Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural, I am just playing in the sandbox with my pale and shovel for the time being.
Author Note: So this story has been on my profile under the "Coming Soon" section, I so far have 6 chapters completed. So this story should be updated more frequently then my other stories. Of course I haven't forgotten about those stories, but I really wanted to get this story up and out there. Please leave a review, they make me smile, especially if I see that you've also added me to Author/Story Alert!
Special Thanks: Cindy123, this lady is great. She is my wonderful BETA. So anything that is wrong, is all my fault because I either typed it wrong or just missed it.
Rating: T-the language is quite colorful. Genre: Drama/Supernatural/Hurt-Comfort/Angst.
Physical/Emotional Damage(Throughout the entire story): Injured/Confused/Frusterated/Desperate/Protective-Sam. Sick/Injured/Worried/Pissed off-Dean. Pissed off/Guilty/Worried-John.
Sam: 17/ Dean:21
While the hunt should have been easy and simple, it most definitely wasn't, nothing ever was for their family. The spirit had been a nasty bastard, sneaking up on them out of nowhere at one of the worst times. However, because two of them men were busy digging out the grave, that had left one man unprotected and being unprotected, himself, had resulted in his current state. His state was critical, and that was what made the situation they were all in know so terrible.
The man driving was quiet, but the glares sent to the youngest boy in the backseat weren't going unnoticed. The youngest Winchester flinched at his father's harsh glare. He knew he was responsible for what happened. He was always held accountable for what happened on the hunts, whether it truly be his fault or not. While he had done what he was told, using whatever he could to distract the spirit away from Dean, it hadn't mattered in the end. Because in the end, Dean was still injured, no matter how hard he had tried.
He shuddered, but not from being the least bit cold, but because he couldn't imagine the punishment that his father would give him. He knew it would be severe, it always was, especially in his case. For Dean, when he messed up on a hunt or even training, his punishment wasn't much. "Run an extra lap, do target practice for another hour", his father would shout at Dean. However, when it came to Sam, it was like his father treated him like a soldier in the military. The punishment always ranged from a couple more hours of training each night, to cleaning the weapons twice a day, to finding the next hunt and getting all the research done in a day's time. Any other time he would object, try to make his father understand that he'd done everything humanly possible to help Dean, keep him from getting injured. This time, however, he fully accepted whatever punishment he was given knowing full well, he deserved it.
He closed his eyes and wiped the cool sweat off his head, wincing at the pull of blood from his hair. He knew better than to complain to his father about the injury, better to just deal with it when he had time. He wrapped his thick coat around him as cool air blew around him from the cracked Impala window. They were currently headed back to the crappy and rundown house they were renting. They had planned to leave in the early hours of the morning after a few short hours of sleep, however he know knew that they would have to stay longer due to Dean's injuries. His eyes traveled up to the passenger seat, it worried him that Dean hadn't shifted or moved since he had been put in the car. His mind could only imagine how serious Dean's injuries were.
His mind wondered even more and before he knew it they had reached the house. It was late out, nearing 3:00 in the morning and the street they were on was pitch black. Only a few other houses occupied the street and they were just as run down as the one they were living in. As the car was shut off, he caught his father's eye.
"You will unpack everything in this car and take it all in. I expect you to clean every weapon we own and you will not complain, is that clear?"
His father's voice was cold, full of barely kept anger. He knew better than to even attempt to argue.
He was desperate, now that they had reached home, to check on Dean. He wanted to tend to his brother's injuries, see just how bad they were. But mostly he wanted to apologize, let his older brother know just how sorry he was. However, his apology and wanting to tend to Dean would just have to wait till the morning. As it was though, he hauled himself out of the backseat of the Impala, Dean had already been gingerly carried inside the house by their dad, the door slammed harshly once they were in. Thankfully for him there wasn't a lot to unpack, seeing as how they hadn't taken much. He grabbed the three duffels, containing the clothes. He brought them inside, and laid them on the table. Once he was back outside and gazing at the open trunk he was wondering how exactly he was going to clean all the weapons. There were numerous guns and knives. There were also the bow and arrows, along with the different items. To clean all of these weapons to his father's approval would take hours. He had school in the morning and a huge test that was going to be extremely important. The idea of not getting much sleep didn't sit well with him, but he knew better than to protest.
The house they were occupying was very small, only two bedrooms, a small kitchen and living room and a small bathroom. He wanted to make as little noise as possible and that's why he decided to clean all the weapons in the living room. He carried both duffle bags and laid them on the couch, there were still numerous weapons in the car, but he'd start with what was in the duffels for now. As he gingerly sat his aching body on the thin carpeted floor, he heard the loud footsteps in the hallway and he stiffened.
"Sam, I expect all of these weapons to be cleaned to perfection. The guns, knives, bow and arrows, everything is to be done by tomorrow morning. "
"Yes sir." A moment of tense silence hung in the air, before he decided to risk asking his father about Dean.
"That is none of your business. Get to work." The reply was harsh, no room for anything else to be asked. However, maybe apologizing to his father would work in his favor.
"Dad, I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt Dean, I was-"
He was cut off as his father spoke bitterly to him.
"I don't care what you were doing Sam, you should have followed orders. Because of your reckless behavior we are going to be stuck here another few days and I will most likely lose Dean on the next hunt, because he will be too weak and injured. Therefore I'll have to drag your stupid sorry ass along."
He felt the tears sting his eyes, at his father's bitter words.
"Dad, I did, I mean at least I tried to do what you asked. I would never do anything to hurt you or Dean."
His father crossed the room quickly to stand over him, lips pressed into a tight line, brown eyes shining in a deadily manner.
"I don't care. You may be seventeen, but you still live under my roof. You will do, what I say, when I say it. Is that understood?"
He broke, his father's words causing him to snap.
"No, dad, it isn't good enough. I am not good enough. I see the way you look at Dean, the way you comfort him, do things and ask him things that you never ask me. I may not like this life or embrace it like you and Dean do, but at least I try. Most parents would be proud of their children for trying something that they feel they'll never be able to achieve. You could care less about what I want."
He had stood as he spoke back to his father, their eye levels matching equally.
"What exactly is it that you want Sam?"
"I want-I want to have you as my father, not my drill sergeant. I want Dean to come home free from the weekend's hunt without cuts and bruises. I want to play sports and attend college, I just, I want something that resembles normal."
"You will never have normal. Normal was all blown to hell when Dean and I lost your mother. I raised you the way I thought fit, you may not agree with, but you damn well better respect it."
"Respect, are you fucking kidding me? You don't know the first thing about respect. You treat me like a pile of shit, while Dean is so perfect; he's the son who can do no wrong. No matter what he does or says he's still perfect. God, I have tried since I was four years old to be like Dean, because I thought, no I hoped that you would look at me with the pride you look at him with. I just—I guessed I was just wasting my breath."
"Do not stand here in front of me and give me a pity party, I refuse to hear it. Now get your ass in gear and work."
He could only watch as his father walked away. He wiped the absent tears that had fallen down his cheeks. He felt as though a part of his heart had separated from his body. Was he really that useless to his father? That useless to Dean? He desperately wished he could go back and change something, anything about his past, something that would allow him to be looked at with pride and love that only a father can give…
He had been cleaning weapons for 2 ½ hours, his hands ached, his back and head felt like they were going to split open, and it was just after 5:30 in the morning. As he carefully laid all the weapons that he'd cleaned on the floor in a straight line, he yawned, wincing when the muscles in his back pulled too tight.
He'd done what he could for the night if he didn't get a shower and a few hours of sleep, he wouldn't be leaving his bed tomorrow morning. He walked to the kitchen where he had dropped his duffle and dug through it, picking out a clean t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers. He made his way to the bathroom as quietly as he could. As he closed the door he sighed. As he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror, he gasped. He looked nothing like what he had earlier that morning. A dark bruise was under his left eye, blood was smudged against his cheek and matted in his hair. He quickly threw off his t-shirt and winced at the colors of purple and blue that marred his ribs. Yeah, a few were probably broken. Red scratches crossed over his chest, probably from where he'd been thrown into the tree. That was one fact he'd kept from his father, while he was trying to get to Dean, the ghost had snuck up behind him and hauled his ass into a huge Oak tree. Thankfully before the ghost could throw him again, he'd gotten a blast of rock salt into it and then their dad had finally toasted the thing.
His mind swirled as he turned on the shower, temperature almost scalding. He winced at the heat, but eventually found it felt good. The water started to loosen his tight and sore muscles…one by one. He watched in disgust as the blood and grime ran off his body and swirled into the drain below. He put a small glob of shampoo into his hand and massaged into his scalp, trying to be careful of the wound on his head. He winced, as unfortunately, the shampoo reached it. When the he felt that the shampoo had done its job in cleaning his hair, he rinsed it out and could only watch once again as more blood and dirt swirled down the drain.
He grabbed the bar or soap on the ledge and washed his body, glad to find himself feeling clean. His ribs were aching the longer he stood and as he shut the water off, a sudden bout of nausea hit him, making his head spin. He squeezed his eyes shut, waited for it to pass. When it did he made quick work of grabbing his towel off the hook that it had occupied. He grabbed his boxers from the small sink and threw them on, along with his t-shirt and sweatpants. He walked to the closed bathroom door, intent to open it, get a few hours of shuteye, but then the nausea was back full force. A sudden throbbing in his temples brought him to his knees and he slumped forward, only able to utter one whispered word.
Author Note: So please a review, because that would be awesome. I promise to update either Saturday or Sunday, maybe Friday depending on the response I get. : ) Oh and critiques are welcome...