John isn't mine... Dean isn't mine... Sam isn't mine... Damn it to hell!
The moral of this story, according to Dean Winchester, is never ever leave your annoying little brother alone in the same room as your stuff. Unfortunately this is basically impossible when said little brother's name happens to be Sam Winchester and he happens to be a nosey little cow.
We're heading out of Indiana when it happens; of course it had to there and then. We stop at a sleazy little motel on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, with a broken vacancy sign, heading out of a little town I had wasted no time in dubbed Piss-vile U.S.A.
We flip a coin in the early morning light to see who gets to wipe the dirt, demon blood and grime off their sweat covered body first, flipping a coin being Sammy's idea since he seemed to think it was the only fair way, had some crazy idea that I would manage to cheat at anything else, that being the same reason he ended up flipping the coin, it's head's, he wins the rights to all the hot water this sleazy ass motel will provide. That's okay, I can wait. The Demon blood is already starting to dry and cake so a few more minutes won't matter anyway.
There were next to no injuries and the hunt itself ending up being pretty simple. Got thrown into a couple of thing, Sammy managed to roll his ankle, and then we took the sucker down with a couple of rounds to the head. Simple and relatively easy. Winchesters really got to learn not to say those sorts of things. Nothing is ever easy.
Sam, as usual, took what seemed like forever in the shower to me. I was just about to walk in there and kick his slow ass out when he came back in the room wearing only a towel and complaining that the demon ruined his last good shirt, prissy little bugger.
I should have known something bad was gonna happen. When you're a Winchester you get a sixth sense for it.
But still I bitch about how long he took good naturedly and get into the surprisingly still warm shower unawares of what was gonna happen next.
Damn it to hell!
Well that was already done. But that bitch totalled my last good shirt, and only clean one.
I was gonna do my laundry; really, I just got distracted by finding this hunt.
I mean really, what's the use of even having shirts if ever one of then is covered in demon blood or my blood or dirt or sweat or… yeah, the list goes on.
Dean always did do his washing on time. God only knows were he got that from because it sure as hell wasn't me or Dad.
Time to take a leaf out of Dean's book and steal some of my sibling's clothes.
"Bloody hell," I say to myself while searching through Dean's bag, because it maybe clean but how does Dean ever find anything in this mess! Oh, stupid question, he doesn't. He just throws on whatever comes out.
Hmm, so my options are black, grey or Metallica. I'll go for black.
Ah, damn it Dean! If your stuff wasn't always such a mess it wouldn't always fall out.
It's after I've pulled the shirt on, when I'm picking Dean's jacket off the floor that something falls out and flutters to the floor.
I swear it's not like I'm a prying little snoop or anything. It's not like I just go reading Dean's letters or whatever falls out of his pockets. It was just lying there, through the folded thin paper I could just make out colours that were on the other side.
I'll admit my curiosity got the better of me. But it's not like Dean hasn't done the same type of thing to me before, and it's not like I was specifically looking at his things or rifling through his stuff for no reason, I was just looking for a shirt and it fell out.
I picked it up; noting how old and crumpled but strangely cared for it looked.
I carefully unfolded it and felt the need to sit down as soon as I did. I don't know what I imagined it would before I opened it but it sure as hell wasn't this.
The light traces of colour that I had seen before turned out to be a full colour drawing.
A drawing I drew at Pastor Jim's when I was four years old.
The lines were rough but clear. There was a brown hair man in one corner that was meant to be my father; he was holding a little black blur meant to be a gun. John Winchester: never unprepared even in the drawing world. A smaller blonde boy that was meant to be my brother was in the middle. An even smaller little brown haired boy that was obviously meant to be me stood next to what was meant to represent Dean. And in the farthest corner, near the top of the page, was a blonde haired woman that was meant to be my mother. Then of course there was the green grass, blue sky, yellow sun, and grey blobs meant to be the things Dad and Dean hunted.
I remember the day I drew it. I was staying at Pastor Jim's while Dad and Dean were on a hunt. Jim had been telling me about heaven and saying that's where Mom was, that's the reason I decided to draw Mom in the picture. I asked Pastor Jim if he had a photo of Mom that I could look at, he showed me one of Dad, Dean, Mom and me in front of our old house.
When Dean and Dad got back I gave the picture to Dean. That wasn't really unusual but Dean's reaction was. He looked all choked up when I showed it to him; he just stared at it for a second then stared at me. I asked him if he thought I did good because usually he would comment on if, saying something like I was the next Picasso, to which I'd object, saying that I didn't even know who this Picasso was and I probably didn't draw like him but Dean would just laugh at my funny sounding attempt to say Picasso, but he didn't say anything like that when I gave him this picture. He just replied "Yeah, It's really good, Sammy." Then hugged me tight like the world was gonna end, let me go and told me to go to sleep because it was pass my bedtime.
I hadn't seen this picture in years.
What the hell?
The shower ran cold much sooner then I would have liked and I was forced to abandon the once warm, streaming water and get dressed, because unlike someone else I know I actually do my washing, I don't wait till my brother feels sorry for my stupid ass and does it for me.
So, I walk out of the bathroom and back into the main room.
I figure we get some sleep, grab some chow, and hit the road, but that's when I see Sammy.
He sees me and stops mid pace. He's got that worried 'we really need to talk' chick flick moment look glued on his face and I groan out loud. "God, what is it, Sammy?"
He gets that soft look in his eye and I inwardly cringe because I know when he gets that look in his eyes things are about to get really bad for me.
And I know I'm right when he softly says, "What's this, Dean?" and he holds up a piece of paper. I swear the tone he uses is so soft and gentle it makes me wanna puke, you'd give a child a more respectful tone.
I'm about to ask him what the hell he's talking about when I see it.
I am so screwed.
He shakes it a little for emphasis because I'm still just staring at him.
"It's a picture, Sammy." I say in my most patronising tone, I'm still desperately trying to avoid the coming chick flick moment but it's impossible when Sammy gets it in his head that we 'have' to talk.
"A picture of what, Dean? Where'd it come from? Why do you have it?" Nope, as usual Sammy won't be deterred.
"You should know that, Sammy, you drew it." I'm not denying anything. It's a picture. Sam drew it. I have it. There's nothing more to it.
Unfortunately Sam doesn't think so, he's determined to make every moment a chick flick. "Yes, I did, eighteen years ago, and you still have it in your jacket pocket." It's that slow patient tone he uses with me when he trying to make me accept something or explaining something I already know to me, like just because he went to college I suddenly became some backwater dumbass. Brothers: They're jackasses most of the time.
What? Just because I'm checking my bag out doesn't mean I'm getting fidgety or don't want to look at Sam and yeah, I snatch the drawing out of his hands on my way over and stow it safely in my bag, it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't. It bloody doesn't.
"Yeah, I do. You got a problem with that?" I'm not denying anything. Honestly. And so what if I'm putting a threatening tone in my voice?
God I hate that smug, 'I always knew you were a big softy.' smile. Goddamn adorable baby brother.
"Shut and go to bed." I moodily order because Sammy's already opening his mouth to say something profoundly girly.
He just smiles wider at me.
"Jackass." I mutter darkly as I close the curtains.
"I love you too, jerk." He practically chirps as he hops under the covers of one of the beds.
"Bitch." I say lying down on my own bed and throw a pillow in the general direction of Sammy's head.
"Dean," Sam says solemnly after a moment.
"I'm glad you kept it." He says in earnest like he's that same little kid that drew it again, and that's the reason I kept it. That little bit of earnest and innocence that made me pull it out every so often when he was at college and it had been a soul destroying hunt and I was glad he wasn't there, glad that the little boy with that innocence that he has always been, and always will be to me, didn't have to go through that. It hurt me but being away was protecting him. I wish that could have lasted, I wish he didn't have to go through this.
But that earnest, that innocence is still there, and that's how I know he will never be a monster, he can't be, because he'll always be my little brother, so I sigh and say, "I am too, Sammy. I am too." And I am.
God, we're such girls.
- A Supernatural Ending -