what he was doing.
When john was home he barely spoke to him. John came to accept this. But the hunt he had just come home from had been extremely boring and he felt like challenging his child on why he was like this. John was about to do what he never had done before. Question Dean.
“Hey Boys.” He said staggering through the door early the next morning.
“Daddy!!” Sammy replied running into his father’s arms.
“Hey.” Dean’s reply was hardly as welcoming.
“You boy’s been okay?” John tried again.
No.
“Yes.”
“Any trouble?” and again.
“No,”
John sighed. He looked out to the park across the road. Mothers where out with their children. He told Sammy to go play, make friends. To come back in when John called.
John sat beside his eldest son, he linked an arm around his shoulders.
“You’ve gotten thinner.” He spoke softly sensing his son’s sudden fear,” you haven’t been talking or eating. Anything you want to talk about?”
Dean simply shook his head.
“Come on Dean.”
Dean thumped the arm on the chair. He thumped a soft rhythm, a rhythm that he heard from somewhere but he couldn’t remember where, it comforted him sometimes. Not as much now that he was older.
“Dean answer me.”
Those stupid tears where back. His father’s voice was full of warning.
“DEAN ANSWER ME!!”
Dean looked up at his father. Tears rolled down his cheeks. John stared back at him. His son broken, feeble, desperate. With out thinking Dean ran to the bathroom and locked the door. He fell against the far wall and listened as his father shouted his name and thumped the door. All the while Dean thumped the rhythm.
Thump thump thumpthump thump
His father probably thought he was going to do something stupid but for Dean he never would, he couldn’t. Finally he stood up and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
I hate you
Without warning he hit the mirror with his fist, glass shattered in to shards and fell around him. He stumbled backwards, shielding his face with his bare arms. His hand and forearms were covered in cuts and glass. The pain stung like hell but he liked it.
The answer to his emotional pain was physical pain. His longs over due answer to his awkward question.
