[MGW] Is this going to hurt?
[Part of the Detective AU. Cas = soldier_ofgod, Sam = likely_evil, anyone else is an NPC. Related to THIS and THIS.]
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Why don’t we have a mom?”
Sam was about six when he first started asking that question. John was working late and they were spending the night at Mrs. Harvelle’s. She started watching them after school when John and Bill started working as partners, considering she had a kid of her own who went to the same elementary school. Jo was five and a giant pain in the ass (he didn’t know why he wasn’t supposed to use that word, Dad did all the time) butt as far as Dean was concerned, but Ellen was nice enough, and she had no problem holding back on dessert. That, alone, was enough to earn her major brownie points as far as his ten year-old self was concerned, so he wasn’t about to complain.
At first, Dean didn’t know how to answer that question. He wasn’t about to tell his kid brother that some whackjob got her, so he deflected. He didn’t know that was the term at the time but that’s what his shrink told him later. “Just get some sleep, Sam.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Six years-old and he was already a smartass smart alec, and Dean shrugged it off, just glancing up at him from the floor of the living room. He was in a sleeping bag on the floor, while Sam took the couch (Sam always took the couch) and Sam just peered down at him over the edge, eyes wide with a messy mop of brown hair hanging in front of them. Ellen had been trying to get him to sit still for a haircut for a week, and he just kept managing to squirm out of her grasp. Sam had always been slippery.
Maybe that’s why Dean could never help him.
“We just don’t,” he shrugged. “Don’t think about it, just go to sleep.”
Sam huffed, because he knew that wasn’t an answer, again, but Dean wasn’t about to be giving him anything. He didn’t talk about Mom. It was the unspoken rule of the Winchester house, and that was the one thing Dean wasn’t about to break. Not if his life depended on it.
“Fine, don’t tell me. I’m not just a kid, Dean.”
“No, you’re a little shit, that’s what you are.”
That got a gasp and a shout from his brother. “Mrs. Harvelle, Dean’s swearing again!”
“If you boys don’t can it and get some sleep, I swear on God’s green earth-”
And that usually did the trick.
Nights being left at Ellen’s ended when John and Bill’s partnership did, especially considering that John and Bill’s partnership ended with Bill’s death. Dean had dealt with death before (felt like he’d been dealing with it for as long as he could remember, that every day was just another death) but it was never something like this. At the funeral, Ellen wouldn’t even look at him and Sam, and Jo (pretty little Jo, whatever the hell happened to her?) was too busy crying to even notice that they were there. Dean was twelve by then, and Sam was eight, and in the blink of an eye they were outcasts from the only family they’d ever known.
Dean wasn’t sure why what Alastair was doing brought up that particular memory for him, but as another blow landed against the side of his face he did his best to try and stay there. It was what always worked for him in prison-find a memory and go somewhere else, somewhere far, far away where the pain just seemed more less.
(It was more, always more. Emotions hurt on the inside, and those didn’t heal. Can’t heal something that’s not real. Can’t fix something you can’t tou-)
Blood flooded his mouth when there was a particularly well placed hit to the jaw and he groaned, letting his head fall to the side, blood and spit dribbling out onto his shirt. He could feel the people watching him, more laughing then talking, but the sounds were all swimming around his head, jumbling to the point where they were just a constant stream of noise. And that was the point where he knew he’d taken one too many blows to the head. He just wanted to sleep, to pass out and let them do whatever they wanted to him, because he knew that Sam was safe, and that was what mattered. His job was done.
“Oh, no, no, no you don’t.” He felt a hand roughly under his chin, yanking him out of his stupor, and it took him a minute for his eyes to focus on Alastair’s face. He wanted to spit in that face, but he didn’t have the energy to at the moment. “Don’t you pass out on me yet. We still have to dance some more.”
Dean managed a deep breath, (God that hurt like a bitch) letting the swell of his chest and the pain in his ribs remind him that he was still alive, so he had to at least act like it, before actually speaking. “I’m never gonna give you what you want.”
“Oh, yes, you will. You’ll give it to me, even if I have to cut it out of you myself. Trust me, Dean, when I make things hurt? They hurt.”
Dean managed up a smirk, letting it slowly struggle to the surface, before meeting the man’s eyes defiantly. He wasn’t going to give him a damn thing, and he wasn’t about to see him struggle either, or the way his father’s words rattled in the back of his head.
(Don’t tempt the Devil, boy. Gonna get you killed.)
Sorry, Dad. Already good as dead.
“That a promise?”
And that was when the pain started all over again.
961 words
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Why don’t we have a mom?”
Sam was about six when he first started asking that question. John was working late and they were spending the night at Mrs. Harvelle’s. She started watching them after school when John and Bill started working as partners, considering she had a kid of her own who went to the same elementary school. Jo was five and a giant pain in the ass (he didn’t know why he wasn’t supposed to use that word, Dad did all the time) butt as far as Dean was concerned, but Ellen was nice enough, and she had no problem holding back on dessert. That, alone, was enough to earn her major brownie points as far as his ten year-old self was concerned, so he wasn’t about to complain.
At first, Dean didn’t know how to answer that question. He wasn’t about to tell his kid brother that some whackjob got her, so he deflected. He didn’t know that was the term at the time but that’s what his shrink told him later. “Just get some sleep, Sam.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Six years-old and he was already a smartass smart alec, and Dean shrugged it off, just glancing up at him from the floor of the living room. He was in a sleeping bag on the floor, while Sam took the couch (Sam always took the couch) and Sam just peered down at him over the edge, eyes wide with a messy mop of brown hair hanging in front of them. Ellen had been trying to get him to sit still for a haircut for a week, and he just kept managing to squirm out of her grasp. Sam had always been slippery.
Maybe that’s why Dean could never help him.
“We just don’t,” he shrugged. “Don’t think about it, just go to sleep.”
Sam huffed, because he knew that wasn’t an answer, again, but Dean wasn’t about to be giving him anything. He didn’t talk about Mom. It was the unspoken rule of the Winchester house, and that was the one thing Dean wasn’t about to break. Not if his life depended on it.
“Fine, don’t tell me. I’m not just a kid, Dean.”
“No, you’re a little shit, that’s what you are.”
That got a gasp and a shout from his brother. “Mrs. Harvelle, Dean’s swearing again!”
“If you boys don’t can it and get some sleep, I swear on God’s green earth-”
And that usually did the trick.
Nights being left at Ellen’s ended when John and Bill’s partnership did, especially considering that John and Bill’s partnership ended with Bill’s death. Dean had dealt with death before (felt like he’d been dealing with it for as long as he could remember, that every day was just another death) but it was never something like this. At the funeral, Ellen wouldn’t even look at him and Sam, and Jo (pretty little Jo, whatever the hell happened to her?) was too busy crying to even notice that they were there. Dean was twelve by then, and Sam was eight, and in the blink of an eye they were outcasts from the only family they’d ever known.
Dean wasn’t sure why what Alastair was doing brought up that particular memory for him, but as another blow landed against the side of his face he did his best to try and stay there. It was what always worked for him in prison-find a memory and go somewhere else, somewhere far, far away where the pain just seemed more less.
(It was more, always more. Emotions hurt on the inside, and those didn’t heal. Can’t heal something that’s not real. Can’t fix something you can’t tou-)
Blood flooded his mouth when there was a particularly well placed hit to the jaw and he groaned, letting his head fall to the side, blood and spit dribbling out onto his shirt. He could feel the people watching him, more laughing then talking, but the sounds were all swimming around his head, jumbling to the point where they were just a constant stream of noise. And that was the point where he knew he’d taken one too many blows to the head. He just wanted to sleep, to pass out and let them do whatever they wanted to him, because he knew that Sam was safe, and that was what mattered. His job was done.
“Oh, no, no, no you don’t.” He felt a hand roughly under his chin, yanking him out of his stupor, and it took him a minute for his eyes to focus on Alastair’s face. He wanted to spit in that face, but he didn’t have the energy to at the moment. “Don’t you pass out on me yet. We still have to dance some more.”
Dean managed a deep breath, (God that hurt like a bitch) letting the swell of his chest and the pain in his ribs remind him that he was still alive, so he had to at least act like it, before actually speaking. “I’m never gonna give you what you want.”
“Oh, yes, you will. You’ll give it to me, even if I have to cut it out of you myself. Trust me, Dean, when I make things hurt? They hurt.”
Dean managed up a smirk, letting it slowly struggle to the surface, before meeting the man’s eyes defiantly. He wasn’t going to give him a damn thing, and he wasn’t about to see him struggle either, or the way his father’s words rattled in the back of his head.
(Don’t tempt the Devil, boy. Gonna get you killed.)
Sorry, Dad. Already good as dead.
“That a promise?”
And that was when the pain started all over again.
961 words